sunday night tea

the things we eat on repeat

There was a time in my twenties when Sunday evenings were spent in the pub. At the time, my friends and I all lived in a corner of Hackney, either a few paces from one another’s bedroom doors, or a 10-minute cycle away. I think I knew at the time how rare and fortunate this was; London is sprawling, and to make friendships last here is to acknowledge that sometimes you will spend longer travelling than you will socialising. My city years have been built from minutes on buses.

Those pub sessions became a kind of illogical comfort. We were usually hungover, and realised that the pints we were sinking would both assuage and extend this. But the pub had an open fire and we could shed the many layers we wore in our damp, unheated terraced houses. After a couple of hours, we’d jump on the bikes and return there, warmed through.

Church, lunch, bike rides and boredom; Sundays are a day that invite traditions. Now, we divvy the day into meals: sprawling, lazy breakfasts with Cerys on the radio, long lunches at friends’ houses or round the family table.