The Sunday Roast & Comfort Suppers

There is a particular quality of light on a Sunday morning that I have never been able to adequately describe, only to say that it arrives through the kitchen window at a certain angle and falls across the scrubbed pine table in a way that seems to say *begin*. And so I always did — setting out the joint, reaching for the rosemary, filling the kettle for the first of what would be many cups of tea before the family began to arrive. This book is not, if I am honest, really about recipes at all. It is about the smell of something slow-roasting that draws a teenager down from their room without being asked, about the particular comfort of a pie crust made with cold hands on a cold afternoon, about the way a good stew can make a draughty November evening feel like an act of grace. For sixty years I have been gathering people around this table — children, grandchildren, neighbours, strays, beloved friends now gone — and what I know with absolute certainty is that a generous meal, offered without fuss, is one of the most quietly powerful things a person can do. These are those meals. I give them to you with great love, and hope they serve you as faithfully as they have served me.

If there is a heart to my cooking, it is the Sunday table. The roast turning golden, the vegetables from the garden, the gravy made in the pan, the pudding waiting on the side. These are not clever meals — they are generous ones, made to draw people in and keep them at the table long after the plates are cleared. In this book I have gathered all my finest comfort suppers: the roasts, the pies, the slow stews, and the puddings that make an ordinary Sunday feel like a small celebration.

— Agnes