I realize this makes me a Communist, but I don’t really like sweets. (Neither does Charles Mudede—see here—case rested.) Instead of a sweet tooth, I have a salt tooth—always have. My parents report that when I was very small, they would find me on my little hands and knees at the cat’s dish, eating its Meow Mix, which was, as I very barely recall, nice and salty. Similarly, while the sugar bowl was safe from me, I would surreptitiously fill my palm with salt from the saltshaker, then hide in a corner and lick it up. At my grandmother’s ranch, I’d walk up past the barn to the shed and stand there alone in the dusty quiet, eating the rock salt intended for the cattle.
My blood pressure is low, so this must just be my body trying to keep itself upright. When I review restaurants, I seldom try the desserts, though I feel as if I should; when I do, they provoke listlessness, if not outright resentment for not being the cheese plate. Not even chocolate—AAAACCCKKKK! CHOCOLATE!—is alluring.
When Stranger sugar expert Megan Seling told me I had to write about a sweet here in Seattle, I racked my brain for something especially appealing—or even something especially unappealing—to no avail. Finally, the one thing that I am compelled to march out and get every few years came back to my mind: a Dick’s hot fudge sundae with peppermint stick ice cream. The hot and the cold, the mint and the rich, the little snaps of the bits of peppermint stick set against all the creaminess and thickness: It is (at long intervals) captivating. I suppose an all-organic-ultra-local-super-fancy version of this sundae might be even better—then again, I once had a one-scoop Molly Moon’s hot fudge sundae, and it was so buttery-rich-thick-gaaaaah that I felt sick for at least an hour afterward. Also, Dick’s is a local family-owned company that treats its employees particularly well. And Dick’s has those nice salty fries.
But, then, you never have to listen to me again—I used to eat cat food. 