In January, I moved to Los Angeles from England. I’m not English (or British, or Norwegian for that matter), I’m Canadian – but I lived in England for three years.
I don’t miss England.
I don’t miss the constant rain. I don’t miss the perpetually gray sky. I don’t miss the “damp” (black mold and mildew covering every surface), or the “draught” (AKA, “draft”… a cold current of air, in every room of every building in the entire country). I don’t miss Wimbledon. I don’t miss the monarchy. And I really don’t miss the class system that ranks people according to their economic and social status.
I don’t miss England!
Okay, fine. I miss it a little bit.
I miss cheap cheese. I miss the lush, green countryside with sheep grazing in it. I miss the pubs. I miss the castles. I miss the history. But most of all, I miss the Sunday Roast.
For those of you unfamiliar with the term, I should start by saying the Sunday Roast is an institution.
Let me clarify.
I don’t mean that the “Sunday roast” is the name of a place for the care of people who are destitute, disabled or mentally ill.
That would be a very strange name for such a place, and it would also be very confusing for people who are looking for a traditional British meal.
What I do mean… is that the “Sunday roast” is an established custom for the Brits. Most pubs and restaurants only offer a roast on Sundays, foregoing their usual menu for this staple.
The Sunday roast is an occasion. You go out. You sit at a table amongst friends (instead of sitting in front of the TV, alone). You use a knife and fork (instead of a spork), you use a napkin (instead of your shirt). It’s almost like Christmas.
And it’s delicious. The Sunday roast consists of roasted meat, potatoes, vegetables and a Yorkshire pudding with gravy. What’s not to like?
You could almost overlook the rain, gray skies, damp, draught, Wimbledon, monarchy, and classist system…knowing that you were going to eat a delicious roast dinner each week.