Sunday

Sunday means matching shirts.

Often it means getting crosser and crosser the later we are for church, but today I was in a delightful zingy mood after I zipped up one of my (larger) pre-pregnancy skirts and it did NOT result in a flesh volcano. Woo! So I decided not to mind very much about the lateness, and danced Henry around to Postman Pat for ten minutes when we should’ve been sterilising bottles and such. It was one of those days.

It was also one of those days where you get halfway through making roast pork and remember a) you don’t know how to make roast pork; and b) you don’t really like roast pork. I hacked it to pieces, cooked it for far longer than necessary, and decided not to mind very much about this either, since the Yorkshire puddings were quite shamelessly outshining everyone else in the room with their brilliance.

Pork crackling is lovely, don’t you think? As long as you don’t remember what you’re eating while you’re eating it. Also, sometimes you get a piece that is chewy instead of crispy, and then you end up chewing this endless glutenous mass for minutes and minutes, until you start to worry that you’ll never be able to swallow it and move on to your mashed potatoes.

Even though I tried very hard this time, I still made too much Yorkshire pudding mix. So there was obviously nothing else to do but make toffee sauce pancakes for tea.

Here is what Henry thinks about toffee pork milk:

Each to their own, I suppose.

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