In the old photo albums, every Sunday looks the same — the good tablecloth, the china plates, steam rising from the golden bird in the centre. Mum learned this from her mother, who learned it from hers, a recipe that travelled through time not in measurements but in gestures, in the way you rub butter under the skin, in knowing when the thigh jiggles just right. The seventies were big on Sunday roasts, on the ritual of gathering, on taking time. This isn't fast food. This is the kind of meal that brings everyone home, that fills the house with warmth and the promise that no matter what changes, some things stay beautifully, deliciously the same.