Every time I bring to the table pasta with zucchini, my Victor tells me it puts him in mind of a cartoon in The New Yorker. A painter is working at an easel set up in front of a pond, and a woman, presumably his wife, is saying “Claude, not another lily pond!” I admit it, I have a zucchini addiction, but if there is sameness I never tire of it, for within it I find, as Monet did in his lilies, infinite variety.
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