Bellyaching tradition
We have to, this Sunday lunchtime feast has been going on since the 17th century y'know
Tradition is probably the cornerstone of every family around the world, we all adhere to it one way or another, and woe betide anyone who has the audacity not to conform!
Arriving at a friend’s house one Sunday morning around half 11 made it abundantly clear that the Sunday-lunch syndrome is still firmly entrenched in most South African homes. The kitchen it seems had become a “no-go area”. I ventured in, finding that it was as hot as hell itself, and staring through the haze of steam, I saw that there wasn’t space enough to boil an egg among the pots and pans simmering on the four-plated stove!
Ma and daughter Irene were up to their eyes in “fruit and veg”. Sleeves rolled up, they were really giving it stick with the preparation of the Sunday midday meal. “Lord!” I gasped, as the scene hit me. “ And it`s only 12 weeks to Christmas!” Ma wiped the sweat from her brow, she could have been at the anvil were it not for the lack of a horse. “Don`t talk about Christmas, that`s really something that I could do without!”
The spuds on the top left-hand plate began to boil over, sending huge columns of steam towards the hood of the stove. Making a slight adjustment to the heat, Ma wiped the sweat from her brow with the tea towel. “Whew, hot in here isn`t it?” I nodded, then pouring out a glass of sherry I offered it to her.
“Why the heck do you do it?” I asked. Rightly so, Ma made short work of the Old Brown and turned to me with a knowing look in her eye.
“We have to, this Sunday lunchtime feast has been going on since the 17th century y’know.” I knew it wasn`t worth arguing about, anyway it was the 16th century.
“Oh Lord, I gotta turn the roast.” She muttered, opening the oven door full tilt, the temperature soon shot up into the 40s. Two and a half kilos of topside sizzled its way past my ear. Ma wavered, her biceps bulging, there just wasn`t the space to put it down. “Take it through to the lounge and put it onto the coffee table.” I suggested, not realising that it was already awash with beer bottles and glasses.
“All right, put it in the sink, and I`ll turn the roast.” Splatters of hot fat greased my bare arms as I plunged the fork deep into the fleshy part of the meat, then using both hands, I deftly turned the roast onto its backside. Ma hadn`t finished, the battle of the bulge had only just begun.
“Oh Lord, the plates, I gotta put them in the warming drawer.” I moved swiftly out of her way. She was well regimented despite the lack of space. Irene drew deeply on her cigarette, then blew a plume of smoke towards the fruit salad. “We always have a spread like this on Sunday, lovely ain`t it?”
“Where`s Stan… and er whatsisname… and Colin?” I asked politely. Ma wiped her hands down the front of her pinny. “In the pub and outa the way, where else would they be?” Now this curious phenomenon really baffled me. Here we have the girls toiling away all morning over the hot stove and their male counterparts were all busily engaged at lifting their elbows.
Around half two, I hear singing from the front door. Oh yes, the men have arrived back home again after their jaunt. Bellies extended, they were now ready for an intake of solids. As always, the meal was a roaring success. We all took our places, praised the Lord, and got stuck in without a word of thanks to the girls in the back room. Colin and Stan even had seconds.
During the polite conversation at the table, I dropped a hint or two about the traditional Sunday Lunch, and whether we should drop the habit, and give the girls a break. There came a pregnant silence, if that is at all possible. Ma placed her knife and fork firmly down onto her plate. “Drop the habit?” she enquired, menacingly.
“Yes” I said, rather timidly. “It seems to be so much work for you and Irene, you could…” Then pandemonium broke loose, the “oohs” and “aahs” that were bandied around the table made it obvious that I had struck a nerve in the family proceedings. Stan put me right of course. “You might just as well ask her for a divorce, we have been trying for years to end this caper, but she won`t!”
A couple of well-deserved burps from Eric broke up the party, and the men filed into the bedroom section of the house for their afternoon nap. On our way out, I thanked Ma, and drew her to one side. “ I haven`t had a Sunday lunch like that since the early ’70s.”
She puffed out her plumage, pleased to receive the compliment. “Thanks, but you`ve got it all wrong… you see it`s this tradition that keeps our family together… Oh, and sorry about the hot fat!”
Tradition? What a lot of rubbish. I did away with those earth-shattering meals on Sunday some 20 years back. In all fairness to the “little woman of the housë”, surely a break on the Sabbath is the least that we can do. The missus and I have a cheese-and-wine affair out on the back patio. A meal that takes two minutes to prepare, and is not only nourishing, but tasty into the bargain. Try it sometime, and give the gals a break!
