I am Loki. God of war: Peach & Almond Crumb Cake

 -I know, he's the Trickster God. Just keep reading before you correct me in the comments.-

Today I saw one of the most hilarious things ever.

A little girl and her brother were playing around. She was about five, I guess. Short blond hair, little pink sandals, a nondescript sundress that came from someplace like Target or Walmart. A very average little girl. Her brother, also blond, was about six. He was in jeans and a t-shirt.

He was keeping himself occupied with whatever Nintendo's newest portable not-a-Gameboy is and she was sort of getting all kung-fu. Seriously, while he was entranced she was running around the room, air kicking hostile ninjas through the air, battling space aliens, fighting evil robots, and all and all kicking a lot of imaginary butt. She had dual sword, at least fifty laser guns, unparalleled martial arts skills, and I think she could shoot fireballs from her eyes.

All the sudden she stopped and caught me watching her. She suddenly called a ceasefire with the ninja alien robots and walked up to me.

What's That?: Cheddar & Peach Grilled Cheese

 -The peaches make it healthy.-

"What's that?" he asked.

"What?" I intoned, talking through a mouth full of soba and veggies. I caught his stare glued to the loaded fork that I was twirling in the air. (Since I usually eat at my desk my table manners are somewhat neolithic at work.) He was one of the kids bussed in to see one of the shows at my work, a local nonprofit theatre that brings the arts to kids. "You mean the broccoli?"

He nodded.

"The green thing is broccoli. It's, uh, well it's a vegetable. It's good when it isn't steamed. If it is I would avoid it, unless you cover it in butter. That usually fixes the problem."

He nodded again and scurried along.

Cookbooks: Peach Cobbler

-Yes, I keep the skins on the peaches. They give the cobbler a beautiful rhodocrosite color.-

So this may sound odd, but I'm not a big cookbook person. Most of my food friends have walls - literally, walls - stuffed full of cookbooks and their floors are dotted with towers of information on such topics as gluten-free baking and how to cure a tagine. Rooms are bordered by imposing culinary skylines pushed against the walls in order to make a path to the kitchen.

To me it's like a head packed to the brim with too many thoughts. No way to give them all enough attention or sort them all properly. And like thoughts, some are lost never to be seen again until one day you seem to trip over it out of the blue (probably when moving). Others are gems that you treasure and invest your time into while others are inane and you wonder how on earth this awkward tome came to be.

I ask these friends if they use all of these cookbooks. These literally hundreds - and for one, thousands - of tomes. Do you use them all? Really?

The answer is usually yes. Often followed by the modifier, "Eventually..."

Dot. Dot. Dot.

-I'm not sure I always believe them.-

Five Things That Confuse Me: White Sangria

-Because a good bitching session is in order.-

Reality Cooking Competition Shows 

I don’t watch a lot of television. Mainly, it causes me to lose hope in humanity. If there’s a God and he’s judging us based on how we entertain ourselves then all he has to do is catch a rerun of Toddlers and Tiaras before he ends it all for us with a meteor and starts over. I admit that I watch True Blood, The Legend of Korra, and Downton Abbey. I’ve also a penchant for watching the Real Housewives once in a blue moon because it helps me stop and say, “Garrett, you know what? You do have your shit together!” before I turn off my brain and drool on the couch for fifty minutes while a loud Italian woman banshees at her cousin.

But cooking competitions. Why? What is the fascination with people doing what you (supposedly) do every day except they might get cash while you only get dishes? Watching a traditional cooking show you can learn something, like how to hide the fact you flipped on omelets on the counter or how to whiz together hummus.

On a cooking competition show you’re watching people be bitches – sure – like every other reality show. But at the end there are composed plates of food! Styled! Haute! (Well, maybe.) Seen before in your copy of the French Laundry cookbook, but with far less talent and forethought. You can’t taste it. You can’t smell it. You barely get to look at it.

However, the judges will spend 10 minutes telling you how great it is, grinning it up that the shmucks at home aren’t here to try this god damn epic filet of salmon with blueberry-lavender reduction. It’s a culinary cock tease.

Appreciation: Peach Barbecue Sauce

-Because if you aren't slathering your meat in peaches then how else will you appreciate summer?-

As a child, I never really knew where to place my appreciation when it came to my parents and their summer grilling. My mom was the one who went to the store and bought all of the ingredients. She would be the one to make the marinade for our flank steak using her family's recipe. It was mom who would dote over it for the next three days and turn it when necessary to ensure the steak had absorbed all the flavor. On the grilling day mom would put together a salad and a side while my younger brother and I set the table.

After all this Dad would take the meat and toss it on the grill. He would watch it with a certain intensity usually only reserved for work and shotgun enthusiast magazines. In summer he saw grilling as his testosterone-inherited duty.

When dinner was served we would all thank Dad for the amazing work he did at the grill. Mom would be thanked as well, but always second to dad. After all, from my young point of view all I really saw was dad sweating over the blaring heat of the grill. Plus, I didn't like salad so I never really thanked mom for it.

It wasn't fair, but then life seldom is. Mom wasn't about to put down her children's father right in front of the whole family in order to get her proper due. She was reserved and very self-sacrificing that way. She still is. (Well, most of the time. If she's going to get a jab in it'll be a good one; "Mom! I can't believe you just said that!" "Well, it's the truth," she'll say nonchalantly.) As kids, though, nary a peep.