The town I grew up in was really small, and it wasn’t unusual to drive twenty, fifty or even ninety miles to shop for certain things.  On one such day-long outing, my mother and her friend stopped at an unfamiliar, interesting looking restaurant in another town for lunch.  A chalkboard menu had specials listed for each day of the week.  That day — Friday — the special was “Musgo” and Irene, the neighbor friend who was with my mom and  who loved fresh fish, was thrilled.  “I’ll have some of that Musgo,” she rushed in the front door and excitedly told the owner. Turns out “Musgo” was his term for end-of-the-week leftovers.  Must-go.

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