photo credit: victor@alcantaraphoto.com

Americans are squeamish about their meats. When I lived in Italy it was no problem finding horse, rabbit and goat meat, in fact it was the norm. I will never understand how someone can eat a cow with no problem but a bunny is deemed “too cute.” The whole business of butchery is a necessary and often gruesome evil no matter which animal you’re killing, so it doesn’t occur to me to eat my meats based on the ascending scale of adorability.

photo credit: Jonna Bell www.Vasyfille.com

Some of it can be attributed to cultural familiarity. When I tried to get the turkey for American Thanksgiving in Italy every year, more than one butcher looked at me quizzically and inquired as to whether I was Russo aka Russian. According to the Italians, the Russians are the only ones hardcore enough to want an entire turkey, and I soon found out why. In the US, turkeys typically reach market between 14 and 20 weeks of age. They range in size on average from 15-30 pounds. In contrast, Italian turkeys are raised with the idea that the parts of the bird will be sold separately, more like a cow. Therefore they are older and much, much bigger. Read more

There are pistachios and then there are pistachios. The first time I had pistachios I was riding bitch in my dad’s Chevy Luv and he offered to let me “drive,” meaning he pulled me onto his lap and let me man the wheel. We hulled pistachios with our teeth and spit the shells out the permanently rolled-down drivers’ side window. I had so much fun I forgot my hard-earned lessons in toilet training and peed on his legs. I must have been about four. The pistachios were good- sufficient for my post-toddler tastebuds.

The first time I had pistachios I was in Naples, Italy. I was 19 and on a solo backpacking tour of Europe. I had just arrived in Naples after a harrowing experience in Corfu, Greece at the Pink Palace. The Pink Palace is the kind of place that makes you slam shots of fuchsia-hued ouzo on the shuttle bus before you’ve even checked in to the hostel. The Pink Palace is the kind of place that makes you wear a toga to dinner, and further, a staffer performs a creepy gym class-style hand check to make sure you are sans undergarments beneath the cheap sheet. The Pink Palace is the kind of place where you are forced to room with three girls from Saskatchewan who make fun of you for being American even though one of them has trouble naming the Canadian provinces. These same three girls make a pact not to sleep with anyone later that night. Read more

I have been remiss in posting here on Salty Seattle because I’ve been giving birth to a book. The Nudie Foodies book, that is. If you haven’t heard about it yet, please pop over to the Nudie Foodies website- the book will be available for purchase there on Monday, June 20^th and we are looking for a few new nudies to take part in a fun contest involving doing good while nude with food, dudes.  Because of all the last minute work that birthing a book entails, I haven’t spent as much time in the kitchen as I would like, but I have been farming snails.

The first time I ate snails I was a vegetarian. I reasoned that they weren’t really animals because they lacked fur, legs and arms. It was in a restaurant in Twin Falls, Idaho called the Sandpiper. This was the place to be if you wanted to shed your BUM Equipment sweatpants (predecessors of the Juicy Couture-style butt-hugging trend) and put on a nice polyester-taffeta blend dress from the Deb Shop in the Magic Valley Mall. Many a prom, engagement and birthday was celebrated at the Sandpiper, which had the basic layout of a Sizzler but lacked the make-your-own-sundae bar. Instead it had a DIY salad bar with fancy dressings like Roquesomething and fancy toppings like alfalfa sprouts that came from an alfalfa sprout farm where I worked my very first job as a sprout seeder and packager when I was 13. Read more