Sundays are sacred in my family. At least they used to be. It would be the same every week. Get up, go to the nine am service with songs and a sermon, go to Sunday School, go home. Maybe if we were lucky it was someone’s birthday and we would eat out.
But most of the time we would go home to a pot roast. Mom would put it in the night before and let it marinate and cook all night and morning. It was usually delicious. Of course there were those times when it would be bone dry and we would all pretend it was good anyway. We were afraid of hurting Mom’s feelings and accidentally being rude, getting ourselves in a mess of trouble from Dad. Manners were a way of life at our house.
We live in the Midwest, so it isn’t as strong as the South, but it’s still a fundamental way of living. In a way, Midwesterners almost pride themselves on being a modern South. We have the accents and manners, but dropped the racism and gained incredible schools and technology.
Anyway, Sundays were sacred. We would, the kids, fight over the comics on the way home. Dad would always threaten to end it by using them in the fireplace if we didn’t knock it off, and I always got them first. Not because I’m the oldest, but because I seriously learned how to kiss butt in the middle of a routine arguments like these. My favorites were always the Zitts and Beetle Baily.
We would pull into our two-car garage and run inside. Half the time Mom made bread in the bread machine, which was always one of my favorite parts of the meal. I loved it when she made whole wheat, I would get honey and butter, melt the butter, pour it on the bread so it soaked in, and lather honey all over it. The crust was the best part. It was flaky and crunchy, with a hint of herbs.
Everyone would scurry upstairs to change out of their Sunday clothes while I got my plate. That’s something you learn when you’ve got a decently large family. The family who eats together, leaves someone without the best part of the meal. So I learned how to get my plate quickly, run upstairs, change, and be down and claim my plate again in under five minutes. I had to hide my plate while I changed, or sometimes even take it with me into my room! I was dedicated!
We would all eventually get our food and sit at the table. Dad and Mom at the ends and us kids in the middle. When we were all little, we’d all hold hands during prayer to make sure everyone was actually praying. And that always felt like the longest prayer ever. Every Sunday at lunch, the prayer felt like it took decades.
But it was worth it. The waiting and the arguments I mean. The pot roast was always the end game, so to me it was always worth it. Something about knowing what to expect is just comforting in a way I suppose. My mom’s pot roast will always be a significant part of my childhood memories. The routine and pattern of Sunday was something I could depend on for a long time.
Really, Sundays are a sacred practice for most people. Even if you’re not religious, most people have their Sunday routine. Whether or not you go to mass, church, or celebrate a holy Saturday, everyone has a Sunday pot roast of their own.
SURVIVAL OF THE SAVVY 