Last week I suggested my roast was going cold because I spent every Sunday morning stuck behind an amateur cycle race.
That is, I’ll accept, not quite true.
It’s probably more likely, as has been pointed out, because I have all the timekeeping skills of a sub-Saharan railway.
But if it’s OK with you I’ll keep blaming those chaps in the Lycra.
We were, as it happens, going to give Mother Dearest a rest this weekend and pop out to the pub for a slap up Sunday treat.
That’s until a Tweet from the head honcho around these parts made me realise how much of a let down someone else’s roast can be.
The bone of contention was roast potatoes.
Now, when I’m in charge of weekend catering, there’s always a mountain of them – fresh cut, crispy and piping hot.
It’s not always the case when you head out to a hostelry –where spud rationing appears to be in fashion.
“Three half roasts…” was the cry at Gazette Towers as the offending meal was subjected to an unwelcome post mortem.
Now, call me a fatty but I’m of the opinion there should be a five roast minimum.
And while we’re at it, stop mixing up your meals.
I love a Yorkshire pudding but they’ve no place being with chicken, likewise a stuffing ball with beef.
It’s time honoured stuff so why do people still get it wrong?
The other week I ended up in an argument with my brother-in-law about gravy.
He was insisting on the use of a certain quantity of granules to produce the perfect sauce – a cheat My Good Wife insists on using when I’m not looking and insisting on meat juices, stock and a liberal quantity of booze.
I can tell, eating out, if the gravy’s come from a packet – any suspicion it has and the place is off the Sunday roast rota for good.
At this rate there’ll be nowhere left to eat, bad news for me as I’m always left to wash up what I use, which in the case of a good Sunday dinner is pretty much everything.
Please somebody, step up to the plate and spare my poor hands. And don’t skimp on the spuds.