Sunday Table, Spanish Soul

There’s something about a Sunday lunch in this country that just gets me. The whole ritual of it. The slightly too-hot kitchen, the smell drifting through the house, kids materialising from their bedrooms the moment something good starts cooking — as if they have some kind of sixth sense for it. We’ve done the full British roast more times than I can count, and honestly? I love it. I love the whole performance of it. The juggling of timings, the debating over how long the potatoes need, the gravy that somehow always turns out differently each week even though I’m fairly sure I do the same thing every time.

It’s one of those traditions that just feels like home. Like a full stop at the end of the week.

But then there’s Spain.

I’ve had a thing about Spanish food for as long as I can remember. Long before we started taking the kids, I just loved it — the flavours, the generosity of it, the way a meal is never really just about eating. It’s about time. It’s about sitting down properly, in no particular rush, with people you like. Something about that approach to food just resonates with me in a way I find hard to explain without sounding a bit dramatic about lunch.

We’ve taken the kids to Spain more times than I can count now, and every single trip it’s the food that stays with us longest after we come home. Not the beaches, though obviously yes, absolutely the beaches. Not even the sunshine, although coming back to a grey South East London October after two weeks of that does sting a little. It’s the food. The markets we’ve wandered around. The long lunches we’ve had at tables that were a bit wonky on the cobblestones. The small plates that just kept arriving. The way nobody seemed in any hurry for the afternoon to end.

My kids have grown up thinking this is all completely normal, which I’m choosing to take as a win. My 8-year-old will happily work her way through a board of cured meats like she’s been doing it her whole life (she has). My 13-year-old’s approach to Spanish food is essentially just “yes to all of it, always.” My 14-year-old is at that age where she’d rather die than look enthusiastic about anything her parents suggest, and yet she is always, always, the one who finishes the board. Always. I see her. I don’t say anything. But I see her.

There’s always that bit after a holiday where the comedown is real. You’re back in the kitchen, staring into the fridge, and nothing quite scratches the itch you’ve brought home with you. You want those flavours still. The things you ate standing up at a market without really thinking about it. The stuff that was just there, casually delicious, not making a big deal of itself. You’re not quite ready to let the holiday go, and honestly, why should you have to?

That’s sort of how the Spanish Sunday board started in our house. I came back from one trip absolutely determined to keep that feeling alive a bit longer. So I put together a board of traditional food from Spain – cured meats, good crusty bread, some olives, a bit of cheese — and set it out on the kitchen counter while the roast was doing its thing in the oven. Just something to pick at. Just a nod to where we’d been.

And it went down an absolute storm.

What I wasn’t expecting was how much it changed the shape of Sunday afternoon. Suddenly everyone was in the kitchen, picking at the board, actually talking to each other. Not looking at their phones. Not disappeared back upstairs. Just… there. Hovering. Chatting. It had that same quality as the long lunches we love on holiday – no hard start time, no agenda, just people gathering slowly while the food sort of takes care of itself. My husband, who is extremely enthusiastic about good food and deeply unenthusiastic about my tendency to over-complicate things, declared it genius. I’m choosing to take that as a compliment.

It’s properly become a thing now. Not every single Sunday, but often enough that the kids know what it means when I start pulling things out of the fridge mid-afternoon. The 8-year-old has opinions, which I love. Strong, specific, slightly baffling opinions about which cured meats she likes and in what order she wants to eat them. This is the same child who refused to try a sandwich with “the wrong kind of bread” for most of Year 2, so I’ll take it.

The slightly annoying thing about having a passion for Spanish food in London is that getting hold of the good stuff used to require more effort than I often had on a Sunday morning. I’ve done the specialist deli run. I’ve over-ordered at the deli counter in a panic and then had to figure out what to do with the surplus. I’ve done the slightly deflating experience of buying something that looked the part and tasted of absolutely nothing.

So finding a Spanish food store delivering across Europe or to the UK genuinely felt like a bit of a revelation. Being able to browse properly, read about what you’re ordering, and have it arrive at the door has made the whole thing so much more sustainable as an actual regular habit rather than a special occasion mission. I find myself having a browse whenever we’ve got a trip coming up and I want to start getting in the mood, or honestly, when we’ve just come back and I’m not ready to let go of it yet. Which, as established, is always.

I’ve also got into the habit of checking what’s new – trying the newest arrivals added a fresh twist to our family traditions, and it’s become its own small ritual, seeing what’s come in and building the board around it. It keeps it feeling fresh rather than like you’re just doing the same thing on a loop, which I think is the secret to actually keeping these kinds of habits going long-term.

None of this is about replacing Sunday lunch. The roast is non-negotiable – my lot would genuinely mutiny and I am not above admitting that I would miss it too. It’s more that the table just feels a bit richer now. A bit more like the meals we love when we’re away. There’s the proper British Sunday, loud and comforting and smelling of gravy, and then there’s this quieter, slower corner of the afternoon that feels like Spain. Like holidays. Like the version of eating I wish we did more of.

A little board of cured meats on a kitchen counter in South East London. It sounds like such a small thing. But honestly, sometimes the small things are the ones that make a Sunday feel like something worth looking forward to.

And if it keeps my 14-year-old lingering in the kitchen for an extra twenty minutes without realising it, then as far as I’m concerned, that’s basically a miracle!

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Becky

Meet the award-nominated UK lifestyle blogger behind Spirited Puddle Jumper – a mum of three living in South East London! Becky shares the real ups and downs of family life, parenting tips, and lifestyle inspiration, proving that being a mum doesn’t mean you stop being fun or having other interests! Follow along for honest insights into UK family life and opinions on a whole range of topics, from travel and food, to beauty reviews, home and DIY, business and health and wellness.