And the Winner Is…

I received an email from my sister, Andrea, who has been an enthusiastic supporter of my various creative ventures dating all the way back to when my pal Sanford and I launched a curbside “Indian Chewing Gum” stand outside our house sometime back in the late 70s, in which we soaked the chewy pith of the inside of a dried wild mustard stalk — “Indian chewing gum” — in either of two flavors, fruit punch or maple syrup, and tried to sell the soggy mess to the rare passerby.

I believe Andrea may have been the only person who purchased one.

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She had received an email to nominate blogs for the 2015 Saveur Blog Awards. Her email, to me and several other family members, was as follows:

“I nominated Sean.  Dude, you should do a quick post about this Saveur nomination thing!  You’ve got so many followers who would want to nominate you!  DONT BE SHY, this could be a really lucky break!!”

So fair enough — here it is, my gentle attempt at self promotion. If you would like to nominate Skinny Girls & Mayonnaise for a Saveur 2015 Blog Award, click here. Only takes a few seconds.

If not, I encourage you to go check out said sister Andrea’s very funny blog detailing her life as an “accidental Texan”.

And in the meantime, wherever you may be, enjoy!

Blogotism

It’s impossible to be objective when it comes to ourselves. Just in the way we can never know what other people see when they look at us, I sometimes wonder what other people must think of my blog.

Self-important-looking selfie

Self-important-looking selfie with painting

“Stand up straight, babe,” my wife will sometimes say to me.

I wonder if there’s a blog equivalent of not standing up straight. Are any of my sentences lazy? More

Post #300

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“How’s the blog going?” a friend asked somewhere around post #170 or so.

Great, I replied. My audience is growing. People seem to really like the blog.

“What’s your end game?” the friend asked. More

Glensomethingorother & the Passing of Time

My dad was always pushing some drink or other at me as a kid. Less in the interest of corrupting me than fostering a strong cultural foundation, an appreciation of the better things life had to offer.

A father and his son. Mt. Rainier National Park. 1968

“Try this, it’s the finest dark roasted arabica coffee,” he would say. Or, “You’ll never taste a wine this good, my boy…” I developed tastes for both. But not Scotch. That was Dad’s drink. Scotch on the rocks. There was always a Glensomethingorother in his glass, it was always “the best Scotch you’ll ever taste,” and it always tasted the way rubbing alcohol smelled. More