Talking of roasties...

...this is a fictional account of my Mother's roast potatoes I put in a short story...

They always had a take away in the evening. James could put together practically any dish they could think of but he couldn't re-create the traditional Sunday roast that both their mothers turned out practically on automatic pilot. There was something about their ancient roasting tins and overcooking that produced the most succulent roasts. James would never dream of overcooking his veg but somehow his mother's overcooked cabbage seemed right with her brand of crisp roast potatoes and gravy. Karen's mother would start her roast at some unearthly hour of the morning and cook it on such a low light that at first James had been worried about food poisoning despite Karen's reassurances. He'd wondered if the Davies’s had developed a natural immunity but now he was as hooked as Karen on her mother's melt-in-the-mouth roasts and the soggiest, softest but most succulent, flavoursome roast potatoes and parsnips in the world.