Sunday Sunday Sunday

Our Sundays follow this sort of similar pattern. We get up, get ready, and go to church. Do you like how smooth I made that sound? The reality is far different. As my friend Dave (who also has two little girls) says, "All the demons come out to play on Sundays."

When church is over, we're all starving to death, and everyone asks me what we're going to eat. Now my mom always had the roast cooking, and you could smell the delicious smell as soon as you walked in the door, but I still don't have that down pat and we end up doing something like stopping for doughnuts, which we cram in our mouths in the car on the way home. It's one of those resolutions I have--to make Sundays better--that I can never quite get a handle on.

Then there's this sacred thing called "Mom's Sunday Afternoon Nap." I used to think it was so lame that my parents had to nap immediately after dinner on Sundays, but I know now. Oh, how I know. The entire week is ruined if I do not get to sleep on Sunday afternoon. I take a blanket and whatever book I'm reading, get on my bed, turn on an Agatha Christie movie very softly, and supposedly drift away. These are the instructions I give the girls every single Sunday.

"Don't wake up Mama, OK? I am tired."

"OK."

"I mean it. You can wake me up only if you're bleeding or the house is on fire or something emergency-like."

"We won't, Mommy, we promise."

I settle down for my nap. One or both of them bursts in the room.

"We love you, Mom, we just want to kiss you one more time." They hug me and kiss me and try to stall.

"Close my door on the way out," I instruct.

"Can we keep it a teeny bit open? So we can check on you?"

"Close it."

I drift off.

Some time in there this invariably happens. By invariably, I mean without variation, though there might be variation for the reason. But it happens every single, solitary time. Just as I am good and asleep, I feel someone's small hands patting my face.

"Mama."

I ignore it. Maybe it will go away.

"Mama." (louder)

"Are you bleeding?"

"No, but can I have a snack? I am sooooo hungry."

"Is there a head injury involved? Is our house on fire?"

"I'm starving though. I think I'm starving to death."

"Where's Daddy?"

"He's down in the kitchen."

So, that is how my Sunday goes. It is saved by Sunday night because that is when, if you've read this blog for any length of time, you know Masterpiece (formerly Masterpiece Theatre) is on. I remember being so envious of my parents getting to watch some show at what seemed practically the middle of the night every Sunday. I would lie in my bed, listening to the theme music. And now I'm old enough to watch it myself, and it's every bit as glorious as I thought it would be.

I'm even more excited now because this is what's on--new episodes! Oh Christopher Foyle, how I have missed you.


If you haven't ever watched this show, you are missing out. Back when Inspector Morse finally wound down, they needed a replacement. Three hundred possible shows vied for the coveted spot, and they chose this one, written and directed by Anthony Horowitz. (Love him. And if I ever had a boy, I might be tempted to name him Anthony, not after Anthony Horowitz or anything, but because I love the way the British pronounce it: "An-tony," but I know everyone would always pronounce it the American way with the "th" in the middle like the Billy Joel song and then I or he would constantly have to explain and everyone would think we were pretentious British wannabes. Sorry, little hypothetical An-tony who was not to be. Who needs those extra life complications?)

Back to Foyle. It's set during WWII, and the attention to period detail in the costumes and sets is incredible. They've used real Spitfires even. I think it costs a boatload to make the show, but it is so worth it.

And Michael Kitchen--I've loved him for years, but he is brilliant in this. Brilliant. When he first got the script, he actually asked them to cut his lines because he felt Foyle would be a more taciturn man. He acts with his face--a lift of the eyebrow, a twist of the mouth. You've got to see him. Also, he's a standout from the usual morally-conflicted hero. He's just straight up, and the best part of every episode is when he finally lowers the boom on some reprehensible person in his dry, quiet way.


He's accompanied by Sam, his female driver (on the left) and his sergeant, Paul Milner (in the middle).

If you've never seen this show, you should check it out from the library or Netflix or something, but you don't have to have watched all the seasons to jump in right now.

Watching Foyle's War can even put me in a good mood after being abruptly woken up from a nap. It would be even better if I had some leftover roast or something to eat while watching. I'll have to work on that.