Sunday Dinner
Hands washed, all at table
Before Mam brings it in
From the steaming kitchen
The still-smoking old roasting tin
Piled high with Yorkshires
Tall and brown and crisp
Dished out quick enough
Served onto cooling plates
With a lake of Oxo gravy
Thickened as we like it
And finished up in minutes
In case there’s another going
Simple batter puddings
To fill a grumbling stomach
Then the cindered joint of beef
(Chicken being a luxury)
Cooked to the usual formula
Gas mark eight for two hours
And when it’s brown, it’s done
But when it’s black, it’s buggered
Lifted straight out of a roaring oven
And asking Dad to do the usual
And carve the burnt offering
As if anyone else would ever be allowed
The small, careful, wafer-thin slices
Spread out to look like more
Watched like a hawk by Mam
And quickly passed around till all are served
The grey meat livened up with Colman’s English mustard
And then the roasties can be handed round
The shining fat still dripping down
With plain 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
And only eaten 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 thick Bird’s custard
Topped with a skin that nobody seems to want
Feeling full-to-busting, FTB
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 a bit
Before it’s time for Sunday tea
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