gouter

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Every afternoon we have the gouter.  Admitedly it is sometimes a sad rice cake, eaten in the back of the car on the way home from somewhere, or something drab that I found in the fridge that needs eating up, but sometimes, sometimes it’s a freshly baked plum claffoutis eaten atop a megalithic prehistoric dolmen (or “my little house” as M refers to it).  That’s not too shabby is it?

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