Note The next chapters of Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel will be in tomorrow's blog.
Sometimes I do not believe my luck.
This morning for breakfast I had:
Bread from the bakery. It wasn't hot from the oven, but it had been baked within a few hours. The texture is different when it is that fresh.
Honey from the local bee keeper.
Apple juice from a local orchard.
Avocado from the garden of the woman we call the Brownie Lady. She sells a variety of pastries including home baked minced pies at the Saturday marché.
Tastes and textures that are almost impossible to find at any chain supermarket, never mind the pleasure of chatting with the producers.
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