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a single well-placed beer...

Met Z for dinner at Great Dane last night.  My "usual" (not that I get there often) is the sesame seared tuna salad, with maybe a glass of Crop Circle Wheat Ale, but this time I had the walleye fry.  In Wisconsin, every restaurant that wants Friday business has a fish fry:  Mexican restaurants, Japanese restaurants...even the fast food places roll out their cod dinner specials.  For a local brew-pub the Friday fish fry is pretty much a requirement, and I do like a good walleye.

I also had a Stone of Scone Scotch Ale, which went down surprisingly well.  I haven't had a drink in...a couple of months, I think.  A lot has been going on, and I've been keeping a tight grip on myself, to avoid losing my cool.  The single beer was...very therapeutic, and I had sense enough to not get a second one.

Of course, then I had to have dessert as well, to let the beer subside before driving home.  I almost never drink unless I'm done driving for the day.

The eastside Great Dane has a great view of downtown Madison:  two lakes, with the capital dome on the isthmus between them.  That location has been host to many good-but-doomed restaurants.  It's a great building but a weird location, traffic-wise.  But GD's prosperous and well-known enough to keep it going. 

Z. has a talent for telling stories of coworkers and acquaintances that make me feel like an absolute heel for complaining about anything.  This time it was about someone she knows who's having their "septic system replaced".  The person's been diagnosed with cancer in/near their bladder, but it's not bladder cancer...the doctors don't know what it is, exactly.  The person has a choice between an internal or an external bag.  The external bag is...well....  The internal bag requires one to self-catheterize every couple of hours.  What a choice.

It's been raining for days, and is still soaking wet outside.  But there are rumors of a second wave of morels during this weird spring season.  I will use this as an excuse to venture down to Fort's first 2012 farmer's market, and return via backroads if there's no morel-joy at the market proper. 

I sometimes think about Mom in terms of 'lasts' now:  if this is her last spring - and it's entirely possible - then this would be her last-ever chance for morels (short of re-hydrated ones, but that's really not the same).
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