Next Sunday marks the 4th year since my beloved partner of fifty-one years died. Like most folk in a loving relationship I wish I had a time machine so I could push the calendar back and relive those wonderful years. Alas, like learning to speak French that is one of the goals I will never achieve. Nevertheless I have travelled to France four times (three with French Escapade and painting teacher Sandy Delehanty) and I always come home passionately wanting to return. Perhaps it is the croissants? Every village in France no matter how petite boasts a bakery; a matter of consequence as St. Exupery would say in The Little Prince. Tiny as it was, Venasaque was no exception. Shortly after dawn I could smell the aroma from the gate of our inn. A magnet. One sunny afternoon I propped my folding camp chair facing the bakery door and painted the entry you see above. And of course every morning at breakfast I delighted in the buttery light delicacy you see in the photo. How come the French aren't fat? Now I think I have indulged my readers with enough Provence calories and memories so I promise to move on to other trivia in the weeks ahead.