“Blue, Yaya.”

“Grape or strawberry, Hudson?” I asked again.

“Yaya, I want blue.”

Really? Blue. But blue is for moons and birds and bonnets and bayous. Blue is for fat round things bursting in summer, for sapphires, for Dodgers, for Sweet Alice in that gown of hers and the snotty boy in the velvet suit who hangs out with Pinkie.

Didn’t Picasso slather blue all over his canvasses and have a period with it? Yes . . . it was very blue.

For about 350 days of the year, if you live in the Conejo, a big patch of it hangs over your head every day.

That’s what blue is for. Ethereal and floating, swaying, swirling and unworldly. People move to California in search of blue.

But it’s is not something on your plate. Unless you’re eating tacos at some swanky eatery that discovered blue corn, which justifies the 30 percent upcharge. And makes you turn blue.

“Blue, Yaya.”

Honestly, I don’t think you should toss blue down the old gullet unless you are traveling with a 4-year-old wearing Day- Glo orange Crocs, a Thomas the Tank Engine shirt, a tendency toward late afternoon meltdowns and a taste for Chex mix. Hanging out at the Los Angeles Zoo by the X-rated amorous lemurs and the snoring snow leopards, my dear grandson Hudson demanded . . . blue.

So. We ordered an Icee in . . . blue. For bubble gum, dummy, in case you didn’t know. I didn’t. I thought it might be for blueberry, but no way.

Thankfully, Hudson’s beloved Auntie Kiki was with us. She speaks blue despite the fact that she’s in college and sports fresh pink colors from head to toe. Cuddling the younger nephew, Gavin, in her arms, she shared a few tastes of radioactive icy, sloppy, slushie and savored that scary-looking iridescent blue.

Gavin shuddered. “Gavvy, do you have blue brain freeze?”

I guess the young one got a little overenthusiastic with the ice portions, and frankly, I’m not sure if it was the blue or the ice, but his little 2-year-old body shook like a paint can at Sherwin Williams. His Sweet Kiki comforted him and shared a little more . . . blue.

I have trouble with blue talk. I’m a product of the ’60s when UCLA’s Daily Bruin published articles about the dangers of phosphates, red food coloring No. 2 in all its carcinogenic forms and how using colored paper towels was un-American. Next to these fearsome warnings were recipes featuring Alice B. Toklas’ innovative ways to ingest substances originally grown in the Amazon jungle.

So much for the Daily Bruin. No wonder they’re raising the tuition. There’s no alumni support because they melted their brains on Alice B. Toklas brownies and grew melanomas from partying in the sun.

Anyway, the point is, I developed a fear of artificial things, from plastic roses to salty breast implants to polyester pant suits to Joan Rivers and things that smell like polypropylene.

“Blue, Yaya.”

Back in 1963 when TAB first hit the shelves of the Piggly Wiggly, my mother read the ingredient label and announced:

“If you can’t pronounce it, you shouldn’t eat it. Or drink it.”

So think about the blue. I suspect its origins lay in polysyllabic compounds designed by an MIT graduate and a descendant of Timothy Leary.

“Blue, Yaya.”

Hudson, what about chocolate? Ah. Now you’re talkin’.

You can reach Elizabeth Kirby at kirby@theacorn.com or visit her blog at http:// open.salon.com/blog/ elizabethkirby.