Sunday lunch was typically a very nice meal in my home growing up. At least, that's how I remember it (a roast with carrots and potatoes comes to mind). The food wasn't always fancy, but we ate from nice dishes, used my mom's special green stemware, and the food was put into pretty serving bowls. My mom had two sets of "nice dishes". One pattern was of little blue flowers with scalloped edges, and the other was rimmed with a design of honey-colored wheat. The blue flowers were my favorite, but I preferred the wheat dishes on Sundays because they matched the glasses better.
I try to do the same thing in our home on Sundays. We typically don't eat out even during the week, but it's particularly important to us to be home together in the (relative) peace of our house on the Lord's Day. Blair has a chance to wind down from leading worship and spend a few moments with Noah. I try to have as much prepared the night before as possible, leaving minimal work in the kitchen once we get home (after all, I have a two-year-old used to eating at noon). We sing the Doxology as our blessing and wait to see just how long Noah will last at the table before it's time to excuse him to his play.
Yesterday, I served mac and cheese (homemade, of course), peas (my mother would have served green beans), yellow squash, potato salad (with homemade pickles), and rolls. There were leftover apple cinnamon muffins from breakfast for anyone in need of a sweet (Mr. Noah), and plenty of leftovers to send with my darling to work for his lunch today. There was something about the dried onion in the mac and cheese that made me think of Grandma Cook, although she would have put them on green beans, and I found myself wishing I'd made mashed potatoes and deviled eggs in place of the potato salad. Potato salad is just too summery, and yesterday felt like Autumn (I'll enjoy it while it lasts).
Sunday lunch is a tradition dear to me (and to Blair), and I hope that one day it will come to mean as much to my little ones as they grow up as it did to me in childhood.