Chefs love this 600 million-year-old salt, I’m told. So much tastier than bog butter, one supposes.
Just why do they? Found out here.
Every time I turn around Dickinson’s salt appears. Like fresh snow. Welcome, unexpected, quiet, delicious as it falls on your tongue.
The United States Postal Service, that bringer of all things good, bad and in between brought me a box of Dickinson’s salt. Harold sent it. He told me that he had had it for many years and had not found anything to put it on. Waaa? The man does not eat salt. Were it not for salt, I would not eat.
With the package came a note.
A little background on the salt post: not swearing to any of this, but it’s the stories I heard growing up.
No. 1 Can swear to this: the original family farm where the salt wells are is directly across a highway from Buzz Foods home of Teddy’s favorite burger, the Buzz Buttered Steak.
No. 2 This village is where Booker T. Washington spent his adolescence. He even returned there during the summers when he was a professor at Hampden College to work in the coal mines.
No. 3 Cabin Creek Quilts began in the village. Some say that was the beginning of the back to roots crafts movement. They won a Coty Award. Think that’s like an Oscar in fashion. Senator Rockefeller was involved.
Why he would not eat the salt, considering its pedigree, I do not know. What’s a little salt in in the grand scheme of things? So, not to be harsh, WV Slim’s loss, our gain. We are eating it. On sandwiches. Lord have salty mercy it is so good on a tomato slice. Thank you, Harold!
Our plane landed at 5 am. First stop, 
Sandwich. It’s what’s for breakfast. 
The Lunch Encounter 