Synsepalum Dulcificum

On the second Friday of every month, EFN Lounge draws an eclectic crowd assembling for a common cause; synsepalum dulcificum. Commonly known as trippy fruit, this West African berry contains a glycoprotein molecule that binds to the tongue causing acidic and sour foods to taste sweet. My friend Mimi organized a group adventure, and frankly, I couldn't pass up this science experiment.

Usually I am not one to like surprises, particularly when it comes to edibles. I much prefer to know the taste and texture of my nourishment so I can preemptively send an expectation based on my other senses to my brain. Any dissonance caused by the inaccuracy of my signaled expectation results in a mental eruption to rival Vesuvius. But this idea, while unsettling, was still worthy enough of wasting a Friday evening in pursuit of sweet-toothed happiness.

Like all good scientists, I’ve documented my observations:

1. Set Up: The instruction manual for eating the berry such that you maximize its impact was too long. The whole production paralleled my middle school years spent attempting to master the art of tying maraschino cherry stems into knots with my tongue. And much like middle school, things fell apart in the execution. Somewhere between rolling the berry on my tongue, removing the skin with my teeth, trying to determine which pieces of the berry you’re supposed to eat, which pieces your supposed to dispose of, my mind received the common command: information overload, power down.

2. Experiment: The buffet of consumables at EFN Lounge included a variety of citrus fruits and unsettling beverages (vinegar, Tabasco sauce, soy sauce, etc.). I quickly filled my plate and whet my palate. While one New York Times report indicated that berry trippers became literally like wild animals, tearing apart everything on the table, I went for the more civilized approach, starting with something simple (lime wedge) and working my way up to the big ticket items (shot of vinegar). Overall, I found EFN’s website to be misleading. EFN indicated that lemon wedges become candy canes, hot sauce becomes donut glaze, goat cheese becomes cheesecake. My taste buds had a different experience – lemons tasted like lemonade, limes tasted like limeade, vinegar tasted like…vinegar. My conclusion: I either got lost in the how to or I got a placebo (my money is on the former) See 1. Set Up.

3. Effects: It is important to remember that the berry’s impact is limited to the taste bud. While to some, Tabasco sauce tasted like sugar water (let’s come clean, nobody thought hot sauce became donut glaze), there was no deceiving the rest of the digestive tract, beginning with the burning sensation in the back of the throat.

4. Conclusion: If all the raindrops were lemon drops and gum drops, and if all the snowflakes were candy bars and milkshakes, I’d (a) not be standing outside with my mouth open wide and (b) have to guess Synsepalum Dulcificum was responsible.

Government, Where Art Thou?

A few months back, I made the big leap in the world of government contracting – actually moving to the client site. Maybe I’m just using this logic as justification for me sitting in my window office back at my firm’s tertiary campus, but the company usually incubates the recent college graduates grooming the malnourished, providing us with enough Kool-Aid to create a horde of myrmidons and loyally espouse the firm’s values. Well, with this exciting change, I got a first-hand glimpse into the workings of our federal government.

First up, Building Access: In order to obtain the building access card, I needed to report to the third floor and present two forms of government issued identification, one of which must be a photo ID. There was only one problem. In order to get to the third floor of the building, I had to first get through Security in the lobby; signing in as a visitor vice pulling off Mission Impossible IV. As a visitor, Security gives you a visitor badge in exchange for one government issued photo ID. Catch-22. Now that I am inside the building, I no longer have the necessary government issued identification to show to the third-floor building access card folks. Obama, you lie. You told me I only needed one photo ID. I needed two. That’s socialism if I’ve ever seen it.

Once I finally received building access it was time to gain network access: When registering for my online government account, I was prompted to answer a security question in the event that I forgot my password. Standard procedure, right? Think again, it’s the federal government. What is your favorite dog name? Please select from the following: Bella, Coco, Ginger, Poppy, Shannon, Bandit, Dallas, Jack, Prince, Spike, Boomer, Freckles, Holly, Princess, Tawny, Chico, Fluffy, Otis, Scout, and Wags. My stream of conscience:

A. WTF?

B. Bella was probably included so this question could meet certain anti-discrimination policies now that Twilight has given vampires equal rights.

C. Who has ever known a dog that responded to any of those names?

D. Even if I select my favorite dog name now…what are the odds that I’ll be able to successfully select the same favorite dog name the next time I’m faced answering this question?

E. What was wrong with What is your mother’s maiden name? I guess this discriminates against orphans?

F. How about In what city were you born? This question must be equal opportunity – everyone was born somewhere.

Disclaimer: This isn’t a complaint. It’s just that I’ve always been told to think critically and ask questions, no, not questions like What is your favorite dog name?

The Apocalypse

I have had my New Years plans set in stone since the summer, ever since my friend Katie Appel announced she was going to host a party. And with such advance, a great assortment of personalities gradually made DC this year’s New Years Mecca. With a converging of characters to rival Knights of the Round Table, I was expecting nothing short of an epic week (although not anticipating many heroic deeds).

And the week lived up to it’s expectations. The entire week blurred together as I caught up with friends from foreign lands and become good friends with former acquaintances; a mosaic of merrymaking and snapshots (and shots sans snap). With this assembly, I was all but certain that the Apocalypse would occur the moment the clocks chimed midnight.

A few superlatives:

Biggest blunder: Our good friend Chelsey Jones, whom I dearly adore, is really good at (a) opening her mouth and (b) talking to strangers. So it made complete sense when she befriended Alex Plank on the metro en route to our New Years Eve jamboree and invited him along. So when he agreed to come, the evening was spent in addled trepidation, everyone making certain to look both left and right before moving across the dance floor (which can be pretty challenging while dancing the Cupid Shuffle). By midmorning, and one Facebook friendship confirmation later, we came to find that Alex Plank runs WrongPlanet.net, a popular community for individuals with Asperger’s Syndrome and Autism…You can only imagine the self-reproach and compunction that filled the apartment after some of the comments made. Woof.

Biggest prank: My funny friends think they are full of wit and always know how to pull a fast one on me. Over the course of the week, I found myself swindled on many occasions, from the larger task of saran wrapping my apartment while I was at the grocery store paying for their sustenance, to more minor infractions, like changing the time on my clocks, to taking liberties in redecorating the Christmas tree. Alas, the ultimate winner goes to mother nature. A mere hours after the stragglers filtered out, I opened the front door to find a fervent river flowing down the hall in our direction. I immediately retreated, panicked, near hysterics, as I senselessly started stacking my precious personal property (valued at circa not much and what property?). As it turns out, due to the devesatingly low temperatures and wind chill, the pipe burst in our neighbors apartment, and within a matter of minutes, we were rocking our rain boots, trekking through our uninhabitable swampland. Mother nature, you thought you had me, but thankfully I asked for new galoshes for Christmas!

In the end (or apparently not, since I’m still here and the Apocalypse has yet to bring a tragic end to this romance), I’ve decided to retroactively enact a New Years Resolution: Buy Renter’s Insurance.

Buddy the Elf, What's Your Favorite Color?

Civic engagement can come in an abundance of forms. This Christmas, instead of phoning our Senator urging the passage of health care, a few respectful citizens and I took up an equally important cause, Elfing. The local chapter of the Jaycees raises funds by charging patrons a nominal fee to get their picture taken with Santa at the Ballston Commons, a futile attempt to coalesce enough trinket shops to earn the stature of mall. In order to make this cost-effective, they rely on a well-mobilized volunteer force (enter Elves).

So Valerie and I donned our sprite-like attire, Elfed in everything except the pointed leaf-shaped ears. Remy and Megha got into a tussle over who would go as Mrs. Claus, and compromised in the end. They both went as Mrs. Claus. I thought Santa had higher morals than this, or maybe he’s just a fundamental Mormon at heart.

From my limited exposure braving the onslaught of candy-cane-eating children (ergogenics at its best), I have successfully categorized all Santa-see-ers into the following three categories:

The Eager Beavers: These rambunctious firecrackers have been waiting since becoming zygotes to sit on Santa Claus’ lap. Their list of holiday hankerings exceeds the allotted Santa-time, and their faces radiate gingersnaps and sugar plums. They often return every five minutes to make sure Santa’s still there and shout out an additional gift idea or two.

The Fake Outs: Synonyms for this genre include little rascals and jackanapes. From the hundred yard line, they scream for Santa, but something sets them off right outside the end zone and the fury is unleashed. Maybe it’s just cold feet, or maybe Santa’s beard is more scraggly than they remembered, but whatever the cause, the consequence is always the same; Tears. If I hadn’t received a decent education, I would have guessed the Trail of Tears was actually the spot from Santa’s lap to the nearest mall exit.

The Dazed and Confused: This group of children is either (a) star struck and speechless (b) too young to know who Santa is or (c) asleep. No matter, they are the easiest category to corral for a picture.

By the end of my shift, I also came to realize that there was a category in a class of its own:

You’re Too Old to Sit On Santa’s Lap: The outcome of paralyzing Santa from the waist down has negative externalities for us all. A handicapped Santa certainly can’t shimmy down the chimney to deliver presents to all the eager beavers, fake outs, and dazed and confused.

Let's Fa La La La La La La La La

The time between Thanksgiving and the New Year is hands-down my favorite time of year. The holiday spirit warms the winter months and is a time where even the pessimists can cherish a bit of positivity. However, no matter how much I find myself wrapped up in holiday cheer, I can’t seem to find the appropriate gifts to wrap.

Confession: I’ll come clean. I have a gift-exchange complex. It can be in the form of Secret Santa, White Elephant, or just general one-for-one gift exchanges. It likely stems from a White Elephant gift exchange I participated in with some friends from high school where, instead of being the Grinch who stole Christmas, or at least the Grinch who stole someone’s gift, I opted to end the game by opening the final gift...a Polly Pocket. Ever since this traumatic milestone, I have had a gift-exchange complex.

This gift exchange complex did not serve me well the other day. And to make matters worse, it was combined with my new-employee-judgment-phase phobia. As December rolled in, I rolled onto a new consulting project, finding myself surrounded by a new group of soon-to-be friends, or so I hoped. Approximately three hours into my first day of work I received my first test; an invitation to participate in the office Secret Santa.

Sidebar: I was first acquainted with this new-employee-judgment phase in my first week with the firm. A fellow young employee approached me on Friday afternoon and asked if I would participate in an inter-firm game of flag football. Eager to make new friends and demonstrate my ability to be a part of a team, I blocked off my entire Saturday. I was told the game started at 1pm, so I arrived fifteen minutes early, erring on the side of caution, only to find that my teammates had been there “warming up” for the past hour. Someone forgot to tell me our team was warming up. Whoops. No sweat. Jamming out to Final Countdown on my drive to the field was a comparable warm up. Once the game got started I was keen on demonstrating my superb athletic ability, but faced my second set-back of the afternoon upon entering the huddle. Apparently the entire team had also been practicing for months and had committed the playbook to memory. Longhorn Split. No problem, I’ll just prance around the field and try not to draw too much attention. I guess I didn’t meet to the team’s expectations; the words flag and football have not been used in combination in my presence since this fateful Saturday afternoon.

But back to the gift-exchange. Seasons and festivities aside, the one thing I unequivocally struggle with is gift-giving. Maybe I’m just selfish (like the time I went Christmas shopping and the only gift I left the mall with was one for myself…) This year, instead of brainstorming thoughtful offerings for my roommates, I opted for the Something Store. The premise; I pay $10 and in exchange, the Something Store will send me something, which, in all likelihood, was probably more thoughtful than the something I would have found.

After drawing my Secret Santa, engaging many in friendly debate on gift-giving, I opted to give Lindsey Cranium. Unfortunately, I’ll have to wait until next Christmas to determine if I passed the new-employee-judgment test.

Wendy

Hair. It often says a lot about a person. People pay a pretty penny to get their hair styled like celebrities, entire lines of beauty products are devoted to its maintenance and upkeep. It can define an era (the Tina Turner), it can define a social class (the frat swoop), it can be a social phenomenon (the mullet). It can make or break you.

Which is why I’ve never been one to care at all about my hair. Frankly, in the words of Wendy (more on her later), I am low maintenance usually towel drying and using my hands as a substitute comb. I’ve never used any hair product despite the incessant encouragement and sales pitches by every Hair Cuttery in the metropolitan area. I also like to think that I’m pragmatic when it comes to haircuts. It is one of the few exchanges where I like to stick to a strict philosophy of transaction-based commerce, providing terse responses to any questions asked until it is implicitly understood that I’m not interested in learning about your burgeoning medical bills and not going to reveal my family history.

So, sparing the details, I went to get a haircut at a new barber shop, or as it turns out, more of a salon named Hair Reflections. And I don’t know what it is about me, but I’ve always had this special allure; something that emanates from my face, perhaps the twinkle in my eye (or more recently, the reflection of the braces). It’s like I cast a Harry Potter veritaserum everywhere I go that has strangers young and old revealing their darkest truths.

Enter Wendy. Wendy seemed convivial at first, asking for my name, which she promptly forgot and asked for again. I forgave her and provided her with an out by referencing a psychology study that explained that people often forget a newly introduced person’s name because the brain is busy processing all of the new visual stimuli.

Psychology was the key to pandora’s box. Well, if you took psychology, did you ever learn about the psychology of suicide? Excuse me? Wendy, remember how less than a minute ago you didn’t know my name? No, I did not learn about the psychology of suicide. The reason I ask is because my girlfriend has really been mind-f*&#ed because her last two boyfriends both committed suicide. A reminder: I pay $15, you cut my hair. I didn’t come to barter, one haircut for one counseling session please.

Wendy proceeded to inform me of all the other joys of her life, starting with birth. You see, in 1964 they gave her mother a laxative before birth. Consequently, Wendy was almost conceived in the toilet. The optimist in me chimed in to tell her that at least it was only almost. On the show I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant a lady didn’t know she was pregnant until she actually birthed her child in the bowl. She was appropriately named Ariel.

I guess I should have known what I was getting myself into. The first sign was when Wendy, instead of using the hair dryer on me, used it to wisp her own hair and stare longingly at her reflection in the mirror.

Well Hair Reflections, consider this my hair reflection. I ain’t coming back.

I Tip My Capotain to You

Thanksgiving has always been one of my favorite holidays. I mean, I honestly love everything about this holiday. Particularly because the premise of the holiday revolves around one of America’s greatest vices, gluttony. Something tells me that if the pilgrims knew that thanking God for the harvest would yield a 30% obesity rate 400 years later, they might have decided to thank God for something else, such as gainful employment.

In my family, the holiday has always been remarkably equable. Ever since I can remember, my immediate family has traveled to Delaware to spend Thanksgiving Day with the rest of the Gavrons (no, Brenda – not the Garvons). And each year without fail, my grandmother, whom I love dearly, brings a newly discovered morsel apportioned to each family member in a zip lock bag. This year, along with our dinner, we each received a nibble of some Dutch fruitcake that was apparently “winning awards all across Europe.” We were all really lucky she got her hand on one of these winning fruity delights. Frankly, I think my immediate family was just thankful that the soupcon did not contain peanut butter.

My sister, Lisa, has a strong allergy to peanut products. And apparently just as strong as my sister’s allergy is my grandmother’s determination to induce an allergic reaction. One year, my grandmother was doling out chocolates.

-Grandma, does this contain peanuts?

-Oh, no. There aren’t any peanuts in it. Try it. It’s delicious.

I guess my grandmother was found not guilty, since the chocolate center was, in fact, peanut butter, not a peanut. Needless to say, that Thanksgiving ran over on the giving and fell short of the thanks.

In more recent years, my college friends and I have started and tradition that neither words nor phrases, limericks nor haikus can describe. The event has come to be known as Dranksgiving. It’s a very simple concept; a Thanksgiving tailored for college students (and those still wishing they were in college). The event started four years ago, impromptu, at a buddy’s apartment with a boxed wine hour followed by a potluck Dranksgiving feast. This year, the event expanded to 50 of our closest dranksters and featured what later became known as poor man’s sangria, a combination of JOOSE (a caffeinated malt beverage) mixed with cheap red wine. The night lived up to its hype, and was certainly the yang to my traditionally predictable yin of a Thanksgiving.