By Leigh O’Connor.
There was a time when Sunday afternoons in Australia carried a rhythm as steady and comforting as the scent of rosemary drifting from the oven. Families gathered, friends dropped by unannounced and the humble Sunday roast stood proudly at the centre of it all.
It was more than a meal; it was a ritual that stitched households together, binding generations with gravy and laughter. Today, however, this tradition teeters on the edge of memory, quietly slipping away amidst the rush of modern life.
The Sunday roast was once a culinary anchor, a meal that slowed the world down. While beef, lamb, or chicken browned in the oven, vegetables - carrots, pumpkin, parsnips - were peeled, chopped and basted with love.
Potatoes were crisped to golden perfection, their edges shattering under the bite, while Yorkshire puddings puffed up like clouds to cradle the thick, rich gravy that tied it all together. The smells alone told the story: hearty, warm and unashamedly indulgent.
Yet the true essence of the roast lay beyond the plate. It was about the act of gathering. In a country known for its laid-back lifestyle, the Sunday roast carved out time for connection. Grandparents passed down tales of "the old days,” children argued over who got the drumstick and the table stretched to welcome neighbours, friends, or anyone who happened to wander in. It was an unspoken invitation: you are welcome here and you will leave full.
Somewhere along the way, the roast became a casualty of changing times. The rise of café culture has made smashed avocado and flat whites the new Sunday staples. Busier lifestyles, smaller kitchens and the lure of takeaway have edged out the hours once devoted to slow cooking.
For many, the roast now belongs to the realm of special occasions - Christmas, Easter, or perhaps the odd birthday - rather than the comforting cadence of every week.
With its fading, something more intangible risks being lost. The roast wasn’t just about food; it was about the art of patience, the pleasure of preparation and the value of togetherness. It demanded we set aside our phones, switch off the television and sit - really sit - with those around us. The table became a stage for storytelling, debates and laughter, a space where time seemed to soften.
Still, nostalgia clings to the roast like the smell of gravy to an apron. Many Australians carry fond memories of plates piled high, of hands reaching across the table, of warmth that lingered long after dessert. Perhaps that is why the Sunday roast isn’t entirely gone - it waits quietly in the wings, ready to return to our kitchens if we only let it.
To revive the tradition doesn’t require grandeur. It begins simply: a chicken in the oven, a tray of potatoes, a jug of gravy and an open door.
In rediscovering the roast, we rediscover more than food - we rediscover the lost art of slowing down, of gathering close, of nourishing not just our bodies but our bonds.
