Families, however defined, have their own traditions. Yes, I really just imparted that pioneering dollop of wisdom on this I'm-too-tired-to-blog post. Tired from what? When I can't or rather should be avoiding walking around or doing anything because the body part I had to injure is one of the most necessary and obsessively used thanks to our most basic human evolutionary pattern. But I guess that argument could be battled with any aspect of physical anatomy. Because of course when something doesn't work right is when we (as in the human condition) all of a sudden believe it to me of utmost importance.
Anyway. I spent the day winter-cleaning. We've only been in this apartment for six months but a ridiculous amount of junk has appeared. (More like Jon's purchasing-tendencies-that-end-up-in-a-corner-ignored-and-dusty.) Regardless, it does not feng-shui! (And yes, I used that as a verb) Plus, I'm still trying to make room for Andrea to move in (read: sleep), somewhere.
And in lieu of letting my potato's go bad, I whipped up the classic Hispanic meal: tortilla. No, not a wrap or anything involving Tex-Mex cuisine. A tortilla is essentially the marriage of a quiche and a big, thick omelet primarily consisting of eggs and potatoes while anything else can also be thrown in to your taste. And it's also the kind of plate that you know, your mom will always be the best at because of love and practice and patience and seasoning and what not. In this scrappy plate I also threw in boneless-skinless hormone-free etcetc chicken breast as well as some veggie mix I had lying around.
This was actually the first time I ever attempted to make it though I've eaten since a chittl'n. Lessons learned: use a smaller pan so a) it's short & stout, not wide & thin and b) easier to flip over. Taste-wise? Well, besides that corner chipped off in the bottom Jon gobbled it all up. So safe-to-say it was not a bad first attempt. Hip-hip hooray!