Sunday Supper

“Every tribe has an ancestral food that its exiles yearn for, and that its children can’t live without.”

—Judith Thurman

It’s Sunday evening as I write this. An early, overcast, autumn Sunday when the lights come on a bit earlier. The dreariness of the day is emphasized by the strident contrast of the previous one—warm and bright and sunny. I’m not particularly fond of Sunday evenings. They arrive packed with melancholy and anxiety. It’s not surprising that Morrissey sang about a seaside resort town whose days are behind her and croons, “every day is like Sunday.” 

I’m likely too harsh on Sunday. The day is not all bad, at least not all of it. There’s coffee and the Sunday paper in the morning. (Along with vinyl, I insist on a real newspaper on Sunday morning—analog is not dead yet!) There’s brunch. Who can argue with Eggs Benedict and a well-crafted Bloody Mary? Booze before noon! Of course, there’s Easter, probably the best Sunday in the world if you are a child or the parent of a child. And every now and then Christmas falls on a Sunday. 

Sundays, when I was younger—like many things—were decidedly more upbeat. It was the 1980s. I was a teenager living in the D.C. suburbs and a Redskins fan. Sundays typically came with a beat down of the Eagles or the Giants by the notorious “Hogs.” It also meant Sunday supper, which in the South is not the same thing as “dinner.” Supper is something later than lunch but earlier than dinner. And thankfully my mom graciously planned it so it didn’t interfere with the Redskins game, whether it came on at 1:00 p.m. or 4:00 p.m. My preferred time for Redskins games was 1:00 p.m., so there would be plenty to talk about at supper, win or loss.

Sunday supper took on many forms. Virginia ham and green beans; roast chicken with white rice and gravy and green peas (my favorite); pot roast with potatoes and carrots; beef stroganoff with egg noodles; meatloaf and mashed potatoes; and, of course, fried chicken with potato salad. All staples I love today. And just to keep my Proustian memories in check, there were some dropped passes for this teenager: Brussels sprouts, spinach, beets, and cabbage, just to name a few. I will add, however, that these are all some of my favorite vegetables today. 

Sunday supper is as rare today as an episode of Miami Vice (another 1980s staple). We seem too busy; too atomized; too lazy. I’m guilty as charged. That’s a shame. 

As I polish this up for publication on a Monday evening, I realize that it’s October 15, 2018, eleven years since my mom died. I forgot. The guilt is palpable, but I’m going to be positive. I’m now at the point that I will remember her life more than her death. I will remember her virtues. I will remember her faults. But most importantly, I will remember her Sunday suppers.