Blueberry Sunday

Sunday breakfast is special because you don't need to rush it. 

You can actually have it when you get up not at 10 am in the shape of a bruised banana from the handbag between school drop offs and doctors' visits.

You can eat things you might otherwise not think of. Like bacon. We will always have bacon.

Somedays though when it is hot and summery there is the goodness of frozen secrets from the freezer.

Somebody has been buying frozen blueberries possibly hoping to eat them himself. However it would seem that his daughters have developed a preference for the berry not least because it is so much fun to swirl into white yoghurt and make lush, ploppy peaks of purple to consume.

Possibly this is also due to the influence of his own mother (the best little mother in law in the west- ern suburbs), who has a fondness for all things mauve, lilac, lavender, amethyst, jacaranda, hyacinth and puce. She introduced the berry of blue to the girls and has called them both Miss Blueberry since they could walk. So if there are none left when you get home it is your mother's fault, Big Fella, although I may have inadvertently chugged a few myself!

Real men scoff at such ninny nanna food and prefer a hearty slab of leftover cottage pie before continuing to mod wheeled things on the brekky table.

Such a hard core skater boy, he is now tagging the house in electrical tape. Dude!

Miss Blueberry, a.k.a. the Skater Girl has gone all legs eleven on me since she turned ten. 

The child is growing like a weed...

or a crocheted rug. Four rows down and still plodding along.