Catch Up: Watermelon Sorbet

-My family often complains that I never talk to them and am too private (he typed on his blog), so I'm trying to take the initiative to call them more.-

Call No. 1: Brandon McCord. Younger brother.

Garrett: Hey Brandon. What's up?

Brandon: I'm cooking beet greens! They're steaming!

Garrett: Oh so?

Brandon: Did you know you could eat these?

Garrett: Yes. You can also eat carrot greens. Stir-fry them, toss them into salad, or make them into a pesto.

Brandon: Oh, okay, cool. I'm learning to cook more for myself more. It's really fun actually. I have a chicken marinating right now.

Garrett: Very cool. Good for you!

Brandon: What are you doing?

Garrett: Unpacking a yellow watermelon that unf-

Brandon: They come in yellow?

Garrett: Yes, the flesh is. And, unfortuneately, it's not pink. The yellow ones have a slight cantaloupe flavor that I find somewhat distasteful, but this one is mild, so it's fine.

Brandon: Oh. Hey can I call you back? The greens are burning I think. Maybe?

Garrett: How on earth do you burn something steaming? Is this like when you burned jell-o? Did you actually forget the water aga-

*click*

-That would be a yes.-

Call No. 2: Steve McGee. Uncle on father's side.

Garrett: ...Yes, we're a litigious state. Yes, California has traffic that slows down if there's a ratty boot abandoned along the pullover lane. And, yes, California has to rework immigration laws so workers can get here easier. I agree. Yes.

Steve: So how is not Kansas better?

Garrett: It's Kansas. You have tornados, snow, all and all just terrible weather, and the corn outnumbers the state population. Your only claim to fame is Dorothy Gail and that's because she's famous for leaving. Plus, she's not even real.

Steve: Alright. I'll give you that. But the people are nicer.

Garrett: Only in manners. You're a red state. They hate the liberals. "You don't belong here," they would cordially say before berrating my sexuality and support of Planned Parenthood over Kansas-style BBQ and a slice of pie.

Steve: Okay. Probably. But-

Garrett: Steve, can I call you later? I'm chopping up watermelon for sorbet. I'm gonna lose a finger.

Steve: Alright, call your dad.

Garrett: Will do.

*click*

Manners: Pistachio & Vanilla Sables

-Delicate and proper snackie bits.-

When it comes to manners in my family one is expected to be au fait in the subject. They won't make or break you with us, but by god if you want to rest comfortably in our subconscious opinion of you then knowing soup spoon from dessert spoon is critical. (The egg spoon, too, if you know what's what.)

Both sides of the family have a history of strict etiquette training. Cotillion for two years is a minimum. Children should be able to properly foxtrot at the age of six, Cha Cha at twelve, and god help you if you can't Charleston by the time you've graduated middle school.

Furthermore, manners classes are mandatory. I recall spending far too many Tuesday nights learning how to properly seat a lady, make introductions, and tie a tie (bow and straight; always Windsor).

All of it was so boring I would have killed to learn how to half-Windsor a noose and kick the chair out from under myself. Unfortunately, propriety demands that one do this in the privacy of your own home and not in front of classmates.

-For god's sake, kill yourself in private! We're not savages!-

The pinnacle of all the training was table manners. Prim, proper, precise. We didn't simply learn which side the fork goes on, but to differentiate the forks; salad, dessert, dinner, shrimp, fish, even snail forks and their proper places at the meal and when they could be served according to ancient custom was all part of the strict curriculum. Indeed, some of the laws were so odd and arcane (i.e. Brandy glasses must always be placed neither on left or right side of the dinner plate, but the side closest to the host) that one wonders if all this ritual might exist to summon some dark pagan god to brunch.

The instructor, a dour woman with a genteel mien and canckles thick enough to dock a ship to, was thorough to say the least. Not even fourteen, I was able identify nine various types of wine and spirits glasses through her tutelage. Furthermore, she wisely took an international approach and trained us in the proper handling of chopsticks and insisted that we never eat Indian food with our left hand.

Refinement was tested in a final exam: high tea at the Ritz Carlton. Our carriage was graded over steaming cups of Earl Grey and crustless cucumber sandwiches. Still a finicky eater at this age, I was sure that the vile offerings were a test of our vigilance because who on earth would actually want to eat any of it?

-Thank you, miss. May I have another?-

I passed with flying colors, though my acerbic wit in response to the food wasn't appreciated. Sadly, there was no place to escape and work on that double-noose Windsor.

In the end, of course, comes the day we all dread when we realize our parents were right. (Not that we would ever admit it.) So it was with all this training in social behavior. The dancing lessons paid off astoundingly well throughout high school, college, and beyond. Leading a sweet gent to the dance floor for a graceful lesson in the waltz is a fantastic way to sweep him off his feet and take him home. My impeccable manners ingratiated me to the parents of any boy I dated. Damn if a bartender doesn't appreciate the fact I know my port glass from brandy snifter.

Naturally, I don't hold others to these standards of near-ridiculous refinement. Not everyone went through such rigorous training. As long as you chew with your mouth closed, say please and thank you, and veer away from any conversation topics focusing on what you read in People magazine, well, we're just dandy.

Fever: Summer Cheese Plate

-Perfect when you're healthy, not so when you're sick. I wish, for your benefit, that you are currently the former.-

So there are a few things I hate about being sick. The first is that sickness always seems to happen when your husband, wife, partner, boyfriend, mom, whomever that person in your life is who is by nature of your relationship the designated person to love and care for you when you're a hot mess of viral plague is out of town. It's always a conference, work, family thing that takes them away from your bedside leaving you to stew in your piles of used tissues and to hack phlegm across the stove top as you warm up your canned soup.

As I sat groaning in bed I muddled this thought in my congested head. Once again, BF was away and I was sick. Even worse, I was homeless as my apartment - once thought to be fixed from the water leak - was now a hotbed of mold and remnant water vapor. Furthermore, I was unable to move due to being trapped in a lease with a bullheaded witch of an apartment manager whom the universe had - for some unforeseen reason - not yet seen fit to drop a house upon.

BF was away in Dublin, California, a forgotten armpit of the state that no one has ever heard of. Its location being so far away and so secluded from modern civilization the United States has of course seen fit to put a training base for the army there and bring in BF to learn how to set up the plumbing for a field hospital because, you know, why not?

-He also knows how to set up air conditioning, which will be handy when he has all that government cheese on hand.-

Lucky for me, I have friends who care and who live nearby. The bed I was groaning in was not my own but was that of my friend, Elise Bauer. My personal Florence Nightingale. Her home was once again my halfway house after a disaster.

Even more lucky, she and her charming boyfriend, Guy, a renaissance Frenchmen who knows everything from rental law to how to fix a an old shower head, were kindly keeping an eye on me. Elise comforted me with tea and clean, cotton sheets of a thread count higher than my rent. Guy kept me laughing and roasted marble potatoes and tomatoes into a simple, filling, but easy on the stomach meal.

As I sat in bed watching every episode of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic (which, by the way, is an outstanding show to watch in a fever haze) and coughing up my ribcage whole they spent some of their time picking up homeopathic medicines and whipping up batches of pancakes for me to eat to gain some strength back.

I am truly blessed.

-Guy also encouraged that the French drink a lot to help ease sickness. I think the French are probably on to something with prescribing a shot of brandy to help your sinus headache.-

Now, the other thing I hate about being sick is that I generally can't eat dairy. At all. It just churns my stomach. Yogurt, ice cream, quark, or cheese; it all just makes me want to hurl like a runway model after she eats a potato chip.

Stress Addict: Green Tea-Peppermint Popsicles & Raspberry-Yogurt Popsicles

-Better than cocaine, right? Plus, it's a natural high.-

I’m addicted to stress.

I only recently figured this out. I was looking in my mailbox freaking out over why a new kindle hadn’t arrived yet. Did the mail lose it? I needed it soon! What if it doesn’t show? It’s hot outside, so what if the heat breaks it? The roads are bumpy and so it could shake apart. I’ll open a box of shattered glass and plastic! How do I even use it when it gets here? It seems so complicated! But?! Oh no!? AUUUGH!

Oh God, I think I’m gonna die…

-I am Anxiety Man. Able to leap to the worst conclusion in a single bound. (I hope I didn't stain the tablecloth for this photo.)-

My friend, Janelle, who was on the phone with me as my poor little heart ran so fast you would think I overdosed it with ecstacy and Pixy Stix, finally brought me back to earth. “Garrett. Stop. Why are you stressing this? It’s not solving anything and nothing can be done right now. Just stop." Her voice was so firm and each word given so much importance and stacatto she sounded like a female version of Allen Rickman.

I paused a moment, more because my heart skipped a few beats and caused me stroke out for a bit than because of what she said, but I thought about it.

Why was I? It was in the mail. There was nothing to be done except wait.

I realized then that I wanted to stress out about this. The adrenaline would flood my body. A neurotic electrical storm would rip through every memory and thought to find any shred – any damnable hope – of a solution. Muscle cells would fire like pistons raging against whatever dilemma was at hand. Stress, for me, was my power. Fuel for destroying my enemies be they human, situational, or, apparently, the United States Postal Service.

You see, in my experience stress brings about solutions.

The saying goes that you shouldn’t sweat the small stuff. The people who say this, usually have a gross excess of time and money, or a sugar daddy. When you sweat the small stuff it’s because the small stuff usually has a solution. Something can be done to remedy the problem at hand.

-Like have a panic attack. I hear mint calms those down.-

For example, when your flight gets cancelled you go into overdrive. You run like a greyhound after a mechanical bunny to the next information booth. You fight everyone else at the airport. They are your enemies; competition for a limited number of seats on the next flight out. They must be destroyed. You plead, yell, cajole, seduce, bribe the poor kiosk lady for the shittiest, leftover seat. Simultaneously, you’re on the phone with a booking agent looking for a backup to that as you e-mail a competing airline for an opening just in case. In the end you might get a flight out and still get home in time to watch a new episode of True Blood.

Sweating the small stuff gets things done. It gets results.

Many of you might not call something like missing a plane small stuff. My belief is anything not world ending is small stuff.

My house burned down? Screw it. I’m going to Mexico. Nothing to be done about it. (This is an example my own personal world ending.)

A meteor careening towards Earth? The end of the world is inevitable and no Bruce Willis on a shuttle with an atom bomb to save us all? Screw it. I’m spending my time at a drug induced orgy and having unprotected sex with strangers. Not like I have to really worry about the long term consequences, right?

Brouhaha: Sautéed Nectarines

-Sometimes a little inspiration - and frustration - comes knocking at your door.-

Some Mormon missionaries just dropped by the house. I was bemused and excited. Mormons! We hardly get them in these parts of Sacramento. Curious to interact with them outside their native habitat of Utah, I opened the door.

"Hello!"I said, chipper as ever. "I assume you're selling religion?"

The two of them stood there and beamed in their pressed white shirts. Their matching backpacks fitted neatly and neither one wore them carelessly slung over one arm. Their pocket protectors and neatly printed name tags identified them right and proper.

The one of the left, a blonde teen who possessed a nostalgic aura of All-Americanism that was up there with apple pie, smiled back. "Well, not selling. It certainly doesn't cost you any money," he said.

"It's totally free," said the one on the right. His skin was tan from so much bicycling in the sun, in a clear bag he had a bunch of nectarines and a few extra copies of The Book of Mormon.

-Peddling faith with fruit. How novel!-

I smirked at the bag of nectarines. Farmer's Market preaching; Joseph Smith, you clever devil.

"Mormonism, yes?"

They nodded and began their spiel before I could really stop them. I decided to give them a chance to get it all out. They must, I assume, get the door slammed in their face plenty so why the hell not show a bit of sympathy?

To be honest, I have respect for missionaires. Being sent somewhere strange and told to march up and down each and every community preaching faith can't be easy. It requires chutzpah and a type of dedication I'm not sure I can say I've fully ever given to many things, let alone God. The closest thing recently was my thesis, though, when I was young, the desire to know everything there was to know about Power Rangers instilled a certain dedication within me. We all have our priorities.

Still, after two or three minutes I decided to stop him. I didn't want the two getting their hopes up. "You know, I'm sorry, but I'm Lutheran and very, happily, gay. I also know the church isn't too keen on that - the Lutheranism or the homosexuality - so I'm gonna have to pass."

"Oh, no, that's totally not true!" said Apple Pie.

I perked up and wondered if suddenly there was a new form of liberal Mormonism spreading across the land. Had I missed this piece of information somehow?