On Sunday Dinner...

Somewhere in every British person's DNA there's a little splice of genetic code that lets them know when it's Sunday. Not for religious reasons (let's face it the last time we ventured too far in that direction we prompted a civil war) but because it's time for the ubiquitous Sunday dinner. The meal that single-handedly dismantled any and all vestiges of pretension we may have had about our culinary reputation. And while times have certainly changed in that department (let me gloat once more over the fact that England now has more of the world's top-ranked restaurants than that bastion of haute cuisine and not-always-quite-so-neighborly neighbor France), the state of Sunday dinner certainly has not. After all, why fix what (in the eyes and palates of the Brits, at least) isn't broken?

I agree with this sentiment and veritably drooled with envy at my parents' description of their recent Sunday lunch at Egypt Mill in the heart of the English Cotswolds (sigh). As well as being an inn and a restaurant constructed around the water wheels of an old textile mill, it's also home to mouthwateringly delicious cuts of roast beef accompanied by the even more ubiquitous selection of vegetables (usually some combination of carrots, cauliflower, broccoli and, if you're lucky, a few treats like parsnips, peas or even asparagus) and, of course, gravy and Yorkshire Puddings. (Quick note: these are not, and I repeat not to be employed as dessert). But I digress.

For my entire life my mother has prepared Sunday dinner. My grandmothers did, too (I am infrequently troubled by flashes of the aforesaid vegetables meeting unspeakable ends in Nanny Williams's pressure cooker). And I suppose that's why even when I'm left to my own devices (which, to be honest, is most Sundays), I prepare my own "mini" Sunday dinner.

Granted, I'm not much for convention - preparing an entire roast with all the trimmings for one person seems like a bit much. Instead, Sundays for me mean an opportunity to try something new - or more likely, prepare whatever sparked my imagination at the market on Saturday. And because I also earmark Sunday as my designated "lazy day," it's ideal for lingering over the preparation, meandering through the recipe, taking time to smell, sample, touch, taste, savor -- to let the scent of cooking wander through the house, languishing, charismatic, in the air.

And why not? Who cares if you're a one - or a one of two. You don't have to feed an army - or a family - to lose yourself for an hour (or a few) in the slow dance of making a meal. After all, it's one of the most primitive human instincts -- a rite of survival, at its most base, and a ritual of culture and language and art and influence at its most complex. However you look at it, we have so few traditions left these days - so little ritual in our techno-driven lives (unless you count all the yoga moves and meditations and stress-relieving "me time" personal affirmation rituals suggested in most popular magazines - and who has time to do those?) - yet this is one that all of us, in some small way (and not necessarily on a Sunday) can keep.

I used to spend a lot of time in Cleveland, Ohio. The place I stayed was in the middle of a neighborhood largely inhabited by Hasidic Jews. Each and every Saturday I would watch them observe Shabhat - walking to and from the temple, in groups, as families. Following tradition. It was beautiful to witness. Part of me longed to join in, to walk in step with so much history, so much faith, so much solidarity. But that is their world, not mine. And while Sunday dinner can't compete with the spiritual heft of devout religious observance, I have found that, in some small way, it can revive the soul.