*Exciting update! The folks at Art in the Age who make Root liquor were pretty thrilled about this root beer float, so they offered me the chance to give some goods away to you. Much as they would love to give a bottle of Root, The Man forbids it, so they put together a box of Root swag for one lucky (US-based) winner.

It includes an Art in the Age logo tee, Root mug, coaster set, soap, tote and shot glass. If you want it, leave a comment below. Bonus entries for tweeting this giveaway and following @saltyseattle and @artintheage on twitter- just comment that you follow/followed. Winner selected at random on Wednesday, October 5th.

It is going to be very difficult for me to contain my excitement about this subject matter, but I will do my best. I can only hope that my enthusiasm is infectious enough that you catch it too and we both get the pleasure of having such a joyous disease.

Let’s talk about the olden days. Now would be a good time to put on a pair of bloomers and borrow a cap gun from a little kid. Also, take a nip off your flask. You’re going to want to finish it by the end of this post so you can refill it with this stuff. Read more

oh lookie at me cookie

Pim Techamuanvivit of the blog Chez Pim made a resonant point on her facebook page recently. She said:

“It annoys me every time I hear someone say “I’m a self-taught cook/chef/whatever”. There is no such thing. You learn from SOMEONE, via books or eating or other experiences. Be grateful to those who came before you and acknowledge that lineage.”

Often I hear that cooks, food-lovers, even food-writers are “self-taught”. In fact, I am guilty of claiming autodidacticism in my own culinary trajectory. I have come to realize that it is important to acknowledge what made me who I am so that I can build a better future-me. This is the age-old dilemma with history repeating itself. If we don’t look back and appreciate what made us learn, leap and fail, we’ll never succeed to our fullest.

Here are some of my decisive kitchen moments in the early years.

with mom and dad

It starts with one story that some of you have heard before. It involves me, my best friend Slobber, and his untimely demise. As you may know, when I was little, my father moved our biracial family to an extremely small town in Idaho from the suburb of LA, California where we had been living. My dad is white, but my mom and her two children from a previous marriage are black. I am not adopted, in case you were wondering, I just happened to get most of my dad’s coloring. I like to think that I inherited nice lips and supple nipples from my mom’s side, but that’s about it. Read more

You are dead to me. Ever since a shop on at least every-other-block in Seattle decided to festoon their windows with week-old versions of you, hawking each for upwards of $4.00 a pop, I have wished you a slow, painful end.

Cupcake- you are as bad as the word “moist”. A moist cupcake is the worst thing I can visualize behind closed eyes. Except for a moist, yummy cupcake in my pants.  “Yummy” and “pants” round out the ménage a quatre of words I loathe with the immensity of a bovine boner. Read more