When I’m not in my beloved Europe, all I can do is write about food. When the urge arises to wax poetic about French markets or Spanish tapas and I am not physically able to do so, it is all I can do to slice crusty bits of sourdough, shove them into the toaster until blistering hot, and slather them with creamy piles of fresh chèvre the same way I’d be doing if I were in France at the moment.…
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