Granddad's Pot Roast - PT384

I thank my God every time I remember you. In all my prayers for all of you, I always pray with joy because of your partnership in the gospel from the first day until now…

Philippians 1:3-5 (NIV)

Nostalgia. It hits at the most random times. Out of the blue. Maybe from something on television or overheard. A smell.

Boredom.

Whatever it is, something occurs that stirs up or rattles deeply engrained experiences, memories, or emotions. They rise to the surface like a diver racing to gasp for air.

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I sat restless one holiday day, so I surfed Netflix and I saw the new season of Chef’s Table. Jamie Oliver’s episode called to me, and by the time it ended, I had a shopping list for his leg of lamb, which I cooked that day, and it was delicious, simple, and easy. Oliver’s schtick. It also left me with a three-day “what can I cook now” hangover, and Granddad came to me.

My grandfather could cook. Everything he put on the table was tasty and scrumptious, but the one dish that I associate with him the most was his pot roast. It was imprinted on me because it was always his Sunday after-church meal, and weekends were when we visited.

Just the thought of this Sunday tradition makes my mouth water. Still, now, as I sit here typing this ponder, even though it’s been decades since I was blessed to sit at his table, I smell the savory feast. The combination of gravy and potatoes, with carrots on top of the most tender meat, fills my senses as if they were cooking on my stove. With closed eyes, I see him standing in his kitchen, transferring the one-pot meal from his cast-iron Dutch oven onto the white serving plate and gently placing it before us on the table. We would attack it like puppies, only to be told to heal and wait until prayer was said.

It was at Granddad's table that I became the food mixer I am today. I blended it all – potatoes first, then meat, a few carrots, only because my mother, his daughter, required that I eat the orange vegetable soaked in drippings. I would mash, then roll taters into the mouth-watering roast, moving the carrots to appear as part of the heap, but far enough away to not actually touch my brown, savory mess. Then the gravy. I’ve never had such fabulous gravy. So simple to make, just flour and water stirred into the leftover liquid. Yet, I’ve not had anything like it since.

Gravy, anytime, anywhere, transports me back to his table. It is never as good as his, but the sweet and tender recollections add their flavoring to the experience. I love Granddad's pot roast.

The Pot - photo by Aunt Debbie

My mother and father brought the Sunday lunch tradition to our family, and my mom made it most weekends, following church, just like her dad did. It was a meal that lent itself to Sundays, as it simply required a little browning of the meat before adding all the other ingredients. By the time my father finished preaching his Sunday sermons, and we made it home, it was a perfect pot of love and tradition. Slightly different than her father’s, but linked enough to survive the memory purges my brain seems to be having at this age now.

I think that meal might be what sealed my love for cooking—the gathering of people around something so good. It was consistent. It was a tradition that others wanted to keep and emulate. Make it part of their lives. Granddad’s roast was a blended pot of different flavors, tastes, and spices that created something enjoyable, perhaps a metaphor for those in my life who sat with me as we ate it. Daddy, Mom, brother, aunts, uncles, and cousins. Boyfriends and girlfriends. Spouses.

Growing up, it is our family and our parents' families that mold and make us. Aunts and uncles are different variations of the ones we call mom and dad. They seem similar, but each adds a different flavor to the pot. The stories they tell as we pass the platter feature our parents—the main course. I suppose the veggies represent the aunts and uncles we love, or maybe the ones our mother tells us we have to keep on the plate - they're part of the meal too.

Family traditions seal memories into our lives, keeping us tethered to the past as we move into our future. I have my cast iron pot. It comes out now and then, but not the way Granddad brought his out.

I do find that when I’m inclined to recreate his masterpiece, it’s always on Sunday - the Lord’s day - and my version is never as good as his. But I tell the pot roast story every time I attempt to make it, and I am thankful that it transports me back to him, where I realize he is part of me again and again.

It's amazing what nostalgia brings on a lazy afternoon while surfing Netflix. Memories and hopefulness, that something I make will leave such an impression on my daughter, Alex. Giving her stories to tell of our house and our family. A meal that, when she smells it, cooks or eats it, takes her back to our table, and she shares it with those she loves, connecting her to faith and family.

At the very least, perhaps, the hangover it left will linger long enough for me to improve my gravy-making skills and not put away my pot. Maybe even get me to church more often.

Alfred Henry Rawlins, a.k.a. Granddad to me and Red to his friends. Sunday dinner is family dinner. A day spent with faith and food for sustenance.

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Be imitators of me, as I am of Christ. Now I commend you because you remember me in everything and maintain the traditions even as I delivered them to you.

1 Corinthians 11:1-2 (ESV)

Have a beautiful week. This is a reminder that Ponder This comes out on Wednesday mornings. Look for us in your inbox or on the Substack App. And remember:

“Pondering is everything, and everything is worth pondering.” - Kim Knights