Chlorophyll Wars

So you probably are aware of my indoor-gardening exploits.  I currently have  seven different kinds of herbs in pots, and I've come to regard each of them as a little pet I'm not supposed to have (pet's are against the rules at Campus Plaza).  I might even go so far as to regard my little pets as my children.  And like any proud parent I want everyone to see them and admire them.  So I put them all right up against my apartment's south-facing window for maximum exposure to sunlight and maximum exposure to passers-by.

I glow a little inside whenever someone comes into our apartment and praises my chlorophyllic kids.  They all say, "Oh, how cool!  What a good idea!"  And then they come closer to inspect them and immediately abandon all interest in my beautiful, refined, and elegant herb-children and begin gushing over Scott's redneck and slightly more tropical kids--a Venus fly trap, a sago palm, and a pineapple head.  Visitors just can't get enough of these hicks from the South. 

"Oooo!" they all say, "You have a Venus fly trap?"

"Um, yes that's a fly trap, and no, it's not mine.  It's Scott's.  But hey, check out my marjoram!  That's pretty cool, too.  Right?"

"And you have a  palm tree?" they always ask next.

"Um, that is also Scott's.  I guess it's pretty cool.  It's highly toxic and has been around since the time of the dinosaurs.  But take a look at these chives!  That is some crazy plant hair, ain't it?"

They completely ignore my charming little herbs and move on to Scott's pineapple top which he decapitated from a pineapple he got from the grocery store and is now trying to grow into a bush.

"How neat!  Does that really work?  Scott has such cool plants!"

Feeling defeated and a lot like the less popular dad in the neighborhood, I find myself finally agreeing with my guests.  If this is how I feel about my houseplants, I fear for the day when my future human children begin interacting with other's kids (especially Scott's :)

Below are five joyous and recent discoveries totally unrelated to parenting:

• You can tango to Coldplay's "Viva la Vida" and Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance."  

• It takes 47 Arizona oranges squeezed by hand (#nocollegekidownsajuicer) to produce one gallon of orange juice.

My fingers were so sore by the time I filled this up!

• A homemade match head rocket can shoot up to 40 ft.

• The best place to go swimming after three years of never wearing a swimsuit is natural hot springs that smell strongly of sulfur.

• And the secret to happiness is chocolate covered jumbo strawberries.

These are the hot springs up Spanish Fork Canyon. 

Aunt Bronwyn made the most delicious chocolate covered strawberries I've ever eaten! 

Thanks to Taylor for introducing me to Grant Thompson's
YouTube channel "The King of Random." If you ever want to see
amazing cool stuff you can do at home go check him out.

Aging Haircuts

I did it.  I finally did  it.  After almost three months of bed-head art I've donated 1.5 inches to Locks of Love and I just can't help getting a little emotional about it*.

At first, I loved my haircut.  "Sure, it's pretty short," I told myself, "but that's what I told the girl with the clippers--short."  I only started doubting myself after two days filled with the following conversation:

Fun with the comic strip setting on Photo-Booth

"Oh, Owen, did you get a haircut?" they ask with genuine surprise and feigned ignorance.

"Yeah, I did," I respond while reaching up and gently stroking my new hairdo.

And then they (usually girls) almost invariably ask in a lower-pitched voice, "Do you like it?" as if they were really asking, "On a scale of 1 to 10 how embarrassed are you to be out in public today?"

"Um, yes.  Maybe a 7 now--I mean (cough) it's pretty short, huh?"  I skeptically respond trying to reflect their level of disappointment in my haircut.

"Don't worry, it'll grow back in a couple weeks!"  They all reassure me.

And then there was the folk dance team social where two girls guessed my age at 25 and 26 years old. Their eyes got big when I told them I'm actually 21 years old.  I was younger than both of them!  In an attempt to boost my ego I said, "I know, it looks like I'm in the military, right?"

"No, not at all," says one girl, the other nodding her head in agreement, "You totally look like an older missionary."

I got home that night and gave my reflection in the mirror some serious thought.  Admittedly, I did look older.  Maybe even five years older.  And dag-nubbit I did have a missionary haircut, only I'm certain I never dared to cut my hair this short before, even on my mission.

So here's to looking older for two weeks!




*This part is completely fictional; Locks of Love requires a hair length of at least 10 inches in order to donate.  And I'm not actually overly emotional about it.

Possible the coolest FHE ever.  We took a tour of BYU's anechoic chamber deep beneath the Eyring Science Center.  99% of all noise is cancelled out in this room.

 The two pictures on the right are in a room that is the opposite of an anechoic chamber--a reverberation chamber!  Where sound is amplified and sticks around for eight seconds after it is made.

Abby and I took 7th place in a tango competition.

Vareniki stuffed with homemade sauerkraut (yeah, I can pickle now), and topped with homemade ajika sauce.

"So what are you guys gathered for?"
"Um, er, well, uh . . ."
"We're cousins!" says DaLynn

Frosting sugar cookies for FHE

Service project tying quilts for kids, and me eating seven slices of pizza

I kinda have a thing for plants. Starting with what's in my hand and going down and clockwise:  rosemary, peppermint, orange mint, oregano, chives, marjoram, and lemon balm.

Roman Forums and Famous CEOs

Every week at BYU thousands of students flock to the Marriott center to listen to inspiring gospel-messages usually prepared by university faculty members.  We call their speeches "devotionals."  And about once a month BYU shakes things up by inviting some noteworthy or socially distinguished individual to address the student body.  These individuals range in prominence from senators, to Pulitzer Prize winners, to CEOs of famous companies.  In the true spirit of antiquity BYU calls their speeches "forums." There's just nothing more Roman than asking your buddy in chemistry class, "Hey, are you going to the forum today?"  Well, this week's forum was not one to miss, because none other than the president of Disney and Pixar Animation Studios, Edwin Catmull, addressed us this week.

Ed's speech, entitled "The Creative Culture," told the student body by way of storytelling the recipe for creative success.  So from the man who brought us Toy Story and Frozen, here are a few of my forum favorites:

"Art is not about learning to draw or blend color but learning to see."

"We pay attention to power structure.  That kind of authority can screw up a room."

"If you aren't failing, then you aren't trying different things."

"Don't look back for excuses; look back for lessons."

"Ease isn't the goal; excellence is."

Ed also talked about how it is more important to ask forgiveness than permission, which is a bold philosophy my timid side has a hard time practicing.  But isn't that kind of boldness key in creativity?!  

And now, not necessarily related to anything typed above, but here are a few fun memories from this week:

A super-fun mission reunion.

Practicing clogging in my apartment while Scott was trying to take a nap :)

 Making sourdough pretzels for the first time and enjoying them with Stephen.

Running into Alison Lynford on campus after not seeing her for over three years!  And then posing with political buttons for a conservative youth group surveyor that caught us while we were catching up.

Operation: F.E.E.D.T.H.E.D.U.C.K.S.

You know what the trouble is with store-bought bread?  It takes forever to mold.  For instance, I left half a loaf sitting in my kitchen while I was away hiking and rappelling in the deserts of Arizona over Christmas break, and when I returned to Provo there wasn't a single speck of mold on my loaf.  Zip.  Nothing.  Not even a suggestively stale odor to recommend disposing of it.

 Most agree slow-molding bread attests to the wonders of modern food preservation, but all this lack-of-mold did was foil my month-old desire to feed bread to the freezing ducks at BYU's duck pond.  You see, I can't in good conscience feed bread that I paid good money for ($2.13 good to be exact) to lower aquatic life forms, which is why I was banking on my two-week absence to give the mold fairy enough time to visit my already month old loaf of bread.  Surely that would be enough time to render it unfit for human consumption.  Alas, the preservatives in the bread were too powerful, and I was forced to change tactics.

Operation:  F.E.E.D.T.H.E.D.U.C.K.S.

By virtue of the scientific method applied during a 7th grade biology project, I discovered that it takes about four to five days before homemade bread starts to mold.  Were it not for this experiment, I never would have known this statistic because homemade bread back home never lasted longer than a day or two before it was eagerly devoured.  So I baked two handsome looking loaves.  One for me, and the other a sacrificial loaf set apart for the sole purpose of growing blue and green spots.  Operation F.E.E.D.T.H.E.D.U.C.K.S was going splendidly until I found myself drizzling honey on the second heel of the the second loaf of bread before the five day mark.  I let out a regretful, yet simultaneously content sigh, and baked two more loaves of bread.  This time I made sure to let half of the second loaf go bad.  I just had to feed the ducks!!

And so today I've never been more pleased to discover gross blue and green spots decorating my bread.  Go Time.  And thus I was able to check off one of the less formidable items off my bucket list for this semester.

And here are a few more things I've been able to check off my bucket list:

Visiting Horseshoe Bend on the way home for Christmas break.  A nice break during an 11 hour discussion about quantum physics, relativity, and the merits of veganism vs. vegetarianism.

Rappelling in Bulldog Canyon. 

More rappelling.

My #1 running buddy, Taylor, and I on the Bonneville Shoreline Trail. 

Running six miles uphill both ways :)

Snowshoeing around Mt. Timpanogos.

Eating brownies with Carolyn on her birthday after successfully summiting a small mountain on snow shoes.

King of the Mountain!

Blue No. 1

Blue Pancakes.

No, really, blue pancakes!

Thanks to literally buckets of Blue No. 1 BYU dishes out the bluest pancakes permitted by the FDA each year for homecoming to thousands of hungry college students.  Being the recipient of such blue benevolence my freshman year I could hardly wait to celebrate this delicious tradition this year.  I wasn't disappointed.

Blue pancakes with Carolyn in 2011.

Following the blue breakfast, the marching band led a parade through the streets of Provo while various BYU club members hurled candy at me and the young 'uns surrounding me.  I let them keep all the saltwater taffy, but I mercilessly grabbed every Reese's peanut butter cup that landed on the ground.  Sorry, kiddos--survival of the fittest.

Amidst all the fanfare and freebies, I glanced down at my watch and thought, "Shoot! I'm late for my hair appointment!"  Yes, I'm secure enough of my masculinity to go to hair salons. But before I lose all my man points I'll add that the only reason I had a hair appointment in the first place is because of a marvelous thing called a starving student card, which grants the owner of said card (cough, cough--me) to get sucked into all sorts of freebie and BoGo gimmicks around town.  You can tell I'm a college student on a budget because I used the word freebie twice already in this paragraph.

And so there I was, cheering at a parade getting free candy and missing my free haircut.  I weighed my options and decided that missing the latter wasn't worth enjoying the former, so I grabbed my roommates, Scott and Miles (who also had hair appointments :) and bounded for Scott's car.  We were about to whisk away to our appointments when we realized our parking lot was blocked off by the parade.  Grrrr.  So we waited for a gap in the parade to bolt across the street and prayed the police man supervising the parade would have mercy on our late souls.  He did.  But then I ordered Scott to slam on the brakes, because just as we had successfully froggered past the parade my favorite BYU group came up--the folk dancers!!  Scott obliged, and I got my fill of folk dancing through the rear window of the car, waved good-bye to the cop, and then we sped off.  Thankfully, our hair salon was only five minutes away, so we made it fairly on time despite intentional and unintentional delays.

Blue pancakes in 2014--just as yummy.

Walking into the salon, I felt like what Dorothy must have felt like walking into the Emerald City for the first time, except for the commercialized ambiance and little Effie Trinkets running around trying to convince customers to buy the store's beauty products.  Judging by how out of their comfort zone Scott and Miles were, it was clear to me they had never been to a beauty salon before.  I on the other hand had previous experience in this exotic environment thanks to starving student escapades before my mission.  But none of my prior experience involved what happened next as I was browsing the product shop.  A girl walked up to me and with no warning grabbed my hand and squirted a glob of lotion onto it and started massaging it into my palm and fingers.  "Don't be freaked out," she said, "Here at Aveda we like to give our clients the best treatment possible.  This is your complementary hand ritual before you meet your hair stylist. Would you like any water or tea while you wait?"  Whoa!  Talk about customer service.

Eventually my stylist, Makaela, came out to save me from the awkward, yet soothing hand ritual, and took me to her booth.

"How much would you like taken off?" she asks.  I never know the answer to this question because Mom always takes care of those kinds of details.

"Um, I don't really know.  Maybe short on the sides with a little something to play with on top?" I reply.  "Actually, I was hoping you could make me look like Andrew Garfield.  Do you know who that is?"

To my disappointment she didn't, so she quickly pulled out her iPad and google-imaged my hair hero.  She must have understood what I was going for because she said, "Oh, I know just what to do."  With an extremely attractive Brit as her muse Makaela set to work.

Andrew Garfield, my hair hero.

But before she set the scissors loose I got my preliminary essential oil massage (part of the package deal, I guess).  I selected vanilla cream oil, and inhaled the oil out of Makaela's hands in three deep breaths before she rubbed my shoulder muscles with it for a fleeting three minutes.  If my hair weren't so dang long I would've traded in my free haircut for a free massage.

By this point I had spent a good half hour in the salon and my hair wasn't any shorter than when I started.  So I was glad when Makaela finally brought the scissors out, because I was going to be late for a lunch date at noon if she didn't get the show on the road.

She trimmed and cut, and cut some more.  She cut and cut until her cutter was sore.  Not really, but points to anyone who caught the Dr. Seuss allusion.  After what seemed like hours of cutting each of my hairs individually, Makaela escorted me to the wash room where I got a luxury shampoo and condition, and a hot-towel facial treatment.  The fanciest lotion that had ever touched my skin up to that point in my life was ProActive's anti-acne cream, so my skin was feeling all kinds of happy after the facial.  And voila!  after a quick application of product, my hair was finished.

The name tag that smuggled Claire and I past the
big, mean security guards at the alumni luncheon.

Another glance at my watch, which had been kept hidden beneath the hair cape, revealed that I was officially 20 minutes late to my lunch date.  So I bolted with Scott and Miles to the car to pick up Claire.  We sped once again on our way to the Hinckley Alumni Center on campus where I had lunch reservations waiting for two.  Now before you think I'm important or fancy enough to merit lunch reservations for a prestigious alumni event, I'd better explain how I got them.  My uncle Dave Litster once upon a time was student body president at BYU and former alumni board member, so he gets invitations to the homecoming luncheon every year.  He accepts every time, but only goes once every three years or so and bequeaths the reservations on the odd years to someone at BYU.  That happened to be me this year, much to my pleasant surprise.

At the luncheon we were served lots of delicious food buffet style, but the only thing I really remember is the peach pie served with a mountain of ice-cream and whipping cream on the side for dessert.  Did I mention this was a buffet? :)  Oh, and we ate our lunch a few tables away from Julie B. Beck, which was really cool.  I could feel myself wanting to join the Relief Society sitting in such close proximity to her.

So what did I learn from this day?  A) Be sure to have cool connections like being related to former BYU student body presidents,  B) always budget at least two hours for hair appointments, and C) never park on the wrong side of a parade, because you may not always get a nice cop that will let you sneak your way to the other side of the street.  But if he is stringent, then just feed him blue pancakes with lots of whip cream and you'll be sure to get a police escort to where ever it is you need to go.

Observations on a Catholic Mass

I received the following text message on Thursday:

"Dear Owen.  I here by officially invite you to mass in the glorious cathedral of Madeleine.  Your options are at 8:30am or 6:00pm on Sunday.  Please send word of your availability.  Refreshments may be provided.  Cordially, Claire Michelle."

To my delight I found out that refreshments were indeed provided in the form of a tupperware bowl filled with German potato soup presented to me by Claire early Sunday morning.  I have since consumed said bowl of soup and can attest to its deliciousness.  But the story neither ends nor starts there.  The proceeding series of events are merely repercussions of (A) agreeing to attend mass in the first place and (B) opting for the 8:30am service.

I'll go from (B).

So 8:30am mass turned out to be pretty early, especially when the mass was 45 minutes away in Salt Lake City, necessitating a departure time of about 7:15am to allow for delays.  And 7:15am was made unrighteously early because I had fallen asleep just three hours prior.

Why was I playing insomniac?  Well, you try watching a theatrical presentation of Stephen King's  novel 1408 and you might find your serotonin levels depleted and replaced with sleep depriving levels of adrenaline.  The show ended right at midnight, so to calm myself down I discussed international affairs and politics with my roommate Stephen for three hours (which only gets me more riled up), and then I began watching another movie before passing out on the couch.  So after three hours of sleep, I get a knock at the door and a bowl of German potato soup.

Although my eyelids weighed at least ten pounds each and my brain was functioning in a semi-comatose state, I had to be bright-eyed and perky to impress Claire.  Gotta impress the ladies, right?  So I faked being alert for the car ride to Salt Lake City, but then I stopped pretending once I stepped through the doors of the Cathedral of the Madeleine.

These pictures capture the moment much better than I can:

Besides the bold architecture and breathtaking artwork that adorn the walls of the cathedral, I was most impressed by the reverent atmosphere that filled the vaulted ceilings.  There was a good size crowd at church that morning, but all were reverent and intent on the service.

Claire and I took our seats and proceeded to experience mass.  The only other mass I attended was in high school.  I was in a quartet that played at weddings and one of the gigs was at a Catholic wedding.  After playing "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring" for what seemed like 20 minutes while the bridal procession inched down the isle, I took my seat in the pews and observed the ceremony.

Mass at this cathedral was similar, except I wasn't dressed in a tux.  There also seemed to be a lot more priests and interludes.  I noticed that mass was read in English instead of Latin, which I believe to be a fairly recent alteration to the ceremony.  Also, there were a few women officiating in the ordinances, which is a major change as of recent years.

But my favorite part was singing the masses under the direction of a little soprano girl.  When she sang, her pure, beautiful notes transported me to Middle-Earth, and I felt like I was worshipping amidst elves in one of their temples in Rivendell.

At one point during the mass, I saw everyone begin to hug each other, clasp hands, and wish the peace of Christ upon each other.  Claire and I followed suit by first hugging each other then clasping hands with those all around us, wishing the peace of Christ upon them.  I felt that at any moment our true identities as Mormons would be exposed and we'd be run out of the cathedral while being beaten with the collection baskets we opted not to put money in.  But, no, we were treated warmly and respectfully, even though I'm sure everyone around knew we weren't Catholic.  I think not knowing when to cross ourselves gave us away.

Probably the most remarkable features of the cathedral are the scores of stained glass windows.  Because that particular morning was mostly overcast, the windows displayed only a portion of their brilliance, but just as the priest held up the chalice of water to bless it for the sacrament, the clouds broke and sunlight suddenly poured through the windows directly onto the chalice of water.  It was kind of surreal watching the sun illuminate the windows (and the ordinance) for a few moments before the sunbeams disappeared.

Overall, I enjoyed my time as mass.  I could feel the Spirit in the huge room as I watched the parishoners worship God the best they knew how.  I felt an almost intense love for them and a longing to share with them everything about the restored gospel that fills my life with light.

Epilogue:

Part I

After returning home, I promptly found a pillow, curled up into fetal position, and abandoned consciousness for an hour or so before it was time for my temple recommend interview. I got to the stake presidency offices at about 12:15pm, which I thought would give me plenty of time to get in and out before church started at 1:30pm.  But such was not the case.  I waited for over an hour and half before my name was called for an interview.  My interviewer began to ask the usual questions about worthiness, and when he got to the question about supporting or affiliating with organizations that opposed the Church, I paused for a moment and for fun answered, "Well, I just back from Catholic mass, but I hope that doesn't disqualify me from getting a recommend."  Then the interviewer got to the question about attending church meetings.  I glanced at my watch and confessed that I probably wasn't going to make it to sacrament meeting today, and he asked me why with a concerned look on him face.  I responded, "My meeting started 20 minutes ago, but surely a temple recommend interview is a valid excuse for tardiness."  Amused, but more importantly satisfied with my responses the stake presidency member signed off on my recommend.

Part II

I totally bore my testimony about the importance of worshipping God with a sincere heart during our church services, a quality that I must admit I more easily sensed among the Catholics in Salt Lake City.  I joked that even though we partake of the sacrament in the MARB (oddly enough in the same lecture hall as one of my previous physics classes), we ought to maintain the reverence due to the Lord's sacrament as if we were in a cathedral or in a temple.

Just Like My Father

When I was a teenager, I harbored an inexplicable loathing common between many boys in their adolescence:  every time someone said, "Oh, you are just like your father," my insides would curdle.

Admittedly, I did not want to remind people of my father.  Granted, Dad was skilled at a lot of things, but he was also cheesy, goofy, and every other word that's synonymous with weird.  At least that's what I called it when he would burst out dancing at movie theaters if a catchy song was playing for the end credits.  Not to mention my embarrassment when he invariably told the same old, corny jokes at every social function.  Ever hear about the kid in Australia who was born with four legs?  Well, I've heard about that poor kid thousands of times, and his condition isn't much different than when Dad first announced it.  And let's not forget the Chinese fire-drills!

"Oh, Owen, you are just like your father," they said.

What's that supposed to mean?

But as much as I've resisted it, I am my father's son.  Here are a few evidences that recently manifested themselves:

Case #1

Tonight, I went on a date with my dearest little sister, Kimberly.  But not just any date; tonight we had the pleasure of attending BYU's annual dance concert, where all the university's top dance ensembles perform.  And when the cloggers made a bold entrance, I immediately turned to Kimberly and we said in unison, "Dad would probably get up and start dancing right about now."  You see, Dad did clogging in college, and the mere mentioning of the word "clogging" sends him off doing heels clicks.  Once upon a time, that was embarrassing, but in that moment I had a feeling well up inside me that seemed to say, "Get up and do a jig!"  I quelled that urge by telling myself, "You can let that out in your next dance class.''  Wait a minute, Dad took dance classes!  And Dad constantly wants to get up and dance!  What's happening to me?

Case #2

The first thing I did when I walked into the DI the first week of school was go straight to the shoe section.  I spent the majority of my time there trying on scores of shoes, and I eventually found two pairs of decent dress shoes for $6 and $8.  Now I wear those shoes just about every day.  The funny thing is that Dad does the same thing the moment he walks into thrift stores--head straight for the shoe wracks.

Case #3

I can't believe I'm admitting this, but I tell the same corny jokes at parties that Dad tells.  And I get the same reaction every time I reveal that the kid's mother is a goat.  I also plagiarize Dad by telling everyone, "If everyone in this world were a little bit fatter, we'd be closer together."

Case #4

We share an intense love of gardening.  And weeds drive us crazy.  While walking to DaLynn and Carolyn's apartment I had to stop and root out a few dandelions in a patch of grass.

Case #5

When we start reading a good book, we burn the midnight oil to read a few extra chapters before going to bed.  I just started reading Outliers, and it has me hooked.

These are just a few examples, but at this rate, soon I'll be knitting, running marathons, snoring, and vigorously scratching my head when I'm overly excited.  I'll soon find out what other eccentricities I've inherited from him.  But unlike before, now I'm OK with that.  In fact, I look forward to discovering them and developing a few of my own.  So thank you, Dad, for being every word synonymous with weird.  Because now when people say I'm weird, I have genetic license to say, "Oh, my Dad always does that.  And he's awesome!"