I feel like chicken tonight, chicken tonight

They’re a gluttonous people, the British. They indulge in scarves, £5 tuna sandwiches, terrible prime-time soap operas like EastEnders, drug-addicted and self-destructing celebrities, hot beverages, skinny jeans (oh Britain, you really shouldn’t), and Everybody Loves Raymond re-runs. But one thing they indulge in that comes very close to being heart-warming is Sunday roasts. Basically it’s like Thanksgiving every week minus the football games, cranberry sauce, and the grandmother who insists on talking about your (lack of) breast size at the dinner table (although I suppose that depends on whose table you’re at). K invited me to his house’s roast this past Sunday where it was his turn to cook. Here’s what I took away from the experience…

America preaches spending time with your family, especially sitting down to meals with them NOT in front of the tv. But maybe if we had a structured custom like Sunday roasts the way Britain does, this would be easier for the typical American family to accomplish. After all, knowing you have a once-a-week date is easier to keep than trying to do it every day, feeling overwhelmed and then not doing it at all. (Though come ON, sitting down to a meal with your family isn’t that hard to do. Even between flute lessons, tap dance classes, Hebrew School, conference room meetings in the barn, and listening to the news on NPR, my family managed to handle it. P.S. The barn was an office, not an actual barn, so you can stop picturing my dad telling sheep the pros and cons of investing in global equities.)

In London it seems as though you’re either a die-hard vegetarian or a die-hard meat lover. Go to Camden or Bethnal Green if you want to save the animals and prefer to eat steak made of seitan (it’s no coincidence it’s pronounced ‘satan’) and tofu burgers. Go to a Sunday roast if you own the t-shirt ‘Meat Is Murder Tasty, Tasty Murder.’ (Actual t-shirt sold here.) We had lamb and chicken on Sunday, but I’m sure any animal that moves is acceptable fare to sprinkle with seasoning and cook at 350 degrees until tender and crispy.

For a country that insists on creating such heavenly sweets such as sticky toffee pudding, they sure do love their vegetables. These are a staple at any roast. No, they’re not drenched in butter, salt or cheese the way vegetables were meant to be eaten; they’re just plain, steamed, good-for-you veggies.

If you don’t have friends or a family, you can always go to your nearest pub (which is never more than a stone’s throw away) and partake in their Sunday roast menu.

I’m not sure what standard Sunday roast conversations should revolve around, but if ours was anything to go by, Aussie Rules Footy, the Berlin wall, nosy neighbors who gossip about the divorcee living next door, and roasting an entire lamb on a spit are all acceptable topics.

Anyway, I am inspired to start my own Sunday roast for my friends in Boston when I return. I would say family as well, but none of them love me enough to live in the same city as I do (my mother just gasped and felt a pang of guilt). I’m sure this ritual will only last one week since I never stick with anything other than that one pair of Levi jeans, but at least I will try. And you are all invited, so get excited and save the date!

*music – Through the years we all will be together, if the fates allow Hang a shining star upon the highest bough, and have yourself a merry little Christmas now