Enjoy the Moments — They Don’t Return
Sunday has always been a special day for me. In Poland—my home country—it's the day of church bells, family gatherings, and the unmistakable smell of rosół simmering on the stove. Chicken soup with noodles, or a Sunday roast. A table full of people. A house full of voices. And even though I’ve lived in London for years now, I see the same rhythm in other communities. Different languages, different spices, different rituals — but the same intention. Sunday is the day we return to each other. The day for family, friends, apple pie, cheesecake, and the comfort of familiar faces. I carry so many memories of Sundays from my childhood . We would drive to the village where my grandparents lived every single week. My grandmother cooked for at least sixteen people—effortlessly and joyfully, as if feeding an entire tribe was simply what love looked like. We were happy. We didn’t even know how happy. Later, the tradition moved to my family home. My mum and I cooked for twelve people. The ...
