I’ve been a busy girl the last couple of weeks. I didn’t get up to near enough kitchen hijinks, though I’ve managed a fair bit of fun. But it’s not all mischievous merriment in the life of Salty Seattle. You see that picture up there that opens this post? Well that, my friends, is the game of skee-ball, except I’m playing it wrong. Instead of dancing on the skee-ball court, you are supposed to calmly roll small, wooden balls up the lane you see me standing on. You are NOT meant to climb up there, but we were having such fun at the video arcade, how could I help myself? Well let that be a lesson to y’all. This is what happens when you swan dive off a skee-ball lane in 60mm heels:

But I’m a trooper. Despite what I thought was a sprained foot (which come to find out is actually a broken foot that must be surgically repaired this coming Monday), I boar-headedly maintained my social calendar. This included such things as an afternoon oyster date with Michael Ruhlman and Shauna Ahern, as well as a trip to Detroit.

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Team #SmileHarder with Guide Brad (left) & Pilot Chris (rear)

*Special thanks to Andrew Wilder of Eating Rules, who took most pictures from this post unless otherwise specified.

Remember summer camp? Whistling with ten crackers in your mouth after swimming the length of the lake? Getting asked to the end-of-week dance by Petey Goldwyn (heir to the MGM crown) and turning him down because Gary Warsaw was way cuter? Ok, so maybe you didn’t go to summer camp with the spawn of Hollywood royalty, and frankly I’m not sure why I did either, but you remember the experience, right?

At the beginning there was an impending sense of dread. What if they don’t like me? What if I wet my pants on the top bunk and it dribbles down into Shiela B’s perfectly-plaited hair? But by the end, you’d sooner streak naked through the mess hall than abscond to the eager arms of your ‘rents.

That’s what the long weekend I spent in Oregon hosted by Travel Oregon and managed by Maxwell PR was like. Before I went, I didn’t love Oregon. I lived in Portland for a year just out of high school and found very little to do there besides get into the kind of trouble that involved copious bong hits and regular rave attendance (along with the accoutrements of that lifestyle). The tragicomic denouement was a weeklong sojourn in my car because I was too embarrassed to call home and admit I’d been kicked out of my apartment. When I left Portland I commemorated it by shaving my head to the quick and leaving the pile of blond half-dreadlocks behind in favor of a new zen lifestyle.

So it was with great trepidation that I returned to the heart of my late-adolescent angst. I needn’t have worried. I took a train to Portland, which was delayed because a drunken man took up residence on an underpass above the tracks and refused to come down from his six inch perch. When we finally got the all-clear to pass, our train was well-behind schedule, thus depositing me late into the throes of the welcome reception. 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