We go to a pub. It is our local pub. It has a classy tap room. The tap room sits on a hillside overlooking Puget Sound. The tap room is often filled with lots of people, including families with children. The tap room serves the place’s own beer (because this is the microbrewing revolution, after all), and the beers are named after nearby places.

We are insufferably smug about all this. (And going there while we can. Beer isn’t Atkins-friendly.)




Sparks especially.


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