Roast dinners, mothers, and a Christmas away from home.

“It’s ready!”, she would call, standing at the bottom of the stairs, wearing her flour stained apron, tea towel slung over her shoulder, and glasses placed on top of her head of curly red hair.

Later, the same glasses would inevitably go missing. Only to be found when one of us would notice that she was looking for something and enquire as to what it was? We would then point out, that actually, they were still on her head..

My sisters and I would have been hungrily waiting for this call from my mum and would have been listening intently. The smell of roasting meat wafting through the house. The ritual order of different sounds and smells emanating from the kitchen; the droning sound of the 1970s combi mixer beginning to mix the Yorkshire pudding batter, then later, again, for the mashed potatoes or turnips. The loud clanking of the AGA oven doors opening and closing. Toward the end of this cacophony, the blissful smell of a giant Yorkshire pudding crisping and browning in the oven, and a final clunk of the AGA doors signifying it was time.

Finally, the call from my mum that dinner was ready and a race between my sisters and I to the table in order to bag a corner piece of the Yorkshire pudding. The kind of piece that has the biggest, darkest and crispiest crust. I any event, my mother would always forgo her right to one and give it to us. Selfless as she is. The same competition still happens now between my step dad and I.

There are a few things that my mother regularly says that, if I close my eyes, I can almost really hear. They give you the same physical reaction, as if you’ve really just heard it. Another example, and perhaps something of the cold antonym to the above call for food, is how she would call my name from the bottom of the stairs to wake me up in the morning for School. Thinking about it now gives me the same chill. It would inevitably take multiple attempts, however, with the final try, in her somewhat shrill Yorkshire/Hull accent being “Saaam. It’s five past seven! You are going to miss your shitting bus”.

There are moments, even now, when she says my name as an adult in the same way, and it still gives me that ring of fear down my spine, utter cold panic, as if I need to jump out of bed and rush to my school bus.

But I am getting a little beyond what I wanted to write about here, which is Roast pork.

Well, not Roast Pork exactly, but simply what it got me thinking about and the warm fuzzy memories, like the above, that I began to reflect on because of it.

Last week was my 33rd Birthday. I have been stuck in Belgium all year. I haven’t seen my mum since the 4th of January 2020. I likely will not until at least the spring 2021.

I want to say that I don’t like complaining or talking about this, but I seem to regularly do so, and so that would be lying. What I will do is acknowledge that it is not that bad, and, that many people are in a much worse position in that regard than I am. There are people who have lost their parents. And I am beyond grateful every day that so far both of my parents are OK. Though still, in that respect, I am frightened about the coming months.

That said, it has been a big struggle for me. Being home for Christmas and New Year’s Eve with my mum is the thing I look forward to in the calendar most of all.

We call New Years Eve “our quiet night in”. Arne, my mum, her partner Dave and myself. We always have the usual roast. Likely roast pork. Then, the usual TV shows. Some I loathe, such as the chase, others I have grown to like as a consequence of how much they make my mother laugh, Mrs Browns Boys, and some I could not miss out on and still watch religiously even though I now live in Belgium, Eastenders.

We may call it quiet, but in reality it is anything but. My step dad begins making cocktails. Typically gin martinis. My mother drinking prosecco, or as she calls it, “proscechio”.

At midnight we walk outside to the bridge in front of our house, wrapped in our winter coats and scarves, drink in hand. Our neighbours also come out to meet us, toast in the year and sing “auld lang syne”. Though even now I do not know the words. From the bridge we can see the fireworks from the ships in Hull, as well as hearing their horns. They’re very far away, but you can just make out the lights. Piercing the pitch black of the countryside sky, dotted with stars.

By 3 am my step dad will be the last one awake, with the rest of us unconscious, sometimes not remembering how we got to bed. Our neighbours will have come in for a drink. Maybe played a board game, though rarely as I hate them.

Tonight I will spend New Years Eve in Belgium with my bf Arne. Despite missing my family, I am looking forward to it. We have decided, in as far as we can, to make the most of it. We are lucky to be able to. I will zoom call my mum and partner on multiple occasions tonight. One before midnight, one at midnight and one in the drunken aftermath to see how they’re faring and whether her pronunciation of prosecco has gotten worse..

Arne is making a feast. As I write I can smell the bechamel with smoked salmon and salmon caviar he is making to turn into croquettes tonight. He has also ordered a whole duck, which is no easy task in Belgium. He had to try multiple butchers and is having to walk for an hour to collect it. We’ve also picked up some oysters for new years day. They were on offer in lidl for 5 euros for 12. With all of the restaurants being closed the prices have plummeted. Though, I have to say that I have often wondered if it has led to an increase in shucking injuries presenting at A&E?

But anyway, I am digressing to food. Which if I allowed myself to do, this would be a 20–30 minute read. I will have a nice time this evening, and think of those I cannot see and of others who have lost their loved ones.

I hope you’ve all had a lovely holiday period and have a Happy New Year.

Sam