So. It’s only Tuesday and my already action-packed week has gotten more actioned. Actionerated? Actionalized? Wait, that one would modify on the packed part, right? So, to print a self retraction, please allow me to say that my already action-packed week has gotten more action-packeded.

Oh, for shitsakes. Action-packederated? Maybe this is one of those “tablespoon fulls versus tablespoons full” sort of dealies. See, that spoons thing is ruled by the Grammar Police to mean that when taking the steps to create multiple spoon fulls, a person would take one spoon—a singular grammatical event—and fill it multiple times. Thusly, the baker or lemonade maker has added tablespoon fulls of sugar to whateverthefuck it is they were baking/mixing.

The Grammatik Polizei, however, do not have the dreaded ADHD or even it’s little brother, ADD. Nope. You cannot make it passed the short-form application for the Grammar Pobos if you suffer from any of the Attention Deficit maladies. If you could, a person would be granted an option to use either tablespoons full or tablespoon fulls.

In way of elucidation please allow me to expound. Say you’re me, an altogether confusing supposition yet the perfect scenario for this exposition, and you’ve taken on the task to make lemonade by the glass. “Why by the glass?” you might ask, and legitimately so. By the glass because each of the Johnson family lemonade drinkers likes their ade at differing levels of sweetness. And we all know that it takes awhile for good, low-refinement sugars to dissolve even in lemon juice.

OK, wait. I actually make quart batches of lemonade when making it for the family. Nobody can drink just one glass of my lemonade. I have a secret—a splash of Limoncella—that makes my le jus de citron sucre’ simply adorable. That’s what Aunt Hilda calls it, adorable.

For Gram, a tart old tart from the word “Go”[,] I place only six tablespoon fulls of sugar into her batch. Aunt Hilda gets ten spoons with an extra jolt of Lemoncella and Mother gets nine. Me, I like three sugars and three liquors.

Imagine now as Mixologist Mooner stands at his big kitchen counter. I’ve got a dozen each quart jars of fresh squoze lemon juice sitting on the counter in front of me along with twenty-eight each tablespoons, eight each booze jiggers and one of those rubberized jar lid grippers. I’m constantly screwing jar lids on more tightly than my dry hands can remove. I have a large bottle of Limoncella and a big bag of raw turbinado sugar standing by. You’ll notice the absence of water at this juncture of lemonading, and that’s because my other secret is to give each drinker a bottle of chilled San Peligrino bubble water. Dilute and bubblize at will, that’s my motto.

I approach Gram’s quart jar—I know it’s Gram’s because it has a label that says “Gram” in emerald green. I fill the six tablespoons (notice please that I said tablespoonS) with sugar and pour Limoncella into two jiggers, again notice jiggerS.

I dump the tablespoons one-by-one into the jar and then in goes the liquid. I fancy myself a dashing bartender, so I take a shot glass in each hand and pour both Limoncellas at the same time, and with a flourish. Then, and once more with a flourish, I wipe the spilled sticky Limoncellas from the counter top with the pre wetted cotton dish towel at the ready, and always to my left hand side.

I’m a tad bit obsessive and a touch compulsive as well, so the towel must always be already wet and always at my left hand. I know it’s a sign of just how fucking nuts I am to admit that not only do I suffer from the ADHD but that I also endure the tortures of the dreaded OCD.

But I take heart in the knowledge that the OCD is a self-imposed solution to some of the worst symptoms of the ADHD. By having compulsives I can limit a few distractions. Like when I’m taking one fucking tablespoon with which I’m to fill with sugar nine times to place into Aunt Hilda’s lemonade jar. The emerald green ink on Aunt Hilda’s jar label is imprinted with “Aunt Hilda and Dubbie-J” so as to acknowledge the shrunken-head-in-a-box that has been Hilda’s constant companion since she and Gram were abducted while girls.

The two sisters were in the old Congo nation as Baptist missionaries and had to be spirited to safety wrapped in blankets and smuggled in the bottom of a big wooden canoe. I’m too busy to tell the entire story, so go over there ===}}}} and buy my fucking book to read all about it. I’ll be glad you did.

Here I am, filling and counting as I fill the tablespoon and dump it nine times into Hilda’s jar. Something catches my eye from outside the big windows over the sink. It looks like Yoda is trying to lick the paint off the small smoker by the fire pit. That damned dog really is half goat. I caught him last night taking a dirty wooden spoon out of the dishwasher. He grabbed the spoon and took off like a shot to the back of the house. He’s a smart little shit, he learns right from wrong, but as I said he’s half goat and can’t help but eat anything.

So, we’re sitting at dinner last night. I fixed a pork loin with sour cherry gravy because my buddy Lloyd and his man Mike are coming to visit next week. I’m so excited to see them that I could shit myself. Almost did. I can’t decide on a menu to fix so I’m going through different things to see what I want to cook for them. We’ll have a small crowd of Lloyd’s other Austin friends out for dinner and Lloyd is a good cook. I wish to prepare something different but not BBQ’d pig innards or smoked grass carp. I’ve learned my lessons there.

I had everything on the table to eat and I started to cut the meat to order. Like with our lemonade, our cuts of meat vary among family members. Gram likes thick slabs and Mother wants hers in wafer-thin sheets. I made prosciutto-wrapped asparagus that I bake quick and high with salt, pepper and olive oil. I serve them with a shaving of Parma Reggie cheese and a drop of 20-year old balsamic vinegar, and that first bite might be the best ten seconds of eating ever.

OK, except for crème brulee’, which is the best however long it takes to eat it of eating ever.

I’m cutting Mother’s pork, concentrating to cut thin slices all the way through the roast when, “Spi-toosh!” and then, “Pfft, pft, pfft!”

Aunt Hilda spit lemonade like a sperm whale out his blow hole. “Oh, for the love of god, Mooner Honey. This is so sour it turned my mouth inside out.”

“I’m sorry, Auntie. I guess I got distracted when I made yours. That silly katoika, Yoda, was eating the back yard.” I looked around the table. “Oh, that’s Greek for goat, and maybe everyone should take a small taste of their lemonade to avoid the sperm whale act.”

Sometimes my ADHD can even overrule my OCD’s. But you get my point about tablespoons. Same thing with full bags and bladder fulls and shit.

Maybe I’ll make Lloyd and Mike lemonade and a big lemon cake. I need to get with Melanie for a recipe. If I was a gay man, would I mate lemonade with lemon cake or would my more sophisticated palate require a beverage somewhat less “complimentary” to the pastry? Like chicory coffee from Nawlins or maybe a bourbon and milk cocktail.

And why is a mixed drink a “cocktail” like you stirred it with your pecker. Maybe that’s why James Bond insists on have his martinis shaken only.

I might be decomposing now, so I’ll see you manana, y’all.