There aren’t a lot of things that can trump a guy who can cook. I mean, sure, there are the obvious ones: rock star, pro-athelete, cruise director. But, for the most part, a guy who can cook is always a winner.

In other news, I went mountain biking today in an effort to both get out of the house and test the ankle. It failed me a bit, but seems to be coming along slowly but surely. ADG let out an audible “ewww” when she saw it, so it is apparently at least swollen enough to ellicit that response; though I doubt it would be intersting to those who saw it in it’s glory days. But I digress…

One thing I like about mountain biking, or riding in general actually, is the automatic-bro’ness. If you’re riding down one side of the street, and a comrade in arms is riding down the other, you are guaranteed a wave or a head nod. Cars whiz by impersonally, but you have a friend in the bike rider. This general rule of course doesn’t apply to the biker punks on their way to vandalize 7-Elevens, joggers, or old couples; but, in your small niche, you have a kindred spirit.

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