Golden Sunday Light
Sunday afternoons smell like this: butter melting into golden skin, thyme releasing its woodsy perfume, lemon softening into sweet collapse. A whole chicken, bronzed and beautiful, is not just food—it's a ritual, a pause, a gathering. Roots and tubers nestle around the bird like wildflowers around a garden stone, drinking in all that savoury goodness. The oven does the work. You do the resting, the talking, the being. Two hours pass like a gentle breeze. Then you carve, and the house fills with that ancient, comforting truth: good things take time, and time spent well is never wasted.