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As we waited for our first courses, the bartender came up to me with a request, “I’m trying to create a drink to highlight our figs and thought you might be able to help.” Suddenly, my MacGyver moment had arrived.

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In the Kodachrome world of my youth, when I sidled up to the bar and placed my two bits on the counter, my order was “a Roy Rogers, Mister – and make it snappy.”

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We tamed the frontier of our suburban landscape, defending a romanticized American ideal which had preceded us by many generations and which, in truth, may never have existed at all.

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