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I’m frying mushrooms and prosciutto for a big bowl of risotto.   In a fit of what may or may not be genius, I poured an entire bottle of beer into the rice.  It’s boiling off as we speak.  If it works, it will be a Jamie-Oliver-level recipe.  If it fails, I will be the only one that has to eat the consequences.

Right now the  rice and my sleeping daughter seem more important than making any decisions about the blog.  We just got home from a long grocery shopping trip, and she zonked out while I was loading the car, so I put her to bed in true Dad fashion, still wearing her pink corduroy coat from outside.  In fact, I hear her crying, and I need to go remind her that waking up isn’t the end of the world.

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