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STILL LIFE
Cedric Morris, 1922, Paris I know it’s a bit of a cliché, but to me, that French bread sums up everything that is delicious about Paris. Philip Mould, Art in Isolation
Baguette—even its name is crisp in the mouth, the crust that shatters the tender center, begging for butter, for confiture rouge. The air in the boulangerie is the fragrance of heaven. And we cannot think about bread alone—it requires the companionship of coffee, bitter and dark. This petit déjeuner, after walking at night by the river, streetlights turned to watery stars, burnished sycamore leaves in the gutter, your hand in mine, warm and solid, our long marriage—how we fit together, were made for each other. Barbara Crooker
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