Sunday mornings, Donald Kirkham and roast beef

The Sunday ritual

Every Sunday when we were kids, we did two things, had roast beef for Sunday dinner, while listening to Judith Chalmers and family favourites which was on the BBC radio from midday for a couple of hours or so. This program was a remnant of when British forces were posted worldwide after the war, before the advent of mobile phones and internet communication, soldiers would send letters with messages to the BBC to be broadcast to the waiting families. Both mum and dad would listen intently to this program, Trevor was in the army for two years of national service, but I am sure he was home long before this, so I am not sure why they listened, or for whom. But woe to the kid who made any noise and disturbed the program. Around eleven thirty we were told “right, turn the wireless on and shut up, sit down and be still!” As if two twelve year olds could sit down for any length of time and be still!

The weekly roast was a definite ritual, starting early on Sunday morning when dad would peel the potatoes. Normally enough for ten men, even though at the time there was only mum, dad, me and Denis at home, the house was heated by a coal fire and for some inexplicable reason the potato peelings would be deposited on the fire to burn. Of course the cold, wet peel nearly extinguished the fire, week in and week out. But on it went, hand full after hand full of potato peel until the fire was completely covered, being now only a steaming mess of potato peel the house of course began to get cold, until the peel dried out and normal heating operations would resume. Next were the peas, not from a can, or fresh, “I’m not taking peas out of bloody pods, bugger fresh” dad would say, these were dried peas, left to soak in water overnight with a white soda tablet sold for that very purpose. These would then be put on the stove to boil away until soft and ‘mushy’, I found out later that marrowfat peas are the same thing, a couple of cans would certainly have been easier. But I do have to say that mushy peas are still a favourite of mine.

The roast was bought from the butchers across the road, when Denis and I were sent to pick it up on a Saturday morning the instruction was always the same ‘on the fatty side tell him, we don’t want lean meat in this house’, both my parents had the belief that fat was very healthy and had to be eaten. ‘Had’ to be eaten was very accurate, I hated fat then and still do not knowingly eat it to this day. But Denis hated it even more, to me it was like eating slime, but to save me from grief and abuse from my dad who could be very ‘forceful’ for want of a better term, I would put it on my fork and swallow it, never chewing, just in, swallow and hope it stayed down. Denis could not even do that, so our parents humoured him by pretending to trim the fat off his meat, then cut it into small pieces and mix it in with his mashed potatoes! Of course it was easy to spot and then the arguing started and the inevitable tears. Mum’s belief that not eating fat would bring untold illness to us was unshakable, and this belief was echoed by dad who made a point of cutting off a big piece of the slimy stuff and chewing it for what seemed like ten minutes, just to prove to us that it was healthy!



I can still smell it!!



So around ten o clock the potatoes would be peeled, and dad would bring the peelings into the living room in a colander, dripping water all over the floor, his hands shook badly and the colander would wobble from side to side violently sometimes. He would then bend down in front of the fire and slowly, everything was slowly with dad, place the peelings on the fire. Then he sat down for another smoke, “the only pleasure I have” his work for the first part of the morning now done. Mum would put the roast in the oven and the potatoes and peas on top of the oven waiting for the gas to be lit later. As the smell of roast beef wafted through the house, mum would wash, clean and dust, dad would sit and ‘rest his eyes’ as he would say, “I’ve used my eyes all week, they need a rest” When the roast was nearly done the potatoes and peas were ‘put on’, and we were really into the cooking, I have only good memories of bubbling pans and a kitchen full of steam and great smells.

Every so often mum would make Yorkshire pudding, none of the ponsey individual puddings found in restaurants, this would be one big pudding cooked in a pan and then cut into four equal portions. When this went in the oven we were told to stay out of the kitchen, one tap on the back door, or touching the oven would make this magnificent pudding sink, and so with it our spirits, we still had to eat it after all! 

Around a half hour later it was “Harry, mash spuds” and “Denis, Donald set table” so dad would mash the potatoes, again slowly, I never did see dad rush, ever, and we would put the tablecloth on the table and put out the knives and forks. Dad then carved the roast for serving, sharpening the knife on the top stone of the backyard wall, over time a definite groove was apparent where knife after knife had been sharpened on that wall.

Then dinner was ready to be put out and we were told to sit down. We dutifully sat down, and mum brought dinner in from the kitchen, we did not suffer through soups, or saying a quick prayer of thanks, “the next time I’ll be in church is when they carry me in feet first” were dad’s feelings on prayers and religion. The first thing dad did was putting around half a salt shaker full of salt on his food, he would pour that stuff on all his food like it was a life saver not a life ender, but such was life, and who would argue with him anyway?

 

double click on the radio!

The timing was always perfect, just as we sat down family favourites started, With Judith Chalmers announcing the first request of the day “and now this request from sapper Bill Smith serving in Aden who sends love to his wife in Nottingham, we have Louis Armstrong with it’s a wonderful world”. I always listened, quietly of course, but my mind was working overtime, just how wonderful could serving in a desert be? Better not ask that one I wisely thought to myself, some questions I had better keep to myself. So we sat down, and we listened to requests from complete strangers, to more complete strangers, me swallowing fat without chewing and Denis looking through his mashed potatoes for the hidden fat.

After dinner dad would sit down, mum would do the dishes until family favourites ended, then we heard the words of “right, let’s go for a Sunday run!”

Then we would join everyone else who had just finished their Sunday dinners, listened to Judith Chalmers, and leave our house at the same time as they left theirs, and go in our car to the same places, wondering where all the traffic came from, not realising that if we had missed sapper Bill Smith’s request for Louis Armstrong we might have missed the traffic and got somewhere before it was time to leave again, because, after all, we had to be home for tea at five!