Every time I write the word “blondies”, I think about the old cartoon with Blondie and Dagwood. When I was young, there was little more thrilling on a Sunday morning than sitting at our scratched white kitchen table, feet tucked up to avoid kicking at the cold linoleum tile floor, and waiting eagerly for our dad to unfold the newspaper (the Baltimore Sun), riffling through the flimsy pages until he came to the colorful section of cartoons in the back. He’d carefully extract the double pages of funnies, as we called them, and spread them out on the table, pushing aside our half-drunk glasses of orange juice and plates covered in the detritus of breakfast: crusts of whole wheat toast, a smear of fried egg from our one-eyed giants (or, toad in a hole, as most people call them), a bit of strawberry jam clinging to the tines of a fork. juice and plates covered in the detritus of breakfast: crusts of whole wheat toast, a smear of fried egg from our one-eyed giants (or, toad in a hole, as most people call them), a bit of strawberry jam clinging to the tines of a fork.