The Sunday Roast

I love a good Sunday roast. Due to our Middle Eastern Fri/Sat weekend we are now Saturday roast people. This weekend it was lamb, G’s given this great recipe with a Moroccan twist a whirl a few times and it is brilliant. The recipe is all about the gremolata, fancy pants and super tasty. If you’re Australian and over the age of 30, a lamb roast may bring back memories of a very young Naomi Watts getting a phone call from a radio station.

My favourite Nicole Kidman interview ever was in Oz when someone commented on the coincidence/irony that a close friend (Naomi and her are reportedly buddies) had made such an iconic commercial about her future husband. Nicole, after years of being tight-lipped over the whole Tom thing smiled and said “She made the right choice, going with the lamb”.

Do you think Nicole’s daughter Sunday Rose gets called Sunday Roast?


We didn’t write our own wedding vowels, ours were the bog standard I’ll just have the usual thanks. If I had have written my own all those years ago I’m sure they would have been loaded with broad statements of deep love and respect. If I had to write them now they’d perhaps have a more realistic tone.

Do you G promise to help wrap the Christmas presents after midnight when you’ve had a few beers and really want to go to bed.

I Kirsty, solemnly swear not to give you the finger when you’re not looking after a ridiculous tiff that seemed important at the time that I now can’t remember.


We rang the teen to help us in a covert operation. A surprise for Henry Hotdog, he’d asked for a cake shop cake and my pride was hurt, I wanted to make the usual home-made love heart. G had suggested a surprise for the birthday morning “let’s let him have the cake for breakfast, he’ll think it’s fantastic”. We thought his favourite would be red velvet but we needed her to surreptitiously find out, it was birthday eve and we were on our way to the shop. She performed the task brilliantly and as G hung up he ended the call with “thanks darls”.

“You don’t call me darls?” I questioned.

“Don’t I?”

“No, actually, now that I come to think of it you don’t call me anything but Kirsty?”

“That’s your name, right?” there was a smirk.

“There are no terms of endearment. I can’t think of one. I’m just Kirsty.”

“I could call you Chook, or Chooky” the idea had him breaking out in a grin.

“I don’t want to be Chook or Chooky, in fact don’t you dare ever call me Chook or Chooky. Got it?”

“Got it….Chooky”

“I mean it” I made eye contact of the death stare kind.

“Do we need to brainstorm this?”

“No, I shouldn’t have to brainstorm your term of endearment for me?!”

“I call you Ricey sometimes”

He was right, he does and he had. I’d also heard my Dad call my Mum Ricey, my brother in law also uses it with my sister. It’s perhaps the most unromantic term you could find, but when said properly it’s both endearing and warm.

I, Kirsty, solemnly swear to have banal conversations on the way to the cake shop which may cause you to giggle.

I, G, promise to notice the smallest things about your family that will mean the most, even if you forget them.

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