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February 21, 2013

Late afternoon here where I live is a wondrous thing. Recent downpours, hail storms that leave piles of white like winter, or the cloudless day, like today.

I might have had a scrap to eat during the morning – I think a handful of blueberries. And a cup of coffee of deep bitterness, outside, with a book and my cat, the early sun turning the huge trees to the right of my cottage such a sparkling touch of gold.

The air started to feel a little lighter when I boiled two eggs until the yolks were almost set. One I ate right then, slicing it in quarters and dabbling it with salt flakes and some speckles of pepper.

Later – I forget when, I am immersed in a book about Paris – I had the other egg at a slower pace, with the tiniest drop of olive oil, too. Because of the light, then. The sun had started to slant, after all. And the oil shone, too.

I have just pecked at a salad of young mixed lettuce, herbs, and one single, red and sweet tomato. Olive oil, white wine vinegar, a squirt of fresh lemon. Salt, pepper and of course a scattering of brown sugar. At the end, still propping up my book, I added more greens. The dressing was too irresistible not to play with it some more.

So I ended by drinking the last bit of dressing from the bowl, the way I used to Sundays when I was growing up, around the family table.

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