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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