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!

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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