I try mightily to find, write and share good stories in a way that makes a bit of difference in a person’s day.
I spent 13 wonderful years doing that as a reporter and eventually food editor at the Chicago Sun-Times (scrappiest newspaper on Earth). More recently, I helped restaurants, hotels, breweries and other businesses articulate their stories as lead storyteller at Kinship, a Chicago marketing agency. Taglines, websites, radio scripts, the blurb on the back of a doughnut bag — you name it, I wrote it.
Not keen on school at first.
I’m a two-time James Beard Journalism Award finalist. You can poke around Epicurious, Chicago Magazine and DNAinfo Chicago (RIP) to read some of my work.
I could live without dark chocolate, cast-iron pans and running shoes, but I don’t want to. Analog suits me fine. Meals with my family matter most.
Why Hungarian Ice Cream Feels Like a Small Culinary Adventure
Walk into a modest gelato shop somewhere in Budapest, and suddenly the world slows down. Colors first. Pistachio, paprika-chocolate (yes, really), sour cherry — flavors that feel both familiar and slightly mischievous. Ehrlich gesagt, Hungarian ice cream isn’t just dessert, it’s a quiet experiment in taste. The base is often richer, milkier, sometimes leaning toward custard, and the artisans treat it almost like a craft rather than fast food.
Wer schon mal watched how it’s made knows — it’s a careful dance of temperature and timing. Too cold, and the texture dies. Too warm, and it collapses. A bit like online slots or betting strategies, where one wrong move shifts the outcome. Funny comparison, I know, but the same sense of anticipation exists when browsing platforms like https://bet-alice.lol, where each spin feels like choosing a new flavor.
Mal unter uns, what makes Hungarian ice cream memorable isn’t just technique. It’s curiosity. Makers here aren’t afraid to mix lavender with honey or sneak in a hint of wine. And you stand there, spoon in hand, thinking — why does this feel like a small, delicious gamble?