While there are many adventures in the near future, for the present, in the now, it’s all house guests all the time. The extended euro-family sent a delegate and old art school friends seem to be resurfacing in my living room, of all places. I get the pleasure of dragging them around my city, telling …
You’re not supposed to touch the Richard Serra in the Olympic Sculpture Park, but it’s marked with perfect white pairs of hand prints anyways. There are a few shoe prints too, which I find somewhat disrespectful, but I can appreciated the desire to press your hands on the monumental rusty steel waves. I wonder if …
It’s official, I’m a snob. The reason for this epiphany? The baked goods at Honore. Now, granted, I didn’t try everything. Only four things: the cannele — a tiny custardy bundt shaped goody with gooey insides, the chausse de pomme — essentially an apple turnover, the koign imman — I’ll come back to this, and …
I tell people that when Seattle is nice, there is no place on the planet I would rather be. I am not lying, exaggerating, or using hyperbole, it is 100% true. When the days get long, when the sky gets that backlit blue in the evenings, when the cold edge comes off the air and is replaced by something salty and floral and earthy all that the same time, that is when you realize that Seattle is, at that perfect moment, the best place in the world.
