Method for a Sunday Roast
by Sian Meades-Williams
I didn’t know, then, to drizzle carrots with honey. To glaze
them with sweetness until my teeth squeaked and my
shoulders relaxed into the rest of my body. I had no idea
the patience needed for a potato to crisp around the
edges without losing its softness. Or that red cabbage is
most deserving of affection from nutmeg and cinnamon.
Tenderness is not my area of expertise, but I’ve learnt
that without it, dryness will choke the life out of you. A thin
gravy cannot save that. No matter how much floods your
plate, stopping just short of the rim, it will still be lacking.
So add to it the very bones of a life. Make it thick with
richness. After all of the mistakes, failed attempts, tweaks,
this feels like the backbone of my kitchen. My mainstay.
Hundreds of Sundays passed before I realised how
liberally I could season my life. The salt was always there,
in the blue ceramic bowl, ready for me to grab by the
fistful.
Sian Meades-Williams is an author and poet living in London. Her recent poetry has been published by Green Ink and Little Living Room. She is the author of several non-fiction books and her historical novel-in-progress, Belville, won the 2022 Yeovil Literary Prize.