In the aftermath of Sunday lunch at my Granny’s house, you would find Aunty Yvonne draped languidly over a settee here, and Aunty Pat napping on a couch there; one uncle sitting, somewhat dazed, in the sunroom, another uncle washing up. And, always, Aunty Maureen obliviously vacuuming around them all. A particular stupor would set in. Lunch was a mammoth affair.
It involved my jovial builder and church-planting grandfather Leonard, my mother and her three sisters, their husbands, all the grandchildren, any friends that family wished to bring along, and then sundry great aunts and family friends.
For a typical Sunday lunch at Stonehaven, my granny Caroline would have been preparing for days. On Thursday, the butcher would deliver various pieces of meat wrapped carefully in white butcher’s paper, tied…
