On Rue Tatin: Living and Cooking in a French Town [NOOK Book]

Overview

Susan Loomis arrived in Paris twenty years ago with little more than a student loan and the contents of a suitcase to sustain her. But what
began then as an apprenticeship at La Varenne École de Cuisine evolved into a lifelong immersion in French cuisine and culture, culminating in permanent residency in 1994. On Rue Tatin chronicles her journey to an ancient little street in Louviers, one of Normandy’s most ...
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On Rue Tatin: Living and Cooking in a French Town

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Overview

Susan Loomis arrived in Paris twenty years ago with little more than a student loan and the contents of a suitcase to sustain her. But what
began then as an apprenticeship at La Varenne École de Cuisine evolved into a lifelong immersion in French cuisine and culture, culminating in permanent residency in 1994. On Rue Tatin chronicles her journey to an ancient little street in Louviers, one of Normandy’s most picturesque towns.

With lyrical prose and wry candor, Loomis recalls the miraculous restoration that she and her husband performed on the dilapidated convent they chose for their new residence. As its ochre and azure floor tiles emerged, challenges outside the dwelling mounted. From squatters to a surly priest next door, along with a close-knit community wary of outsiders, Loomis tackled the social challenges head-on, through persistent dialogue–and baking.

On Rue Tatin includes delicious recipes that evoke the essence of this region, such as Apple and Thyme Tart, Duck Breast with Cider, and Braised Chicken in White Wine and Mustard. Transporting readers to a world where tradition is cherished, On Rue Tatin provides a touching glimpse of the camaraderie, exquisite food, and simple pleasures of daily life in a truly glorious corner of Normandy.


From the Trade Paperback edition.
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Editorial Reviews

From Barnes & Noble
When Susan Loomis arrived in Paris to serve as an apprenticeship as a chef, she fell in love with the country; its distinctive, sometimes cantankerous inhabitants; and certainly its cuisine. After she moved back to the states, she convinced herself that annual French visits would be required -- "palate tune-ups" she called them. In 1994, Loomis, by then a recognized cooking author and chef, decided to postpone her yearning no longer. Buying a 14th-century convent, she and her husband moved to Normandy. Her arrival was not entirely welcomed by her neighbors: "You've arrived here," one of her French friends told her, "like a cheveu dans la soupe, a hair in the soup. They didn't ask you to come. And you're American." But, being Americans, the Loomis stayed on, receiving an unsentimental education in all things French. Her well-seasoned recollections of their first six Normandy years offer one additional pleasure: The author of the Farmhouse Cookbook includes 50 recipes, several of which make fine reading snacks.
Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
Loomis, an American chef and author of Farmhouse Cookbook and The Great American Seafood Cookbook, enthusiastically recounts every aspect, both intriguing and mundane, of her immersion into the cuisine and lifestyle of northern France. She moved to Paris in 1980 to study cooking and, after a rough start, found her place as a weekend visitor at one family's home in Normandy. After cooking school, she went back to the States, returning to France frequently to visit friends. It wasn't long before she became addicted to Normandy's fresh ingredients goose, garlic, rabbit, wild mushrooms and rich gastronomy, and found herself longing to live there. In 1994, Loomis and her husband moved to the region and bought a dilapidated convent in the small town of Louviers. Her tales of adventures in restoration and run-ins with locals (e.g., the crotchety priest next door, the incorrigibly gregarious rug salesman) are funny, but certainly familiar, especially given that many recent books have told similar stories about ambitious expatriates' forays into rural European life. The cookbook/travelogue/memoir hybrid has become an overcrowded genre, and Loomis's doesn't distinguish itself. Nevertheless, few food writers have depicted Normandy so attentively, and Loomis has compiled an impressive collection of savory recipes that evoke the region's best, including Civet D'Agneau (Hearty Lamb Stew) and Roti de Cuisse de Sanglier (Roasted Leg of Wild Boar). Furthermore, classic Gallic personalities are accurately and engagingly rendered, making this more than just a culinary memoir. (Apr.) Forecast: This work targets Francophilic gastronomes, but probably won't break out of that niche. Nonetheless, the success of Loomis's cookbooks should help boost this title's sales. Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.
Library Journal
Here are two culinary memoirs by American women now living in France. The similarities end there, as one author went to France for the food and stayed for the life that grew up around her, while the other moved to France for its own sake and realized that she'd better learn to cook once she became engaged to a Frenchman. In On Rue Tatin, Loomis, a food writer and an accomplished cook, recalls her initial journey to Paris to attend cooking school. Her apprenticeship at La Varenne cole de Cuisine led to a job as an assistant to food writer Patricia Wells and a lifelong fascination with French cooking and culture. Eventually, in 1994, she and her family permanently settled in a medieval convent on Rue Tatin in the Norman town of Louviers. Interspersed with her lyrical descriptions of daily life in urban and rural France are 50 recipes from a simple frittata to a complex pot au feu culled from both famous chefs and the local fish seller. The author prepares most of the dishes in her own home, and American readers should be able to do the same in a well-equipped kitchen though they may have trouble finding a leg of wild boar at their local supermarket. In French Fried, Rochefort (French Toast) writes about how her obsession with French food became a personal one when her French husband-to-be announced that they could not afford to keep eating in restaurants for the rest of their lives. There are a few recipes, most of them for "basics" such as vinaigrette or homemade mayonnaise. More of a general commentary on life in France as seen through its cuisine (one helpful tip for tourists: don't go into a restaurant and order only a salad or a sandwich because this is something you do in a caf ; restaurants are for meals), French Fried is the book to purchase if your patrons are looking for an informal travel guide. Buy both books if you are able; and if you regularly answer reference questions about the cooking of wild boar, you'll definitely need On Rue Tatin. Wendy Bethel, Southwest P.L., Grove City, OH Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.
From the Publisher
"Where many American writers merely love France, Susan Loomis knows it: its smells and people and manners . . . she is as natural a writer as she is a chef."
–Adam Gopnik, author of Paris to the Moon

"Susan Loomis has written a radiant love letter to France–particularly Normandy–its countryside, food, markets, and people. Buy it and settle down for good reading and an occasional sortie into the kitchen."
–Barbara Kafka, author of Soup: A Way of Life

"Susan Loomis shares with us her rich family life, a world of amazing French friendships, and proves, most of all, that each and every dream CAN come true!"
–Patricia Wells, author of Patricia Wells at Home in Provence


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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780767911443
  • Publisher: Crown Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 6/18/2002
  • Sold by: Random House
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 320
  • Sales rank: 173,840
  • File size: 489 KB

Meet the Author

Susan Herrmann Loomis is the author of five previous books, including Farmhouse Cookbook and The Great American Seafood Cookbook. A regular contributor to publications such as the New York Times and Gourmet, she lives with her husband and their two children in Louviers, France, where she owns and operates On Rue Tatin, a cooking school.


From the Hardcover edition.
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Read an Excerpt

One

The Beginning

The story of our adventure, our move to Rue Tatin, began some thirteen years earlier, when I first went to live in Paris. Of course back then I had no idea that I would fall hopelessly in love with Michael Loomis, and then with France. Nor did I ever imagine longing so heartily for the French countryside, the French language, the thousands of things that make French life what it is, from dozens of varieties of bottled water to the sweet cream butter. There wasn't any way to know then how deeply and irreversibly seduced I would be by the markets, the restaurants, the French lifestyle that takes its cue from the meal and the table.

The suitcase was big, and it was heavy. It had everything I thought I would need for a year in Paris, including a little wire contraption that worked on 220 currents and would boil water instantly, my favorite earthenware Melitta coffee maker, and a Le Petit Robert Dictionnaire de la Langue Francaise French dictionary, the best I could find.

After months of planning, applying for and getting a student loan, packing, and moving, I was finally in Paris for a year's experience as a stagiaire, or apprentice, at a cooking school for English-speaking students. It sounded like a dream--working all day at the school, taking cooking classes at night with French chefs, and living in Paris to boot. I was beside myself with excitement. And fear. I didn't know a soul. I'd only been to Paris once before, for a short week when I was barely twenty. I'd studied French for years in school but had never really spoken it.

Already concerned about just how I was going to make the $2,500 loan I'd gotten stretch for a year, I decided on arrival to take the metro rather than a cab from the airport to the city. That meant heaving the suitcase up and down stairs, through archaic turnstiles (all of which have been modernized since to accommodate luggage), in and out of metro cars. It was several very rough hours before I arrived at the apartment where I was to stay with a young woman who had just started working at the cooking school and had offered me her spare bedroom. The apartment was in the ninth arrondissement, not far from Montmartre. I would stay there just long enough to find a place of my own.

No one was at the apartment and I was in a hurry. I dropped my bags, took a deep breath, and immediately ran back out the door to renegotiate the metro and report for work.

The apprenticeship was set out in six-week stages, the first being that of school receptionist, which meant sitting behind a desk, answering the phone, greeting visitors, and dealing with mounds of paperwork. My ideas of a romantic, food-filled year hadn't included such stultifying work; the only thing that kept me going was peeking at the cooking classes going on in the adjacent room and knowing that two nights a week I would join the other stagiaires for cooking classes.

I could hardly wait for the first class. When my workday was finished and the door to the street locked, I followed the other stagiaires to the kitchen. They explained the system to me, which sounded too good to be true. There was a list of perhaps a hundred required recipes to work through during the year, calculated to teach the basics of classic French cuisine and to prepare us for the year-end exam. All we had to do before each class was to choose the recipes we wanted to work on, in a certain order that went from simple to complex. All of the ingredients would be ordered so that on the night of the class we simply had to run downstairs to the cave, or cellar, where they were kept, and bring them upstairs. We paired up to work and kept the same partners throughout the year, to the extent everyone's staggered schedule would allow.

Once I had traded my phone and typewriter for a chef's knife and covered my street clothes with a long white apron, I was in heaven. Hours to cook, good company to cook with, fabulous ingredients. Never had I imagined produce so gorgeous, so intense in both appearance and flavor. Though my culinary education was relatively broad--I lived in England and Germany while growing up and had a mother who was endlessly creative in the kitchen and rarely made the same dish twice--it was not sophisticated.

My personal interest in cooking had come rather late in life. It wasn't until I was in my last year of high school when both of my sisters, who seemed to spend hours in the kitchen baking cookies, were out of the house that I realized I had a passion for cooking. That year and all through college I cooked whenever I had free time. When I wasn't cooking I was reading about it, planning my next meal, designing my next dinner party. After earning a degree in communications and working at newspapers and in public relations, it dawned on me I could incorporate food into my professional life, which is what had led me to La Varenne. I wanted to be a food writer, but first I had to learn how to cook.

So here I was in 1980 in a two-hundred-year-old building in Paris, near the Place des Invalides, basking in the world's best butter; the fattest, most pungent pink garlic; spinach whose leaves were so firm and meaty they stood up on the table instead of lying flat; brown eggs whose yellow yolks tasted as rich as they looked. I thought I knew good apples, fragrant strawberries, juicy pears. But never had I tasted the likes of the fraises des bois I had on a tart at La Varenne, and the pears I sniffed made me want to fold them into cakes, slather them with chocolate, poach them in fragrant herbs and spices.

The food was so whole. Chickens came with head, feet, and pinfeathers, and so did the pigeons and quail; the fish looked at me with big, dreamy eyes as I took them from the cooler; the lettuce still had soil clinging to it.

Once my onerous receptionist stint was finished I moved on to washing dishes at cooking demonstrations, a job I much preferred. At least I was in contact with food. I lived in a blessed cloud of ecstasy about the food, the flavors, the techniques I was learning. I jumped at the chance to run errands to the market, the cheese shop, the bakery. When I wasn't at La Varenne I took jobs cooking for embassy families, catering bar mitzvahs, making canapes for special occasions. Anything to be with food. Whenever I could I went to spend a day at a bakery or patisserie, often getting up at 1 a.m. and arriving when the baker did, so I missed nothing and could still get to work on time.

The chefs on duty with us for our evening classes--all of them terribly handsome in their crisp whites and with their Gallic attitudes--would yell, scream, cajole, flirt, pinch, and generally try to pummel us into cooks of some merit. After several hours of cooking we would sit down late in the evening to sample and critique our creations. I always raced through whatever my required dish or dishes were so that I could jump ahead and make something else from the list, usually in the dessert category. I always toyed with these extra recipes, embellishing and transforming them by adding ground walnuts to a gateau Breton, for instance, and pate sable to a chocolate charlotte. It was more fun than I could have imagined.

Being a stagiaire at La Varenne was a unique experience, not always easy but invaluable, a sort of boot camp for cooks. All those long days doing the bidding of the chefs and the hours spent in the basement peeling garlic for a cooking demonstration, or in the office writing or rewriting something for one of the school's books that were produced there, were ideal training for the life of a freelance food writer.

I had expected, while doing my apprenticeship, to travel on weekends. Before arriving in France, I'd joined an organization called SERVAS, which is set up to further international goodwill by supplying travelers with names of host families in countries where they want to visit. The idea is that the traveler stays with the host family free of charge for up to three days and must, in exchange, be willing to participate in whatever the family is doing, be it harvesting grapes, taking care of children, or touring the countryside.

I looked through my list and found a family that wasn't too far out of Paris and called to see if I could come out the following weekend. They were busy but their daughter, who lived nearby, said a visit would be just fine. Early Saturday morning I climbed on a train at Gare St. Lazare and was on my way to my first weekend in the French countryside.

When I arrived at the train station in Normandy I was met by a tall, thin, harried-looking woman who drove me to her large stone house. We entered a huge courtyard with its sculpted privets and riotous dahlias and I saw the image of all I love in France. Solid and square with graceful proportions, it was a maison bourgeoise, its facade a parade of tall windows each hung with a different antique lace curtain. Geraniums and pansies spilled out of window boxes, an antique bicycle leaned against the wall, the wicker basket on its back fender overflowing with petunias.

She said something to me I didn't understand, pointed to her three chubby, gorgeous golden-haired children, and took off in the car. I was alone and the children immediately started fighting. I searched frantically for words like "be quiet" and "go to your room," but of course, nothing came out. I finally yelled "Arret." They stopped, looked at me with their big, wide eyes, and all started to giggle and point their fingers. I searched in the cupboards looking for something to give them to eat and found only one box of organic biscuits (I now remembered that the description of this family included "vegetarian"). What else had it included, I wondered, as I chased the children through the freezing, massive, stone-floored house.

My hostess finally returned, fed the children, giving each a heaping plate of steaming noodles with Gruyore cheese, and put them all to bed. They were crying, but she simply shut their doors and went downstairs. We had a quick lunch of the same pasta, with the most delicious green salad I'd ever tasted, then she indicated I follow her out to the garden. There we worked in almost complete silence, carrying wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow of soil, weeds, and stones from one part of the garden to the other. I was delighted, eking out bits of conversation as we worked.

I learned that the woman, Edith Leroy, who was just a few years older than I, and Bernard, her husband, had just bought the house. She was by profession a painter; Bernard had recently started his own company, and they were stretched very thin. The conversation was slow going. Edith didn't make eye contact, didn't talk much, and never smiled. I was in heaven. I had always heard the French were cold and somewhat austere. I found Edith's behavior gratifyingly exotic.

We worked for hours, then Edith got the kids, gave them a snack (those organic biscuits), piled them into the back of her green Deux Chevaux and indicated I get in beside her. She flew out of the driveway and we careened through the village and down a winding road to the next town, where she had an errand to run. She left the children with her parents--older, more austere versions of Edith--and off we went.

We ended up at an herboristerie, or herb store, that smelled like lavender, rosemary, and fresh thyme, and was so calm and peaceful I wanted to set up camp there. Edith bought bread, organic cookies, and a cajot, or crate, full of soil-covered carrots, leeks, potatoes, and cabbage, all organic, then we piled back into the Deux Chevaux, picked up the kids, and careened back home. The kids were flying around in the backseat screaming and hitting each other, themselves, the car seats. Edith was perfectly composed. I was a wreck, imagining an accident and a little sturdy ball of a child hurtling through the windshield. We arrived home safely, however, and the kids piled out of the car and went to play in the yard. Edith and I went into the house and she began to prepare dinner. It was about 7 p.m. An hour later her husband, Bernard, a stocky man with fine brown hair and large brown eyes, arrived. He set down his briefcase, shook my hand, and offered to give me a tour of the house. He spoke decent English, and we could understand each other perfectly. It was a huge relief. He showed me the small bathroom off the master bedroom upstairs with a pastoral mural painted on the walls, Edith's work. It was lovely, and freezing. "You may want to take a shower before dinner," he said, waving to the small bathtub which had a shower attachment. "I know Americans like to be very clean." Nothing in the world would have induced me to bathe--I could barely keep my teeth from clattering.

Bernard was the picture of civility, as calm and warm as Edith was tense and cool. I started to relax and almost immediately began to understand a bit of French. Edith fed the children and put them to bed, and sometime later the three of us sat down at a candlelit table in the kitchen next to the fireplace, the only warm spot in the house. Bernard explained that the house had an old coal furnace, which Edith had to fill several times a day. Even when full it didn't offer much comfort. Some day they would change it.

Edith had made a simple meal-carottes rapees, a mound of sarrasin (buckwheat groats), with a garlicky, lemony vinaigrette and braised leeks, a huge garden salad, a Camembert so creamy it melted in my mouth. Dessert was an apple clafoutis. I had felt close to starvation during the afternoon, accustomed as I'd become to my daily La Varenne snacks of baguette slathered with butter, and the edge of hunger made the meal taste even more delicious.

The following morning everyone rose early. Bernard was vice-mayor of the village, so he was off to some function. Edith had more plans to work in the garden. The children took care of themselves. I headed for the wheelbarrow, and together and in silence, Edith and I worked until lunchtime. We had soft-boiled eggs; I watched the children as they stuck little sticks of toasted, buttered bread (mouillettes) into their eggs, and did the same. I easily made my way through two eggs, the most delicious I'd ever tasted. I reveled in the intensely garlicky, tart salad, had more Camembert slathered on the hearty whole wheat bread Edith had bought the day before at the health food store, then enjoyed another clafoutis, this time with pears instead of apples.

From the Trade Paperback edition.

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4.5
( 44 )
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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 44 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted February 24, 2010

    I Also Recommend:

    Cute!

    This book really gives insight on what it's like to be an American living in France. It's filled with witty and nostalgic writing, and plenty of good recipes along the way!

    3 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted June 13, 2003

    A wonderful story and cookbook

    I really enjoyed this book. I am planning a trip to Europe for next week and wanted to read some books to 'get me in the mood.' Ms. Loomis wonderfully captured the tale of living in France and how an American has to adjust. I loved the stories about her son and her neighbors. I highly recommend this book. Plus the receipes are great-I made the apricot sorbet. I am having my book club read this book and i am cooking a meal for them using the receipes. I am very much looking forward to the sequel.

    2 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted October 9, 2014

    Agree below!

    Good bok

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted January 10, 2014

    Thoroughly enjoy the book from start to finish!

    I loved reading this book! Ms. Loomis gave such good descriptions of the people she met, the French landscapes and environments. She didn't hold back and gave her honest description of the French culture she experienced, whether it be good or bad. I really love the recipes she included throughout the book. I have just added France to my bucket list of travel destinations. Ms. Loomis also includes at the end of the book a link to her website that tells about classes she teaches that are a kin to the experiences she has in her book. I highly recommend this book if you are into learning new cultures, interested in food just looking for a fun, easy read.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted January 13, 2013

    Sydney

    *nods* "Ok"

    0 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 13, 2013

    Sumer

    (We need to move the capture the flag, some people are locked out of here. Like maybe the first result so we know people arent locked out.)~Summer

    0 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 13, 2013

    Courtney TO ALL

    I maen go to result 10 and say I.

    0 out of 5 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 13, 2013

    Dart

    Nothin

    0 out of 5 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 13, 2013

    May

    Ill be on red.

    0 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 13, 2012

    Wonderful Read

    A delightful account of living and cooking in Normandy. Second only to being there.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted May 4, 2012

    Dani to all

    Go to camp all results!! New camp!!

    0 out of 5 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 3, 2012

    Storm

    *Pounds on the ground* Father I demand for you to bring Caoe back this instant

    0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 3, 2012

    Maddie

    *comes in and is covered in soot* this is wat i get for hanging out with jeremy *sits on bed cleaning off arms and face with towle* better so im guessin ur tierd

    0 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 30, 2012

    Angel

    Zeus is my father...nemisis is my mother

    0 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 13, 2013

    Jt

    *pulls out his dagger and looksat courtney*come at me bro

    0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 25, 2012

    Smoke to wolf

    Hey buddy. Lol jk

    0 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 14, 2012

    TELL THE PEEPS ABOVE TO GO TO THIRD RESULT!!!!!

    !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

    0 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 14, 2012

    Cyrus

    I got locked outt everytthing i eber posted at

    0 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 30, 2012

    Wolf

    Zeus?

    0 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 29, 2012

    Jackie

    Hi kitty. *holds out a bowl of jello* its been awhile since the last prank. *grins*

    0 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 44 Customer Reviews

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