I’m picking up on today’s post from my recently found blogger ‘friend’ in Latvia, Ilzie – same title: Sunday. I was thinking of her yesterday and her three daughters when I met two of my favourite young ladies, Mia and Olive, just a little older than Ilzie’s three. Ilzie was ‘doing’ her youngest’s second birthday party; I was at a post wedding ‘reception’ of two friends here: Ruxandra, the Romanian founder of our writers’s club, and Sam, an extraordinary English flamenco guitarist. They greeted us in their elegant, beautiful wedding attire; the bride’s dress is based on the traditional Romanian ‘ia’ (pronounced ee-a), blouse.

The bride, me, Petronela and the groom

The girls I met are daughters of another member of our writers’ club, Emma, a wonderfully talented singer/song-writer. I seem to ‘know’ a lot of amazingly talented women, the group now including Ilzie. Before the birthday party took over she was building her kitchen.

Sunday breakfast

Sunday for me here is ‘English breakfast‘; I hadn’t made one since leaving for Romania in July. Only a couple of posts ago I told you my breakfast six days a week is raw oats with milk and perhaps fruit.

The basics of English breakfast are, of course, bacon and eggs. The eggs are often fried but this morning I made ‘scrambled eggs‘. Other things on the plate might include ‘black pudding’ (blood sausage) – never for Petronela! – sausages and, for other people, fried tomatoes (neither P nor I like them) and ‘baked beans’ from a tin but not in our house. My usual addition, as this morning, might be sauteed mushrooms, fried bread and perhaps sauteed boiled potatoes over from the previous evening’s meal.

I won’t bore you again about my scrambled eggs, which I’m arrogant enough to say are the best in the world – just eggs, from chickens that run around free – with a little butter, salt and pepper. Not everybody likes their soft, creamy texture, fortunately P does. I’ve posted about them before. Another thing I love about Sunday is it’s the only breakfast P and I have together. We only miss having the evening meal at the table together if one of us is not at home, now rare.