The Sunday afternoon meal has become something of a tradition in my family, a way to relax in each other’s company while enjoying a delicious spread of food and drink. I am hopeful that my children will carry on this practice as they grow older, leaving the house to establish families of their own, and perhaps find some time to visit us for a grand celebration of this ritual. For now, however, I am content to help my wife with the preparations as my three children, two boys and a girl, play around in the garden.
And what a garden it is! Once a thing of embarrassing disrepair, a tangled mess of overgrown grass and patches of unsightly dirt, it is now an object of envy from my neighbours, or so I would like to think. Perhaps the closest I’ve come to confirming that are the lingering stares that I occasionally catch from the people in the houses around my own, of the transformation that has occurred. To think that all it took was a few days of honest gardening labour, and a couple of patio stone paving packs.
Now the outdoor area of my home looks much more like those gardens that you see in magazines, a little rough around the edges perhaps, but still much classier than its former incarnation. But I digress. The point is that the garden is now presentable enough that my children and my dear wife, who fancies herself a frustrated interior decorator, will not be ashamed of breaking bread with me while sitting in it.
Soon everything is ready, and the kids are already looking up from their games, enchanted by the fragrance of the spices and the cooking meat. A bowl of mashed potatoes garnished with some cheese and garlic has also been laid out on the gingham cloth that covers the outdoor table, along with a relatively fresh loaf of brown bread with a stick of butter waiting to patted on its slices. This afternoon’s drink of choice is a pitcher of fine raspberry lemonade, crafted lovingly as only a mother of three whose children have rather discerning palates can muster. At once, the kids have started filling their plates, and we wait for the ravenous beasts to pile their dishes until we also dig in. The lemonade is poured as the pitcher is passed around, and as I take my first sip of the thirst-quenching delight, I look around me and wonder how could ever have been satisfied with a pre-stonework garden. Somehow, everything seems to taste better.