Sunday Dinner: Thirty Years of Growing Our Own Plate
There I was this morning , stood at the kitchen sink with a peeler in one hand and a carrot in the other, doing what I always do on a Sunday, which is drift off into my own little world while the radio mumbles away in the background. Sara reckons I go somewhere else entirely when I'm prepping veg. She's not wrong. Today my mind wandered right back to when Sam was in nappies and Iris wasn't even a twinkle yet, and it landed on a thought that stopped me mid-peel. We are, without a shadow of a doubt, one lucky family. No chemicals. Ninety-nine percent of what lands on our plates grown by our own muddy hands. And Sunday dinner, the same tradition it's been for thirty-odd years, still mostly made up of whatever we've coaxed out of the ground ourselves. I stood there holding that carrot like it owed me money and thought, honestly Simon, you jammy so-and-so. Thirty Years of the Same Daft Ritual Sunday dinner in our house has never changed shape, only the faces round...
