OXO asked me to write about Sunday lunch. The only proviso is that I don’t go on about gravy.

Weekday meals were never the most sociable of affairs when I was young. At lunchtime, adults and children alike were sustained by fishpaste sandwiches, apples and chocolate covered biscuits consumed in the playground or office canteen, and digestion was inevitably spoilt by the apprehension of a forthcoming board-room meeting or double Maths. Evening meals would be similarly sabotaged by extra-curricular activities or overtime, and even when the whole family were under one roof there would be the distraction of teatime TV; with a baked bean dominated plate balanced on our knees, we would watch Blue Peter’s special appeal or shrieking cartoon characters whilst our parents limbered up in the kitchen for the 5.40pm news. Saturdays were never the epitome of family unity either; half of us might be out shopping, maybe grabbing a McDonalds or a sandwich from Marks and Spencer, while the unfortunates that had remained at home might have the dubious honour of an excessively greasy meal cooked by my dad.

Sundays, however, would have no such distractions, with deserted town centres devoid of bargains, and televisual treats limited to the narrower appeal of Farmer’s Diary or Morning Worship from Bury St Edmunds. Such an atmosphere bred the ideal conditions for the perfect Sunday lunch. As if by magic, the dining room – a place normally only used during the week for predictably short games of hide and seek – would become a hive of activity; the imminent arrival of the extended family would mean that an additional rickety table and mismatched seating would be brought in for the kids, and tablecloths deemed far too grand for catching midweek crumbs would be ceremonially carried in along with placemats featuring gaudy reproductions of Frans Hals’ “The Laughing Cavalier”.

The menu would vary from week to week. Roast beef was pricy, making only occasional guest appearances and representing the same kind of rare treat as a trip to an amusement park or to Madame Tussaud’s. The anatomy of a roast chicken would lead to heated debates to determine which of us might be allowed a leg, and which of us a wing. Roast pork and lamb were almost exotic, with their fruity accompaniments of apple sauce and redcurrant jelly respectively – the latter prompting my dad to issue his unwaveringly unamusing request for one of us to “pass the jam”. Over in the vegetable department boiling was the order of the day, with carrots, cabbage, broccoli, cauliflower or peas being leeched of their valuable nutrients whilst bobbing about for slightly too long in vast pans of water. Potatoes would form the cornerstone of the meal, occasionally threatening to take over completely; it seemed perfectly normal to be faced with a combination of mashed, boiled and roast spuds, for no reason other than for the long-suffering cook to demonstrate her considerable inventiveness and flexibility with a bag of King Edwards. Gravy would fill up the gaps on the plate, and its title as the only foodstuff that has ever or will ever be brought to the table in a boat remains undisputed.

The sheer scale of this glorious meal was an invitation to gluttony, rounded off as it was by an excessively heavy pudding, usually steamed and invariably smothered with custard. It was clearly designed as a culinary cosh with which to knock us out for the rest of the afternoon, and certainly wasn’t any kind of realistic preparation for the herculean washing up task that awaited in the kitchen. The afternoon would proceed in slow motion, with long periods of lolling and dozing in armchairs, and no-one being able to achieve anything of note save for gentle and contented murmuring, and perhaps a non-commital glance through one of the several dozen sections of the Sunday newspaper. But my calm would regularly be shattered at around 5pm when I would resurface, remembering with panic there was still an essay to be written for my English teacher by 8am the next morning.

As I grew older and the family ties loosened a little, I realised that Sunday lunches eaten anywhere other than in my parents’ home, and cooked by anyone other than my mum, would be merely pretenders to the throne. Pride in your mother’s superior ability to roast meat, boil potatoes and top-and-tail runner beans is something that is surely hard-wired into your brain almost before one learns to talk, and thus Sunday lunchtimes at your friend’s houses would be exercises in remarkable restraint and self-control, as you resisted the overwhelming temptation to inquire as to just how the potatoes managed to be so lacking in fluffyness, and exactly how the crackling on the outside of the pork managed to have the consistency of a deflated balloon.

And from this point, your quest in life would be to achieve the pinnacle of culinary endeavour that was your childhood Sunday lunch. This, slow, monotonous learning curve is littered with common errors that have to be taken stock of and absorbed. Beef and lamb may well benefit from being slightly underdone, but the same can not be said of chicken and pork, and any attempt to test this seemingly arbitrary distinction will end with your reputation as a budding cook shattered, and your reputation as a budding Dr Crippen mightily enhanced. Potatoes should be parboiled and roughed up in a colander before gently being lowered into extremely hot oil, but – attention! – petit pois require no such treatment. And yes, you will inevitably go through changes in diet during this Sunday lunch apprenticeship, but I can assure you that a vegan alternative, though fun to make and healthy to consume, doesn’t even approach the majesty of the sizzling joint.

When you’ve worked through all these issues, come out the other side, and feel ready to invite your own mum and dad around for a Sunday lunchtime of excess and an afternoon of recuperation, well, that’s when you know that you’ve finally come of age. I’m nearly there. I think.