Damper Dan had finally found a little place in Italy to call home. He had had dreams of vineyards, country estates, olive groves, outdoor bread ovens, little islands with little simple houses over-looking the Mediterranean Sea, but he had left those big dreams adrift in the foggy skies of Tennessee. Somehow, whether by mechanomorphism, deus ex machina, or just plain old work and will power, Dan had fermented his goal: a little wine, a little bread, on a little street, in a little village. Now, if he could only find his long white apron.
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