Breakfast of my dreams

I love breakfast … especially when it looks like this:

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For the first part of our honeymoon — lo, these many many years ago — Scott and I stayed at a fabulous little hotel in Provence.   We wouldn’t have found out about it but for my sister-in-law, who knows the hosts.   It’s a small little inn, in what used to be an eighteenth-century Provençal millhouse.   The rooms were simple and gorgeous.  There was a lovely, vast garden and a most welcoming golden retriever named Bud.

And there were these breakfasts, served under the huge plane trees on the terrace.  Strong coffee, fruit, fresh bread, plain yogurt that we Americans liked to stir sugar into — well, it was all absolutely dreamy.

Honeymoon; southern France; gorgeous setting; fabulous food.  Is it any wonder that this is my happy place?  That I dream of going back, on days when I’m tired of the commute and the alarm clock and the generally insane speed of my daily life?

For now, I’ll just have to rely on my memory, and on our photo album.  I’m glad we have pictures like this to help me remember the  joie de vivre of that beautiful, summery, perfect time and place.

Sigh.

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