Sunday Dinner
Hands just washed, all at table
Watching Mam come rushing in
From out the steaming kitchen
The old roasting tin still smoking
Piled high with Yorkshires
Tall and brown and crisp
Dished out quick enough onto cooling plates
With a lake of Oxo gravy thickened as we like it
And finished up in minutes in case there’s one left over
Simple batter puddings to fill our grumbling stomachs
Then the cindered joint of beef
Cooked to the usual formula
Gas mark eight for two hours
When it’s brown, it’s done
But when it’s black, it’s buggered
Lifted straight out of a searing oven
And asking Dad to do the usual
As if anyone else would ever be allowed
To carve the burnt offering
Small, careful, wafer-thin slices
Spread out to look like more
Mam hawk-eyed watching
And quickly passed around till all are served
The grey meat livened up with Colman’s English mustard
And then the roasties handed round
The shining fat still dripping down
Always with carrots or peas
Nothing fancy, plain as always
And what used to look like sprouts
Boiled to within an inch of their lives
Waterlogged and dangerous to know
Pushed to the side of the plate
Reluctantly eaten
Only when threatened with no pudding
The scraping of knives and forks
On chipped and mismatched plates
Hides the murmurs of approval
But no time for chatting amongst the rapid eaters
And first to finish asks if there’s any seconds
But there hardly ever is
For nothing’s ever cooked that might be wasted
Except the remnants of the joint
That will make our Shepherd’s Pie
Or rissoles on Monday
Same as every other week
Then the siding away of dirty plates
And the clattering of the cooking dishes
Piled up in the sink to soak amidst hot, soapy water
And the inquests on any leftovers
Before the pudding bowls and spoons
Put in their appearance
A fruit and pastry pie
And lashings of Bird’s thick custard
Topped off with a skin
That nobody seems to want
Feeling full-to-busting
“FTB” says Dad
Heavy stomachs and shining eyes
Everybody had enough?
Before tackling the washing-up
Arguing over who’s washing and who’s wiping
And who shall put the pots away
Mam now tired and fretful
After slaving over a hot stove all the morning
Driven by the need to prove her metal
Haunted by recent memories
Of war-time restrictions
Of rationing and shortages
Making do and mend
Keeping calm and carrying on
And Gran asleep beside the fire
Leaving Dad to read his paper
And listen to the wireless
Where Family Favourites and The Clitheroe Kid
Keep us all amused
And Mam can put her feet up for an hour
Before it’s time for Sunday tea
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