Sunday Cooking Bliss

Gord Lightfoot is crooning "Softy" in the background - and there's no one around (but Fritz) to complain. Perfectly chilled glass of wine - the white variety - poured in a stemless - seemed more practical for cooking to sip as I cook. Chopping carrots, parsnips, onions and rutabaga (we called them turnips when I was growing up - and I still do) for the oven roast. Bliss. That's what this ritual of cooking Sunday dinner is ... pure bliss.

I rubbed the sirloin roast with the mixture of herbs and spices I pulled from our cupboard collection. I try really hard not to lick my fingers as I cook ... I try really hard. A quick blast in the fry pan to brown it and then the slab of meat was popped into the oven, with only the veggies to keep it company.

Now comes the pay off ... the homey aroma of  the meat roasting is filling the house. And it's making me a little weepy. No - it isn't the wine! The aroma (and Gordon's lyrics) trigger memories of countless Sunday dinners cooked by my grandmother, my mother, my father, my husband, my father in law ... and now me. They conjure up the sights and sounds of an overcrowded dining room table, loud chatter, people reaching across to pass the food, a spill or two (usually caused by me), and pure bliss.

I miss those who are no longer among us to sit around our table ... but I remember them all. And I work hard to continue the tradition. Actually the tradition is in the gravy making ....

Gotta go -- Early Morning Rain is playing and it requires my full attention. Gosh - am I hungry!