The Farmer & His Wife

John Taylor recalls having the minister for Sunday lunch!

AS I came out of church, the minister, who was standing at the door shaking hands, handed me an envelope.

“John, I know you scribble a bit. Could you please read that and let me have your comments?”

I suppose I should have felt honoured. Here was a man who’d been to university, asking a farmer who’d left school early and learned very little, to comment on something he’d written.

He explained he’d been born in Ross-shire and the local paper there was running a competition for stories of days gone by.

I must admit I was intrigued and looked forward to reading the piece when I got home.

I did enjoy it. He’d painted a good picture of that time, but there was one phrase I’ll never let him forget.

“We had the minister for lunch.”

“If he was as old as you, he’d be tough eating,” I joked when I returned the article.

But I knew what he meant. In those far-off days the minister may have come from the town on his cycle, or even by horse and trap.

Some farmer would always invite him to stay for a meal after the service, and he’d rarely refuse the invitation.

Although times were hard, there was always a Sunday dinner of beef, lamb or pork and all the trimmings.

I don’t know how the wives did it. They were at church, in best coat and bonnet, then they’d go home and, in no time at all, put on this amazing spread.

And all they had was that stove at the side of the fire!

If there was roast beef, it would be served with a mountain of Yorkshire pudding. The tin would just fit in the oven if placed narrow side on, and when it came out, all blown up, it was a meal in itself. None of these wee round things handed out in cafés!

I’m told in Yorkshire, in years gone by, the first course was always this big Yorkshire pudding. The idea was to fill the men up with it so that they didn’t eat so much meat!

I keep mentioning to our minister – and I’m sure he won’t mind me telling you – that I often lose the thread of his address after about 15 minutes.

Then my thoughts turn to some beast on the farm, or what Anne will be cooking for lunch.

The minister told me once that he is sometimes invited to preach at a boys’ boarding school, not far away. He is limited by the headmaster to preach for no longer than 12 minutes.

I have tried to convince him that we are a simple, rural congregation – just grown-up boys, really! And that 12 minutes would do us fine, too!