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87 Garlic It ripples, sputters and yellows, laughter in the sizzling oil seasoning food and pan deep in the cast iron as the fragrance opens its pores throughout the house. The garlic squats on the shelf, closed fist of a tight bulb wrapped in silk paper. You hold it by the head and tear off a first clove that flakes silver petals. You pull each rib off this plenteous madame. Uncorsetted, she leaves you with nothing but a dry stem from an unassuming shoot. You lay some sixteen teeth on the cutting board ready to bite a dead kiss. ...

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