Sundays are for family.
Growing up, Sundays meant “family dinner.” My mom would put on a big pot roast in the roaster, load it up with carrots, onions, and potatoes, and make her awesome hot rolls. Seriously awesome. As in, screw the paleo diet and suffer the consequences of everything gluten and processed white flour because those suckers will melt in your ever lovin’ mouth.
Who cares if you writhe around on the floor clutching your belly the whole next day.
Seriously awesome and yes, worth it.
After church, the whole fam would go back to my mom’s and while the dinner itself was amazing, the company was better. My dad always told off-color jokes or ones that no one got anyway, my nephew always tried to shock us with something outlandish (and generally succeeded), and the little ones usually did something ridiculously funny on purpose or accidental (didn’t matter which). I completely took it for granted and was quite shocked when we moved to Colorado twelve years ago and I had this aching in the pit of my stomach, always on Sundays (not from hot rolls; I have no idea how to make those sinfully delicious things).
I missed family dinner.
This past Sunday, we had family dinner.
Different, but the same.
It was with a collection of friends good enough to call family.
There were still off-color jokes, and babies doing funny things.
After church, we subbed out roast for ribs and hot rolls for the Bloody Mary bar at Oskar Blues.
And one of my most very favorite things began to happen. The bluegrass posse that hangs out there on Sundays came in and settled around a table.
Dig. That. ‘Stache.
No achey belly this Sunday. Just warmed right up from the inside out, lovin’ up these friends of ours.
And the bonus on Sunday? When we got home, I saw my neighbor doing this.
Girlfriend’s getting fancy in the pantsies with her new hoop. Shake it, sista!
Even got The Reverend in on some of that action.
As we say on Sundays especially…