Sunday Table
Written by Regina Arnau Martinez
Unless you’re in the hospitality industry, unemployed or retired, every day of the week has an implied role.
Mondays, the start of the week, frowned upon by most, since you’re riding the last of that weekend high, when suddenly, it all sinks in.
Tuesday, let me quote 90% of the population, “I couldn’t care less”.
HUMP DAY! In true Wednesday fashion, it usually comes with the middle child effect, it’ll be probably be ignored.
Thursday, awe yes, the faint smell of freedom! Some people will have one foot out the door.
Friday, it usually goes two ways. When you think you’re ready to party, but you’re mostly tired from waiting for Friday to arrive or total blackout after clocking out.
Saturday, you didn’t wake up extremely hangover at 2pm and won’t be able to move from bed? Congrats, you’ve gain a full day of social activities.
Precious Sunday. A little anxiety inducing, but what some people might crown as the most wholesome day.
As an overall Latino perspective, Sunday were strictly reserved to have a meal with one’s family. Oh, you better have a good excuse for not being available or even late. Rescuing a dog stuck in the train tracks? Saving orphan children from a building on fire? That wouldn’t be good enough to get you out of a chancla whooping.
In my family, a Sunday started with church at 9am. It wasn’t always mandatory, but being the youngest of three, meant having to go everywhere with my mom. Early mass, would mean the good choir was on (made it less boring) but in in rare occasions, we would oversleep and rush to the 11am service, aka the not so good choir, aka, boring. It also meant that we would be behind schedule picking up the Rotisserie Chicken from a popular spot called Pollo Pepe near my grandmas house. If you didn’t get there early enough, they would sold out of their best seller sides, Cold Macaroni Salad, Coleslaw with creamy dressing, Red Rice with Veggies, Spicy Refried Beans, or god forbade, their homemade Salsas.
After experiencing what I would compare to a Black Friday type of fight for the last Potato Salad with another family, and manipulating our way into an extra Agua de Jamaica from the manager, we would meet up at my grandmas like every end of the weekend.
We would ring the doorbell until she opened the door, which would annoy, but equally get a giggle or two out of her. We kissed her on the cheek, and ran straight to the fridge for the coldest Coca Cola, before my siblings got to them. That followed up by nibbling on some warm tortillas and chips that came with the chicken. It becomes a routine, a haven for some, to gather your thoughts and reflect back from a busy week on a table full of your family members. Even Jesus’s apostles would gather on Sundays, to watch him “break bread”.
There would be more disagreeing than agreeing, some praises, and even tears, like having a Thanksgiving family fight once a week, which for some sounds like their idea of hell. But in-due-course, kids and adults alike grow old, get busier, maybe loose interest or move abroad. With a blink of an eye, you unawarely had your last Sunday meal with your grandads bad jokes, or your after meal naps by your mom’s bed. When the time comes, hopefully for some of you, to move out of your childhood homes, there will be an unforeseen spotlight towards one matter.
The shrinking line between liberating independence, and paralysing loneliness.
One of the most dreaded times I had while being a fresh, new immigrant in Scotland, was the arrival of Sundays. I spent my first two years in Glasgow student halls, sharing kitchen with four other students, who preferred staying in their 13.2m² bedrooms, than finding a shared interest with each other. For a time though, I felt like an improvement had been made, when I went from spending most Sundays hangover in bed, with my usual choice of takeaway (Spicy Mapo Tofu, Salt and Chilli Chips and a cold, cold Coca Cola) to go walking the exact same route as as the previous weekend. Similarly to checking the fridge over and over again hoping something new will magically appear. n summary, I would spend most weekends without speaking to another human, unless I was FaceTiming my mom or sister… again.
It became a standard regimen before I started my first job and eventually, University. New friends, flats and roommates came, which I made sure shared AT LEAST, one topic of interest with me. And with that came a busier weekend agenda.
I can still remember the first time I felt that Sunday blues lift off my chest, and was fulfilled with a once familiar feeling. I had just started spending time with my new uni friend Nelle, whom after 6 years I still call one of my closest friend. We woke up bright and early, to go to the popular Barras Market in the East of Glasgow. We strolled around, what felt like endless corridors, of second hand gems and probably stolen goods. Nelle, with a cup of tea in one hand and a square sausage roll (with ketchup) in the other, and me, with a cup of black coffee and a double tattie scone roll (with brown sauce) in the other.
We would end up walking our way back home after failing to bargain a good deal and getting abruptly rained on. But with a sore belly from laughing and a dry mouth from chatting, it would make an hour long walk feel like minutes. Occasionally, on some weekends, I would convince Nelle into getting a Nando’s with me. I would say the motive was that neither of us could make, nor afford a typical Sunday Roast. But deep down, the real reason would be, it was the closest taste I had to a Pollo Pepe Rotisserie Chicken. Sadly, no homemade salsas, extra tortillas, or family fights. But somehow it started feeling like the same cathartic experience, just different company. What once felt like a dreaded day in the calendar, turned into a million of new possibilities.
If the weather was good we would sit in a secluded bench in Kelvingrove Park and people watch. If I had gotten payed that week, I would sit in my favourite pub, The Sparkle Horse, and chat with the bar staff, or if my boyfriend and I coincided, we would have leftovers on the sofa while watching a history documentary.
Family, friends, alone, with a lover or your favourite bartender, everyone has their own version and ever-changing recipe on how to spend a Sunday.
This article was first published at ISSUE 2 Oysters & Martini Magazine: Our Day Ones
