A Sunday morning, like a poem.

Sunday morning dawns slowly, like a poem, in a Parisian apartment in the 7th arrondissement. The first rays of sunlight pierce through the light curtains, woven in immaculate white and fine touches of powder pink. The light plays on a weathered wooden table, both raw and elegant, whose simplicity magnifies every detail. The carefully chosen household linen combines Egyptian cotton and other natural textures, tinged with pale shades like a misty sunrise. A scene emerges, of rare simplicity and yet of incredible beauty

At the center of this idyllic picture sits an old teapot, from which elegant, almost mystical steam rises. It is a rare Pu-erh tea, harvested from the venerable trees of an ancient and sacred forest. Its scent, at once earthy, foresty and deeply soothing, fills the space and invites the mind to serenity. At its side, at odds with tradition, large fine porcelain cups, decorated with timeless patterns, seem to wait patiently for the moment when life will come to fill them with this precious elixir.

 Breakfast is simple, but divinely orchestrated: glasses of juicy citrus catching the light like stained glass of gold and amber. A pot of homemade apricot jam and a pot of wild honey glow gently, inviting a spoon to collect them to sweeten the hours to come.  Golden croissants, with perfect flakiness, placed on a floral patterned plate, French toast, still warm, a little butter which melts slowly, a perfect omelette and or a few eggs from the market, and perhaps a basket of fruits from season bursting with freshness.

Everything seems to belong to another time and invites contemplation. The table, like a work of art, becomes the scene of a moment imbued with gratitude, where beauty is found in every detail, in every gesture slowed down by the appreciation of the present, where the ordinary becomes marvelous. The noises of the city fade at this height, giving way to silence broken only by the gentle clinking of cups and the delicate crunch of bread with each bite. This moment, imbued with timeless grace, evokes not only a taste pleasure but a communion with the beauty of simple things.

Like a happy morning poem.

N.L.L

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