Christina Hopkinson and Michele Gorman
Christina Hopkinson – author of four novels, including The Pile of Stuff at the Bottom of the Stairs, and Just Like Proper Grown Ups, and has written for The Telegraph, The Guardian, Grazia and Red magazines.
Sunday roasts mean meat, lots of it on the plate and in our conversations. They are unchanging when all the world is different. When I was a child, we had something browned and juicy at 1pm followed by a proper pudding. Now that I am the parent, I do exactly the same.
We lived in the country and roast would be served out after a morning of inactivity and cries of I’m bored. I now live in the city and we force our children to do the local park run, book a tennis court or some other hearty obesity-preventing activity and yet still there are the cries of ‘I’m bored’.
Friends come over and parents get drunk on too much wine while their offspring are intoxicated by too much Xbox. But for all that, by the end of the afternoon, everyone feels their stomachs and hearts full in preparation for another week.
Michele Gorman – the author of twelve books including The Curvy Girls Club, Single in the City, and Match Me If You Can. She’s also an American living in London.
Being American, I came late to the Sunday roast table. But then I met my English husband and now we sit with my in-laws at a table groaning with dishes of creamy mash and steamed veg and meat smothered in gravy. But above all the food piled on that table is the love. And that’s what Sunday roasts mean to me.