I keep waiting for Ashton Kutcher to appear and guffaw, “Jus’ keeeeeddings! You’ze not hiredz! You’ze firedz!”

Though that’s not what Mr. Demi Moore sounds like really, is it? Forget I mentioned that slightly dated pop culture reference because I am no longer in the loop of Cool Things, and I have absolutely no shame in admitting that.

The tunes currently rotating in my automobile music box are spandex sporting Erasure. Oh stop judging, you know you love it.

[ This Is The Point. Sort Of. ]

As far as the job?
It seems I’ve found muh callings.

Thinking about how we’ve clicked reminds me of those Childhood Saturday Morning Quadrupled Stack o’ Golden Perfect Pancakes mom would make:
1. Slathered in the mapley yum syrup
2. Sliced into perfect little squares
3. Buried in copious amounts of drippy buttery butter

Oh pancakes, I miss ye so.

I don’t know if you remember the ghost of posts past (see: Chipotle Get Your Gun), but I had severe trepidations with the Raspberry-Chipotle HEB Marinade that sat for decades two weeks on my pantry shelf as it ran its spicy little condescending claws down my culinary self-esteem chalkboard.

After scouring the internet for a suitable recipe, I approached the marinade, ripped the protective covering from its neck, and went to town. Garlic to the left of me! Shallots to the right of me! I laugh in the face of chipotle!

The verdict?
Touchdown.
Slam dunk.
Goooooooooooaaaaal!!!

Fiance even phoned home about it.

So I thought I would share my triumphs with you in a little creation of mine, dear Reader. You know, just in case you might want Heaven on your dining room table.

You can thank me (and Canada) later.

Do you see that thar yonder?  The Raspberry Chipotle Sauce seated directly to your left.  Look at it.  In all of its Chipotle Glory. Titillating your retinas with its billowing presence.

Aaaaand now you know my pain.

I bought this salivating beast of a concoction at H-E-B to coddle my ever increasing desire to become a better cook. To add some pizazz to my journey on the road to Chefdom. 

You would think once it settled on the bleachers of our pantry, that I would be overjoyed to welcome this heavenly glaze into my home with open arms.  I made a special place for it and everything.  And then I stared at it.

It totally intimidates me. 
Mocks me from the shelf.
Rears hideous feelings of cooking inadequacies.
It’s been there for three days.

Yesterday, in my desperate attempt to get it out of my dreams and into my car, I began obsessively searching for different diet recipes to use.  Therein sparking a mental debate of grilled chicken vs. turkey meatballs.  As a marinade or as a sauce?  So much so that my head detached itself of all reason and priority, and fixated on the neverending nagging battle conceived by the purchase of this pinche sauce. So many combinations!  So! Intimidating!

Dear Raspberry Chipotle,
The longer you rest your cylindrical hiney in my pantry, the more inadequate I feel as a cook.  This week you will be mine.  Oh yes.  You will be mine.

Sincerely,
M

Hello, Logo.
You are here for amusement and decorative purposes only.
Commence.

So I got a wild hair to make some coffee this morning.

I have these coffee grounds from Starboo that an old roommate gave me for Christmas, like, five years ago when I went through my Coffee Every Hour phase. Needless to say, that era consisted of a whole lotta shakin’ (hey-o!) and some super energy.

Why I didn’t throw them away when we moved in is purely superficial: the package looked really good on the shelf in it’s cute little bag implying Some Days I Drink Coffee and When That Day Comes I Am Completely Prepared Because That’s Just What I Do.

But on said package of these Starbucks grounds, it says to:
1. Store in an air tight container.
2. Use one week after opening.

Now call me conservative, but I feel like that’s asking a lot of the casual consumer – to use the entirety of its contents in one week. It’s kind of like the committment of buying a jug of milk. The expiration factor. The mere fact that it’s there with its lingering time frame and its over the top guilt trip because of the starving children – coerces, forces, and legally binds me to use recipes that contain milk just to get it out of the fridge.

Obvs at the time of the gifting, I didn’t look into that.

So I kind of opened them, like, 98 years ago when they were first bestowed upon me, slapped a twisty on ‘em, and let them marinate on the shelf.

And let me just end this by reiterating, those directions for storage and shelf life? They weren’t just whistlen’ Dixie. Because I wound up dry heaving, then proceeding to run my fingernails down my cheeks in disgust post first sippage.

You know you’ve converted to Domesticism when the brand new spice rack equipped with a bevy of spices brings you more joy than that album used to by The Band You Loved So Much.

In my venture of cookery, I have come to discover the delight of Central Market – the oh so very organic, oh so very granola haven under the umbrella of all that is HEB. AKA My New Favorite Dive To Spend Saturday Morning Errands.

I frolic through the glass entrance like an eager child in F.A.O. Schwartz ooh-ing and ahh-ing at the marvelous Barbie stiletto water-filled pillar (shoutout: Westheimer). But replace the millions o’ mini-heels with serrano peppers. Or, you know, your food of choice. Whichevs.

Tinkering curiously down each aisle, I take a sweet moment to breathe in the pungent aroma of the patchouli bath salts. Pass the various assortments of hummus and pesto, and it is then, when I saunter down the mile-long International Cheese Department leering inquisitively at the stinky cheese, that I wonder how I could have not gotten into this ‘cooking thing’ sooner.

It is here, at Central Market, that my senses are sparked, heightened, and dare I say emancipated.

And I did something I never pictured myself doing: I purchased feta cheese. And balsamic vinegar. And the new staple in our kitchen, an adorable find, the Kishu Mandarin (pictured left, compared to an orange).

I find this an amazing breakthrough considering last year our food consumption consisted of microwavables, Papa John’s, and Whataburger.