Suki’s World, Chapter III: The Heavenly Delight of A Sunday Roast
The black, shiny door of my mother’s AGA opened, and out came a cloud of smoke as though the Genie in the Bottle were about to appear—or perhaps some David Bowie, Freddie Mercury alter ego. Suspense. And there it was: a roast chicken with glazed, honeyed skin.
Mother’s preferred way of serving chicken was to place it on an oval porcelain plate right in the middle, surrounded by potatoes and dark cabbage. It would sit proudly at the centre of our family table. Seats were always assigned—Mother at the head, I beside her, and Rufus on my other side. Prayers were spoken with solemn grace before we ate, and if anyone had been observing us, they would surely have noticed that, as hands were pressed and heads bowed, one eye from every face remained half-open—secretly fixed upon that plump ‘poulet’.
Sundays were times of colour, joy, and rhythm—a day for everyone to move at their own pace. I would read and write; Rufus would climb trees; Mimi would paint the lake, the willow trees, and the siege of herons flying overhead. She sat on the white veranda that overlooked the most spectacular view, and each of her paintings captured some version of it. The lake and the willow were always there—sometimes the small canoe Rufus left tied up, sometimes all of us playing by the water, sometimes the pink and yellow aquaceous flowers that bloomed through spring and summer. Occasionally, she even caught the deer, the rabbits, and the two swans who were the lake’s permanent residents.
Mimi was the beauty of our family. She had inherited Mother’s grace and colouring: her hair was irridescent, gold and buttery blonde, always tied up in a swirling, evanescent bun. Her long white dress had a ruffled collar and sleeves, and around her neck she liked to wear a ribbon—pastel shades of pink, yellow, or blue. We all held her in quiet reverence, for she was soft-spoken, contemplative, kind, and gentle. When Charlotte, Rufus, and I joked around the table, her serene voice sometimes couldn’t carry across to us.
Charlotte, on the other hand, would be tending to ducklings, baby rabbits, calves, and lambs. She helped on the farm with determined tenderness, feeding them from bottles filled with their mother’s milk. Silly little Charlotte—so full of love for all living things.
As for me, whether it was Sunday, Monday, Thursday, or Saturday, I was always writing. I loved learning. I would be everywhere all at once: in Father’s library, watching Mimi paint, or simply thinking. I had a fascination for the most mundane. I would philosophise about waves—wondering from what exact point they were born, since on every shore they arrive, so they must begin somewhere deep within the ocean itself. The underwater world captivated me: a place both magical and perilous.
Rufus once told me of his adventures in the Philippines, where he worked at Apo Reef Natural Park helping to preserve coral. They would take samples, grow them on land, and then reintroduce them to the sea. His stories inspired me to explore the underwater world that had once frightened me. I began swimming in the lake, goggles on, holding my breath to stay under as long as I could, watching the algae sway below me—so slow, so free, so light.
My time has always been divided between experiencing and observing life, then returning to my diaries to record it all. I would sit in local government sessions, listening to debates, noting my thoughts, and sending them to the council. I collected fascinating quotes, odd words, and curious ideas.
One of the silliest things I came across was a poem titled ‘Parliamentary Fart.’ It was written by a member of the Middle Temple Inns of Court in London during the Stuart period, when much writing was censored for its political content. The poem was hilarious—about a politician who farted—using the most refined language to describe the incident while slyly mocking the politics of the time. Absurd, yet relevant.
We all had our own wonders, our own little universes to live in. Sunday felt like a lifetime in itself—a day when you could do everything you wished: hike the Cheershock Mountains, go to the farmers’ market, attend church, sit in prayer, and then indulge in your favourite pastimes before returning to the warmth of our family table.
The table’s spread always changed with the seasons. At Christmas, it was pine-tree green and smoky red; in spring and summer, floral and liberty patterns appeared. Mother decorated the table with flowers from the garden - her most beautiful creative project.