The 10-Day Roast Dinner Streak

It started innocently enough.

One roast dinner on a Sunday — nothing unusual there. Monday rolled around, and I thought, Why not again? By Tuesday, it wasn’t even a decision anymore.

By the end of the week, I was a walking carvery.

Every day, the same routine: meat, potatoes, vegetables, gravy. Like a scene from Groundhog Day, but instead of Bill Murray learning French and ice sculpting, I was mastering roast potato crispiness and gravy viscosity.

Somewhere around day four, I realised I was feeling… amazing. My energy was up. I wasn’t prowling the kitchen for biscuits at midnight. The scales even crept down, which was confusing because I’d basically been bathing my food in gravy.

It was strangely comforting. No “what’s for dinner?” conversations. No cupboard staring. Just one plate, waiting at the end of the day. The smell alone became a kind of therapy — roast chicken, bubbling gravy, vegetables doing whatever it is vegetables do when they feel useful.

By day ten, I felt lighter. Not just in weight, but in brain clutter. It was like the roast dinners had quietly filed all my mental paperwork while I wasn’t looking.

The streak is over now, but I keep thinking about it. About how something so ordinary turned into this bizarre, brilliant little chapter.

And I’m telling you now — if I suddenly vanish from social media for two weeks, check the nearest Sunday carvery.