HOME FOR SUNDAY ROAST.

Home for Sunday Roast

The church bells had just finished ringing as Old Man Clegg’s green truck roared down the dusty country road, carrying more passengers than it was ever designed for. Perched on the edge of the cabin roof, young Jimmy let out a whoop of joy, his hair whipping wildly in the wind. Beside him, Daisy the dog barked enthusiastically, her ears flapping like miniature sails.

"Slow down, Clegg! You’re gonna get us all killed!" hollered Mrs. Butterworth from the back of the truck, clutching her pink hat as if her life depended on it.

"Ah, pipe down, Mabel!" Clegg bellowed back, his toothy grin visible even from the rear. "Haven’t flipped her yet, have I?"

The truck hit a pothole, sending a jolt through everyone aboard. Mr. Grady, who was wedged between two of his grandkids, nearly lost his grip on his Sunday paper. "You call this driving? My old horse could do better, and he’s been dead twenty years!"

The children shrieked with laughter as the truck swerved slightly, kicking up a plume of dust that settled over the quiet church they’d just left behind.

"You’re gonna miss the turn!" someone yelled, but Clegg waved it off with a casual flick of his hand. "Relax, folks! I know this road like the back of my hand."

Sure enough, with a sharp yank of the wheel, the truck veered onto a narrower track leading up to the farmhouse. The wheels bounced over rocks and dips, causing the passengers to cling to one another or whatever part of the truck they could grab.

As they approached the house, the familiar smell of roast lamb and fresh-baked bread wafted through the air. "Smells like Bessie’s outdone herself again!" Clegg announced, slamming on the brakes. The truck skidded to a halt, sending Jimmy tumbling into a haystack with a loud oof!

The doors creaked as the passengers piled out, laughing and dusting themselves off. Mrs. Butterworth gave Clegg a good-natured swat with her handbag. "You’ll be the death of us one day, you old goat!"

"Better to go out with a laugh than a frown, I always say," Clegg replied, tipping his hat.

As everyone made their way inside, the dining table groaned under the weight of the feast. Roast lamb, mashed potatoes, buttered peas, and gravy beckoned the hungry crowd. But before anyone could dig in, Clegg raised his glass of cider.

"Here’s to family, friends, and one hell of a ride!"

The room erupted in cheers, and for a moment, the world outside the farmhouse melted away, leaving only the warmth of laughter, the smell of home-cooked food, and the promise of a Sunday well spent.