Salt, Ink, & Soul
Writing on food, family, and identity
“I write so that our food, our struggles, and our stories are never forgotten, but carried forward as legacy.”
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Salt, Ink & Soul is a reader-supported journal built from memory, flavor, and truth. If these articles move you ,consider helping keep them alive.
Felix the Fox Collection
Gentle adventures from the Whispering Woods — stories of courage, friendship, and resilience for children, and for the adults who read beside them.
Latest Post
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“When Special Ain’t Special Anymore”
We all have those sacred little spots from home — the places you carry with you long after you’ve left, even if they’ve forgotten your name. Places that stitched themselves into your identity not with grand gestures but with greasy napkins, familiar neon signs, and food that tasted like it was made just for you.
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“Gas, Grit, and Grease: The Rise of Breakfast Pizza”
Some revolutions don’t come with fanfare. They come with sausage and scrambled eggs baked onto dough, passed across a counter next to a stack of lottery tickets and a bottle of windshield washer fluid. Somewhere between Des Moines and nowhere, in a town stitched together by grain silos and family plots, Casey’s joined the great pizza debate.
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Bread and Memory: A Loaf, A Legacy
A powerful reflection on baking, memory, and legacy. Kyle J. Hayes explores how the scent of bread evokes the sacred spaces of childhood, the silence of loss, and the power of reclaiming what was almost forgotten.
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A Reflection on the Loss of a Pioneer
Sly didn’t just make music—he cracked it open and poured revolution into it. Before Prince bent sound and gender, Sly blurred every line and paid the price for it. His loss isn’t just the end of an era—it’s a question mark hanging over the future of Black musical legacy.
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Our Music: The Beginning and the End
A Meditation on Soul, Sound, and the Ghosts That Sing Through Us When I was a boy, like most Black children raised in America, I laughed when Africa was mentioned. Not because it was funny but because we had been taught to laugh. Conditioned to see our origin not as a source of pride but
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Where Are the Heroes?
A Meditation on What We’ve Lost I don’t know when it started. Maybe it was gradual and subtle, like a dimming light you don’t notice until the room is too dark to read by. But one day, I looked around at the screens that raised our children and couldn’t find the heroes. I began to
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