I made salsa tonight. Pineapple/Jalapeño Chutney actually. First time I made it, I didn’t know it was a salsa until we started dipping chips into it & repeating. Over. And over.
My favorite part of making salsa isn’t the chopping of the peppers, onion, or pineapple. Nope. That is an exercise of survival, mentally willing myself to keep all of my fingers where they belong as I crudely attempt to chop the choppees into manageable sized pieces.
My favorite part is the simmering. I get to turn the heat to a semi-lo setting, and stir when I want. The bubbles that appear in the liquid bring out smells that make my stomach jump in anticipation. The mess is too hot to eat, but the anticipation of dipping a chip into the mess & cramming it into my face brings with it joy unmentionable.
But I shall wait until tomorrow evening when salsa shall be consumed in copious amounts, accompanied by chile-lime marinated chicken & fresh tortillas. And there will be great rejoicing.
I think I might have a super-power. It isn’t flying. Or being made of steel. Or plasticity. Or invisibility. I think I have the super power of being able to sense ingredients that would taste good together in a recipe. The funny thing is I can taste the combo ingredients in my head. Without having to actually taste them. I am “low-keying” my super-power, as I do not know how to control it yet.
Baseball has to be listened to on AM radio. FM (& stereo) is wrong. I declare.
I was at the church office taking care of some bidness; I caught the movement of a person entering the office out of the corner of my eye. A glance. It was a beautiful woman that I didn’t recognize. And then she spoke, “Hi Daddy!”
Oh.
“Hi myWeez.”
My eyes water.
first i think you could be a food commentator. that was quite impressive and made my mouth water. second i’m so impressed that you make homemade salsa. seriously, that is a labor of love. third i envy that super power. it is one my giant has and has had since he was a wee boy, me not so much. sucks for my kids when i put too much of something or another in a pot of chili thinking it will go good. and finally i agree, baseball.. am radio is the bomb diggity. so are record players. nothing quite like em. oh and weezer … no more birthdays for her. i told her this already but she didn’t listen.