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.-

To-Do

To-Do List

-Wrap gifts. If I learned anything from working at Borders Books (you know, when it was existing and solvent) it was how to wrap better than those biddies at Macy’s during the holidays. Fold and tape, bitches. It’s something I actually enjoy doing.

-Write thank you cards. I already have a head start on this and have some specially monogrammed stationary for it. I have very posh handwriting (read: loopy and illegible) that looks smashing. The written letter is a lost art. People also love to get an actual hand written note as opposed to a text or e-mail. Their astonishment is both brilliant and a bit worrisome as this simple courtesy is apparently well in the ground.

-Let suit breath. It’s linen and I detest ironing above all other chores.

-Collect ice chest for ice. The wedding location is about 30+ minutes from the nearest convenience store so plan well ahead. It’ll be a hot August night and no one likes warm champagne. Although with this group at least I know no one will turn it down.

-Clean flask and fill with gin. It will be hidden in my boot. I’m a born and raised WASP. It’s what we do for all weddings, birthdays, social events, Tuesdays, breakfasts, etc.

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.

Fiancé Revealed: Vanilla and Corn Summer Salad

-I really do wish that all my posts started with champagne.-

No formal post today. Instead I want to share some pictures from my recent engagement shoot. Our photographer, Sarah Maren, arrived for a BBQ lunch at our home along with her husband, our florist, and our wedding planner. It was a rather relaxed meal. We went through a pitcher or three of white sangria loaded with peaches, apricots, nectarines, triple sec, and mint. I made my reliable pluot almond cake. Fiancé went to work at the grill with chicken slathered in a homemade coffee-chipotle barbeque sauce as well as southern-style dry rubbed ribs. I used my friend Tori’s recipe for watermelon and feta salad. I also crafted up a quick and adoringly addictive vanilla and corn salad bejeweled with cherry tomatoes from the garden for which the recipe is provided at the end.

It was light, breezy, and just what you wanted in heat that threatens to set you alight. And while it was odd trying to pose for two cameras clicking away it was fun and strangely intimate, too.

Also, I just realized that I’ve never introduced you all properly to Fiancé. Now seems a good time.

-Of course, the cat demands your attention, too.-

This is Brian. I’m very happy for you all to finally meet.

Notes From July: Cheddar Rosemary Scones

-Scones fix the butthurt.-

So I’m dealing with a lot of butthurt now. Not the proctological kind, but the emotional kind.

(Detour: I’m rather amused with myself as I think this is the first time I have ever had the opportunity to write out the word “proctological.” Yes, we’ll call it an opportunity. Like Daryl Hannah and “gargantuan” in Kill Bill. I’m glad I spelled it right the first time, too, so go me.)

Anyways. Yes. Butthurt. I’ve had to kindly let down a few people about the wedding. During lunch the other day a sometimes-in-town friend-slash-acquaintance began asking about various wedding plans.

I am the wedding person amongst people I know and amongst people I don’t. It’s my identity now. I do not exist outside of it. In fact, random strangers who hear me going on about the topic (and can I go on though honestly and often it is against my will) will come up and congratulate me. I find it endearing and thank them.

Sometimes, they ask what her name is and when I say his name they get a bit confused or taken aback. Some find it awkward and shuffle away. Most don’t miss a beat and offer their well wishes and possibly an apology for the assumption.

Many more simply ask, “What’s your partner’s name?” This makes me wonder if I’m really that obviously gay or if Sacramento is just ahead of the socially aware curve.

I’m getting sidetracked again. I blame it on 'muh brain meats being swallowed by The Wedding.