La rhubarbe

I remember the rhubarb my grand-père used to grow in the garden. It was thick and green; and would be turned into jar-after-jar of compote which my grand-mère always kept in that little cupboard in the garage. On top of my grand-père’s tools, always neatly organised. One day, I’ll show you that garage. We would eat the compote on top of yoghurt for breakfast. Or ...

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