When I tell people I was a vegetarian for more than 20 years, they mistakenly assume that I was on some kind of healthy high horse. On the contrary, I had literally memorized the phone numbers of my favorite ice cream shops within a 60 mile radius so that I could call ahead and check on the flavors of the day to see if it was worth wrangling a ride to get a man-sized scoop or three. My very favorite was Smith’s Home Dairy (543-4272) in a tiny, Mormon cow-town called Buhl, Idaho, a good 45 minutes from home.  They always had several flavors of potato ice cream, it being Idaho. To this day the mint-chocolate chip haunts me with deep, sweet dreams. Read more

I am sorry for my unexplained absence, planes, trains and jalopies whisked me off to faraway destinations like Los Angeles and Atlanta over the past week and change. In Los Angeles I ate extremely well (Gjellina, anyone?) and furthered my career while spending time with people who know very little about the intricacies of working in the food space. It was refreshing, filling, and resulted in the purchase of a new dress. In Atlanta I ate beige conference food and nearly decided to end my career as a food blogger after spending time with people who think they know very much about the intricacies of working in the food space. It was vapid, draining, and resulted in the purchase of a one-way Marta ticket out of town.

Don’t get me wrong, Atlanta charmed my daisy dukes off. A city full of sticky heat, impeccably-dressed women and many, many gay men is a place after my own heart. An urban belle insisted there was no way I was from Seattle as she took in my fuchsia confectionary attire replete with matching shoes. Then she leaned in further and exclaimed “Oh yes, I see it! You are from Seattle- you are wearing way too little makeup.” I can only imagine how crazy a girl like me could be in a city as decadent as Atlanta. Also, I am proud to say I resisted the urge to call it “Hotlanta” throughout the duration of my visit, but it was very, very hard. I do hope the locals have a drinking game in place wherein every time a tourist says “Hotlanta” they ring a cowbell and force a Zima down the tourist’s gullet. Read more

Summer is coming and with it, a full dance card. The weekends are filling up fast and the lingering question in our minds burning hotter than VD in a jacuzzi is “what on earth should I wear to all these parties?” Well, my pretties, you can stop fretting in your fiddleheads because I’ve got you covered for at least one salty soiree.

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