Читать книгу The Vicar’s Wife’s Cook Book - Elisa Beynon - Страница 6

Since ditching vegetarianism some time back, Sunday lunch has come alive for me. Strange, really, that it’s eating dead animals that has had this enlivening effect, but there you have it. Every week, as I open the front door on my return from church, I’m transported to a state of salivating expectancy as I get the first sniff of the meal to come. Then, just as I’m finishing the last mouthful of my present lunch, I’m already musing on what meat I will serve next week and wondering which vegetables will be in my mid-week organic delivery box that will both act as the perfect backdrop and the subtle enhancer of my yearned-for protein punch.

Whether we are alone or have guests, the Vicar and I ‘do’ Sunday lunch with gusto – there’s no wimping out for us. It may seem extravagant to buy a whole chicken or a joint for just the two of us and our two small children, but the leftovers can not only provide the wherewithal for a couple more meals in the week ahead, but also a supply of stock for the freezer. Besides, Sunday lunch is a time when it feels especially right to feast as a family around the table: not only does it build mealtime memories in the children’s minds that they can (hopefully) treasure in the future, it also, in the present, has the power to hold back, for a few more hours, that gloomy end-of-the-weekend depression.

For myself and the Vicar, though, Sunday lunch is also the time when we have to recognise that, to our confusion and shame, we do indeed have a touch of the churchy stereotype about us. The Vicar may have recently switched roles (after many years in a parish he has now taken up the challenge of conference directing), but nevertheless, as I cook we still pour ourselves and, yes, really enjoy, a small glass of sherry.