Poppalina

Waffling

Breakfast Sunday.

I could waffle on,

but with a pun that bad,

it might be smarter to quit while I'm behind...

Honeycomb, Yoghurt, Apple

Breakfast Sunday

Honeycomb. From a Revered Elder.

How good is it?

Well. Whaddayou reckon?

Breakfast Sunday

Breakfast Sunday.

Cherry slice, from Vic Market, with apple & cranberry juice,

and the ubiquitous coffee, with my beloved Bombay pashmina.

I try not to get too attached to physical objects, but cashmere has a way of connecting with my Innermost Self. We bond, become One.

We're talking Nirvikalpa Samadhi, here.

Breakfast Sunday

Even Magnificent Yoga Babes have to eat.

And, if they're just a little bit organised, they might even remember to grab the camera as they head for the kitchen table.

I've just discovered wax-tipped bananas. I've always thought them over-priced and fit only for wankers who enjoy paying too much for their food.

I was wrong.

Some breakfasts we ate this week.

Fruit salad and yoghurt:

Pretty heart-shaped biscuits (from Alpha, in Yarraville):

and lots of eggs. Eggs are good. Especially good eggs.

With ham, really early in the morning:

or with avocado, when the sun's actually up:

Let The Po join in. Po's will eat just about anything. And they're always good for light conversation.

Okay. 2 more hours yoga practice, before I collapse for the night.

Be good, now....

Breakfast Sunday

Apples fried in butter, sugar & cinnamon with chocolate mud scone and cinnamon coffee.

Outrageous, I know, but I had a pre-menstrual itch in serious need of scratching.

This will probably cost me my friendship with Joke, but I'm inordinately fond of tinned spaghetti around this time, too.

So now you know my terrible secret.

I have the heart of a bogan.

Breakfast Sunday

I used to adore breakfast when we lived in St Kilda, an area of Melbourne known for its cafe culture and excellent coffee. Breakfast (made and delivered by someone else), strong coffee, the paper, in a beautiful cafe before the breakfast rush and while the staff are still at leisure to hold a conversation, is about as good as it gets, I reckon.

But after relocating to the culinary wasteland that is Melbourne's West, well, I guess I sort of lost my mojo. I suspect I've been sulking ever since. Rediscovering Victoria Market went some of the way to moderating the pain, and the house is generously stocked with delicious and healthy food, but no way was I going to use any of it for breakfast.

In fact, I pretty much stopped eating during the day altogether, so deep was my mourning, which was making me a Proper Mess by dinner time, when I would finally down something, and slowly turn back into a normal person.

Discovering Jen's Simply Breakfast, has changed all that. She doesn't write anything, she just posts a photo every morning of what she had for breakfast. The kind of photos that make you smile at the Zen-like simplicity of her table. The kind that makes you want to have what she's having. Every day.

Getting up and going to yoga classes before dawn (yes, I really am doing that) gives me considerable leisure to consider (while upside down and struggling to breathe) all the gorgeous breakfast possiblities I have to choose from after class. I'm already researching bakery options across the northern end of the city, en route home. All suggestions for delicious eating supplies between Northcote and Footscray welcome.

Breakfast is, once again, A Sacred Affair, complete with favourite china, carefully considered musical ambience, switched off phones, and whatever I fancy reading that morning. For a minimum of 45 minutes.

And I reckon that if I'm going to be up at 5am and intimately examining my kneecaps for 2 hours, then a Zen Breakfast afterward is the very least I deserve.

Besides, I need to look after myself, since it appears that I'm going to be a yoga teacher when I grow up.

I've just become Yoga Jivana's newest teacher-training recruit.

(feel free to cheer and rara).