Sunday dinner: And the good china

Some traditions don’t need to be written down to be remembered. They live in the rhythm of our lives, carried forward through routine, laughter, and the small, unspoken moments that define who we are. For my family, Sunday dinner was one of those traditions—marked by good china, familiar faces, and the quiet evolution of growing up.

Every Sunday, the table was set for seven. Dad at the head, Mum to his left, me to his right, and my brothers seated by age in a semi-circle around us. No matter what the week had thrown at us, Sunday dinner was a constant. The table was always set properly, with the best dishes we owned—the ones reserved for special occasions, even though, in our home, Sunday was special enough.

Dinner itself followed a pattern, too. Oxtail soup for Dad and me, a taste we both shared, while the rest of the family had whatever else was on hand. The soup was rich, hearty, and comforting, but more than the taste, it was the ritual of it that made it significant. A tradition between father and daughter, a quiet understanding over steaming bowls.

Conversation flowed as freely as the food. Sometimes, Dad would tell jokes—not always age-appropriate, but always funny. The kind of humor that had Mum rolling her eyes while we stifled giggles, trying not to laugh too loudly. She wasn’t much of a drinker, but on occasion, she would indulge in a sparkling wine, her way of letting loose just a little.

And then, when I was fifteen, something shifted. That evening, as Mum poured her rare glass of sparkling wine, I was offered one too. A quiet nod, an unspoken rite of passage. No grand speech, no fuss—just a small glass placed in front of me, an acknowledgment that I was no longer just a child at the table. I remember that moment vividly. Not because of the drink itself, but because of what it meant: I was growing up, and they saw it.

Looking back, those Sunday dinners were about more than just food or routine. They were about togetherness, about the comfort of the familiar, and about the subtle ways family marks time. As we grew older, things changed—people moved, schedules shifted, and life took its course. But the memory of those Sunday dinners, of the good china and the laughter, remains untouched.

Because some traditions, even when they fade, never truly disappear