It’s a sunny day, it’s a Sunday…….better go off to the pub for a lovely Roast Dinner
Ah, Sundays. I must admit, it isn’t my favourite day of the week, mainly because I always remember I’ve run out of milk at approximately 5.13pm when most supermarkets are shut. Sundays, especially if it’s raining and I’m the only adult in the house, can be very long. There’s only so much Bing I can take, you know?
It wasn’t always this way. I used to love a Sunday. Hungover, lounging around in my PJ’s, watching Hollyoaks omnibus and eating potato waffles. Those were the days. Anyway, I digress. One of the all time best things about Sundays are ROAST DINNERS.
There’s nothing like your Mums roast dinner. Or your Nans. Just thinking about them now and I start to salivate. Roast chicken, crispy roast potatoes, fluffy Yorkshire puddings, gravy oozing from the jug….heaven.
Being a family that is two thirds vegetarian, our Sunday dinners are not the same. Sometimes they’re not even a roast. I’ve had to adapt to cooking lasagne or macaroni cheese for my Sunday dinner. We even sometimes have PIZZA, for crying out loud. We do sometimes have roast potatoes but it’s not the same. I couldn’t roast a chicken if I tried and I have no idea what to do with its giblets. It would take me 3 weeks to eat the said chicken and I’d probably have fallen over with salmonella poisoning by then.
So, where am I going with this? Ah yes. The compromise. When I am feeling at roast crisis point, my lovely partner agrees we can go for a Pub Sunday Roast. It’ll be a lovely, relaxing trip to the pub…..
We always choose a child friendly pub with a mahoosive play area outside. That’s like, rule number one. Then we play Rock Paper Scissors to see who gets to have an alcoholic drink whilst we are there. I tell my other half to book a table as it’ll be busy. He scoffs and says, nah, it’ll be alright, and we get into the car.
Now, we always get there and the place is rammed. I say, we should’ve booked! I told you! And my other half just rolls his eyes and nervously scouts around for a table. This time, there’s loads of tables outside. Great, it’s a sunny day, kiddo can play in the play area whilst I sip my wine and watch her enjoying herself. Perfect.
We get outside, get a table and we pick our meals. Straight away Nancy is in the thick of the action. There is a slide/climbing frame combo and it looks like one of those buses in India where people are holding on, on the outside. Except, with children. They are hanging off every available piece of toughened plastic. Except, Nancy is not on the climbing frame,nor the slide. No. She wants to play with the gate to the play area.
“NO! You can’t come in!” She shouts at the children trying to negotiate entry. I have to get up and open the gates and try to get her interested in what she should be doing. As I sit down again she starts to climb up kid mountain. It’s not long before there is another drama, a bigger kid won’t let her on the slide, and I’m up and down like a yoyo, my rosè wine warming in the blazing sunshine.
After a quick run around the pub garden to see the pet rabbits, throwing crayons on the floor, picking up sticks and a failed escape mission, dinner is ready.
“I don’t want FISH FINGERS!” she shouts.
“But you chose fish fingers” I say.
There starts a ten minute conversation about eating our dinner, bribing with YouTube, ice cream and saying she can go back on the slide once she has eaten her fish/chips/peas. It is a long and agonising process, as she takes a bit of precious fish we take turns to stuff our faces as quickly as we can before negotiations start again.
Once the stress levels have returned, I can finish my drink and Nancy goes off to terrorise the other children for a bit. The sun is so hot that I am sure I’ve burnt my shoulders. As she starts to climb on TOP of the climbing frame, about 5 feet off the floor, we talk her down and make a run for it, telling her she can have a lollipop from the shop if she gets in the car.
And there we have it, a perfect relaxing Sunday…….