Wake up and smell the yorkshires – Sunday lunch is back!

From the Lake District to London, you’ve got to book weeks ahead for a meal that has become a big celebratory event

For better or worse, I associate Sunday lunch with high drama. As a teenager, it often seemed to be the moment for an argument or even some kind of life-changing big reveal (I’ll save the details for the memoir). There was also, of course, the fact that my parents were divorced: at my dad’s, lunch was swiftly followed by the journey home to my mum, and The Handover. By 4pm, I never knew whether the rumbling of my stomach was down to overindulgence – our Sunday lunches were decadently vast, and my greed, even then, almost boundless – or a nervousness that was born of wanting to please all the adults (and knowing I might fail).

The Freudians out there will say that it’s thanks to this that I have tended to avoid Sunday lunch as an adult. But I don’t think the two things are connected. Unless I’m on holiday – in which case, cheers, and pass the rosé – I often skip lunch, whatever the day. The simple fact is that for a long time, the Sunday roast was out of favour – a trend you noticed mostly, though not exclusively, because the newspapers were always trumpeting its “return”, a roast potato-shaped comeback that would finally see off brunch for ever. When I went north to see my family, it was more in evidence – in pubs, the gravy still ran like Tetley’s – but at home my mum now often served the big Sunday meal in the evening, and it was as likely to be a piece of salmon as a leg of lamb. In London, meanwhile, the prospect of Sunday lunch began to seem almost outlandish in the face of new developments such as yoga and Yotam Ottolenghi: a meal out of the ark, only less eco-friendly because the animals were all dead.