I got all ambitious and decided to buy some tortillas at the grocery store tonight (why yes, I did get my Superbowl shopping done tonight so I wouldn’t have to deal with the rest of humanity this weekend, on, let’s face it, the first of the month when all the government checks get direct deposited. Having survived on unemployment for most of 2002 and half of 2003, I certainly do not look down my nose at those who rely on those checks. However, I don’t like to share the aisles and cash registers with not only the Superbowl shoppers but the folks doing a month’s worth of grocery shopping.
Anyway, I got the tortillas because they were on sale, and I picked up some shredded Mexican cheese (some blend, I don’t know if it’s as good as just plain old Monterey jack), picante sauce and sour cream. The picante (“New York City!”) sauce and sour cream were needed for the frozen Taquitos I bought for our Superbowl snacking pleasure. But I decided to use some of the leftover cooked chicken I had at home to make some quesadillas. Cause they make them at lunch sometimes and the chicken and sweet onion quesadillas are my new favorite food in the cafeteria.
I was doing well until I opened the jar of picante sauce we had left in the fridge and SLICED MY THUMB OPEN WITH A HUNK OF DRIED SALSA-STUFF ON THE EDGE OF THE JAR. Oh ya, that is EXACTLY what I was hoping would happen. See? I try to actually cook dinner, and cook something I’ve never cooked before, and I end up on injured reserve.
Granted, the quesadilla was top notch, but was it worth the Arthur Band-Aid I’m now sporting?
Um, ya.
