1.03.2026 - The holidays have officially blown by, like they always do....

The holidays have officially blown by, like they always do. 

I hope you got a couple of days where your brain could actually shut off, and you spent some time with people you actually like. 

The last two months were a total blur…travel, weird days off work, eating and drinking things you'd normally say no to, and a complete lack of routine. 

And the spending...this whole season is basically designed to make you do that.

Capitalism, bro.

We're a few days past the whole New Year's fanfare and If you're one of those people who waits for that one magical day to change everything you know you should, 

I'm not here to lecture you, I'm no success guru. 

But I will say, the only way I've ever gotten anything done is by setting a tiny goal and looking at it again the next day. 

Most of my "reevaluation" happens between 9:00 PM and 3:00 AM, lying awake in bed and mentally replaying every dumb thing I've ever done. 

But since I'm not a billionaire life coach, I'll shut up about it.

What I will tell you about is my downstairs bathroom.

My wife is a teacher. 

So she gets some good breaks from work and I'm semi-handy. 

So, when we have time off together, she likes to present me with "projects." 

This week's assignment: a small bathroom refresh. Some painting, swapping an old pedestal sink for a new vanity with more storage. 

She started without me. 

I came home from work Tuesday ready for another long break from work that starts with a good IG worthy home cooked meal.

I walked into the garage and saw a sink basin with the water connections still attached, just sitting there on the floor. 

She usually tells me she's starting a project....this time, she didn't…more on this later. 

Our kid greeted me gleefully...I saw my tool box, my drill, and painting gear staged by the bathroom. 

I saw a huge Home Depot box with a yellow sticker that said KIMBERLING and a picture of a vanity, positioned by the front door.

She didn't seem stressed, which was a good sign. 

I had to push the box out of the way to get to my office to put down my laptop and change my t-shirt. 

I had to cook dinner and shoot a video from it, so my mind was kind of avoiding a full evaluation of the situation.

I changed out of my work clothes and took a peek into the bathroom. 

Wow! She'd picked the light green color that I liked and had seen samples taped to the wall earlier this week. 

She had taped off and painted all four walls, pretty much up to the ceiling. 

She's not scared of heights, but I have one of those heavy Little Giant ladders. I'm on ladders for a living, so I wasn’t surprised she'd left that top part for me. 

But I was impressed. 

She had vision. 

She didn't wait. 

She did things right…removed the fixtures, the switch plates.

While I was cooking, my internal monologue was a grumpy, "Ugh, I just wanted to chill and watch football this weekend."

But it was quickly overruled by a louder, prouder thought: "Hmm… I'm kind of proud of my wife."

I cooked dinner, filmed my content, and we ate dinner.

My wife took our daughter upstairs for bath and bedtime.

A normal night.

So I attacked the things I saw she might need help with. 

We had one of those pedestal sinks. 

She'd gotten the basin and the plumbing removed, but the pedestal was tightly sealed to the tile floor with caulk. 

Turns out, the water she'd spilled when removing the plumbing had soaked into the caulk and loosened it. 

After mentally preparing to beat it to pieces, I tried one last good pull and it just… released from the tile floor. 

Awwwwwww. It was like the universe heard me. 

Just a little scraping of old caulk left behind. 

I removed the tape from around the moldings, nothing to fix there. 

I took down the blinds so I could paint the window casing. 

Then I caulked and taped off the ceiling line.

She walked in while I was on the ladder and said, "Thanks." 

She wasn't thanking me for the caulk….she was thanking me for not questioning her abilities, or her vision. 

Wednesday was New Year's Eve…We woke up, got a workout in, 

We chilled, then went to pick up our friends' older kid, they have a three-week-old baby, so we wanted to meet him and give them a small break. 

We took the two besties to the park and for pizza....our kid was being kind of a pill, having a few meltdowns.

But once we hit the pizza joint, everyone was happy, laughing and playing.

We brought the happy, tired new parents a couple of pizzas, dropped their kid off, and headed home.

My wife and I were ready to actually chill.

After we got home and she took our daughter to bed,

I went out for the important stuff: Fritos, bean dip, some Drumsticks, and a 40oz of Bud Ice.

Guilty pleasures reserved for a New Year's Eve in.

We were set. Snacking, chatting, reminiscing. 

Of course, we started talking about resolutions and commitments.

After ten years, she knows my whole goal-setting spiel. I just reminded her of my long-term goals for us. 

I asked her, and she simply said, "I want to have more fun."

There have been many times where my wife has amazed me with her advice, her perspective, clearing up things I've spent sleepless nights reeling over. 

It's one of the reasons I'll always be in love with her…she thinks with a different kind of emotion and empathy.

She expanded on it: "Just like this bathroom thing. I had a vision, and just went for it." 

Coming from someone who isn't typically impulsive, I just nodded. 

I appreciated the immediate action she took. 

As I'm writing this, my wife is laying on the couch watching IG reels, looking at pictures from the last couple weeks and wearing comfy clothes. 

Golden Girls is on the TV for background noise. 

I don't think she knows how proud of her I am, and happy that we completed a project together. It looks great.

I did tell her, but I don't think she really, really knows. 

Nor does she know I send out emails like this that talk about her.

I've read my fair share of goal-setting and mind set books. 

My wife hasn't, but she already does everything they tell you to do.

But they all tell you to start small. 

Make a daily checklist.

Marking things off will actually give you a dopamine hit, so you do it more.

I guess my point is, it shouldn't take a holiday to take action.

I'm starting the year in the kitchen, of course. 

Here's what's been bouncing around in my head while I've been painting:

- Starting with a Bang Bang sauce for a Hawaiian Brisket Bowl.

- Greek yogurt-marinated chicken skewers in bib lettuce with a ginger tahini sauce.

- A crispy-skinned salmon bowl topped with that Green Cashew Sauce.

- And always, brined chicken thighs, grilled with bells and onions for fajitas.

Pick a sauce and side from my page to go with them.

I don't have a mindset book to sell you. But I do have a recipe book. It's 10 of the most popular sauces of 2025 and 5 of my personal faves. 

If your action is committing to more flavor, to cooking right, this is your start. You can tell people that's your resolution.

Thanks for being here. Let's stick together and figure it out.

2.14.2026 - We're all being sorted into camps based on what we believe about things that have almost nothing to do with our actual lives.

Well, we survived another birthday week in this house.

My daughter turned four, and let me tell you, she has been reminding me every single minute of every single day how profoundly this milestone has changed her existence.

She now sits front-facing in the car, which means she's gone from staring at the back of a headrest to seeing the whole world unfold through the windshield.

I watch her in the rearview mirror, eyes wide, head swiveling at every passing truck, every dog on the sidewalk, every weird-shaped cloud.

She points and asks questions and narrates everything like she's hosting her own travel show.

Where do you think that bus is going? Why is that man walking so fast? Do you think that building has snacks inside?

She's a participant now, not just a passenger being shuttled around.

That shift alone has made every car ride feel different.

She has also decided that bedtime is now negotiable.

Every night it's the same dance: teeth brushed, pajamas on, story read, lights dim, and then the bargaining begins.

Five more minutes. I forgot to tell you something. My water cup is empty. I think I heard a noise.

She feels invincible these days, fully capable of handling life without parental interference…until she falls down and skins a knee, of course. Which she did.

We took the day off work and drove out to a nature park for her birthday.

The weather was one of those perfect Texas days where the sun feels warm on your skin but the air still has a bite to it.

The trail wound through these big old oak trees with moss hanging down, and the light filtered through the leaves in these dappled patches on the ground.

The park was streaming with kids and stay-at-home moms, but somehow it still felt peaceful. You could hear birds and the distant laugh of kids playing somewhere out of sight.

About ten minutes in, she ate it pretty hard on the trail. One second she was running ahead, full of confidence, and the next she was down, knees scraped, palms dirty, that split second of silence before the crying starts.

And then it came. The wailing. The limping. The dramatic hobble back to where we stood.

I scooped her up and felt her little body heaving against my chest, snot and tears mixing with the dirt on her cheeks.

For a solid ten minutes she was certain her life was over. Then slowly, the sobs turned to sniffles.

Thirty minutes later she was sprinting again like nothing ever happened.

We grabbed lunch at a place we'd never tried. She ate fresh fruit and tater tots. The fruit sat untouched while she methodically worked through every single tot, dipping them in ketchup with the focus of a surgeon. 

After that we hit Pease Park to see the giant troll. Have you seen this thing? It's enormous, built from reclaimed wood, a mythical creature that decided to take up residence in downtown Austin.

She stood there staring up at it, mouth slightly open, trying to decide if it was magic. 

The birthday week isn't even over yet. We have a party planned this morning at the park with grandparents in town and her best friend whose birthday is just two days apart.

They're doing a joint celebration.

As I type this, I can hear rain tapping against the window. Not a gentle drizzle either…the kind of steady, determined rain that laughs at outdoor birthday plans. So that party might get scrambled. Probably end up at a Chick-fil-A play place, surrounded by fluorescent lights and the smell of waffle fries and the chaos of a dozen sugar-filled kids bouncing around. We'll see.

That's the thing about parenting: you make these beautiful plans in your head, and then the universe reminds you who's actually in charge.

Someone asked me this week if I feel sad watching her get older. They said they were sad watching their own kids grow out of the little kid stage, losing that baby softness, those mispronounced words, that complete dependence.

I thought about it. I really did. And I'm not sad. I love watching her grow.

I love seeing her brain make these new connections, watching her figure things out in real time.

I love that she told me the other night at bedtime that she doesn't want to get any bigger because she still wants to fit into her princess dress collection.

She said it with such genuine concern, like this was the most pressing issue of our time.

I love moments like that.

Seeing how her mind works, what she values, what she's afraid of, what she hopes for. When you're four, all you want is to be bigger, to see what we see, to understand what we understand. And now she's starting to.

I'm not sad. I'm excited for the day we can actually discuss things.

I want to hear her take on why a Spanish-language halftime show at the Super Bowl made so many people angry.

I want her theories on where Savannah Guthrie's mother disappeared to.

I want to know what a four-year-old thinks about the Pam Bondi hearings.

Her opinion would be the only one worth hearing, because it would be based on nothing but her own tiny framework of the world. No algorithms. No rage bait. No podcast subscription to push.

Just pure, organic thought, untainted by the noise.

It's crazy out there.

Everyone has an opinion, and everyone's opinion is designed to make you feel something so you'll click something so you'll subscribe to something.

We're all being sorted into camps based on what we believe about things that have almost nothing to do with our actual lives.

The news cycle grabs a story and shakes it until we're convinced it's the only thing happening on earth. Twenty-four-seven coverage of one thing, and you start to believe that thing is all that exists.

Meanwhile, I'm just trying to figure out if we're doing a park party or pivoting to a fast food playground.

Here's the thing about all of it—the halftime show outrage, the Savannah Guthrie disappearance theories, the Pam Bondi hearings. None of it matters. None of it changes anything.

The halftime show? If you have time to be genuinely upset about a thirteen-minute musical interlude at a football game, you have too much time on your hands. You should go outside. Touch grass. Call your mother.

The Savannah Guthrie situation? Probably an inside job, family connections, media involvement, a distraction from something else. But does speculating about it make your kids laugh?

Pam Bondi being totally unfit and compromised? Absolutely. But I still have to go to work on Monday.

It's all just noise designed to keep us arguing so we don't notice anything else.

Dopamine hits every time someone agrees with you. Validation spikes. We're all just chasing the next one, scrolling past our actual lives to argue with strangers about things we can't control.

And I'm as guilty as anyone for getting sucked in, for having opinions about things that don't matter, for spiraling on a Saturday morning when I should be figuring out how to pivot a four-year-old's birthday party.

But here's what does matter: watching my kid grow up.

Hearing her tell me she doesn't want to get bigger because she still needs to fit in her princess dresses.

Seeing her face when she climbed that net at Pease Park like she owned it, wind in her hair, smile so wide I could see it from twenty feet below.

Feeling her little hand in mine as we walked back to the car, tired and happy and full of stories.

Listening to her narrate the world from her new front-facing car seat, asking about clouds and trucks and whether that building has snacks inside.

That's the bubble I want to live in. That's the only opinion that actually counts.

Okay, I'm done. Let's talk about food.

Here's what I'm cooking next week:

Black bean hummus—creamy and smoky, ready in five minutes, and dangerous to have around because I will eat the whole batch standing at the counter with a spoon if no one's watching.

Queso blanco with green chiles—warm and melty with just enough heat, because every week needs melted cheese and I'm not here to judge your nutritional choices.

Spit-roasted tri-tip—low effort, high reward, the kind of meat that feeds a crowd or creates the best leftovers for sandwiches all week.

Chicken curry soup—the kind that warms you from the inside out, smells like ginger and garlic and something deeper, and somehow tastes even better the next day when the flavors have had time to get to know each other.

Salmon Rockefeller—fancy enough for company, easy enough for a Tuesday, with that buttery herb topping that makes people think you tried harder than you actually did.

Grilled pork chop tacos—because taco Tuesday is non-negotiable, and pork chops deserve a turn in the spotlight with some fire roasted pineapple salsa verde and tamarind BBQ sauce.

All the sauces and sides that make these meals actually memorable will be on the page this week. You know I'm obsessive about that part. The right sauce can turn a Tuesday into an event, you know?

The sauce book is still blowing up, by the way. My most popular sauces from 2025 collection sold way better than I ever expected, and the feedback has been incredible.

People sending me photos of their dinners, telling me their kids actually ate the thing, their spouses asked for seconds. That never gets old.

That's the whole point of this, right? Getting people around a table, eating something good, making a memory.

I've already started working on another edition. No timeline yet, but now that I've done it once, the second one should come easier.

And if you actually enjoy my rambling opinions...the food ones or the existential ones.

I finally built an archive of these newsletters on my website. Every single one, organized and ready for you to peruse whenever you need a break from the noise out there. 

As always, thanks for being here. For reading this far. For cooking my recipes. For sending me your photos and your feedback and your own rambling opinions.

I genuinely love hearing from you.

12.27.2025 - If you're the one who moved away, you know the unspoken rule: the travel is on you. 

You know that feeling when you finally walk back into your own house after days away? 

That heavy, quiet relief. 

You drop the last load of luggage by the door and just stand there. 

Your back has a permanent kink from a mattress that belongs in a museum, you're tired in that deep way that comes from never getting a full night's sleep in someone else's home, and your body is begging for something that isn't a cheese plate or a Christmas cookie.

That's me, right now, just back from what I call the Christmas Tour. 

If you're the one who moved away, you know the unspoken rule: the travel is on you. 

My wife and I live in different regions from our families…mine a state away, hers a few hours' drive. 

So we've become the traveling family. 

Our three-year-old is a champ about it, but man, it is exhausting.

It's the little things that wear you down. 

The battle over the thermostat. 

Living on someone else's schedule, eating when they eat, trying to be a polite guest in their daily life. 

You fight to keep a shred of your own routine…a workout, your normal food. 

But it's a losing battle. 

You just have to accept that you're a guest, and your only job is to show up.

We've done three family Christmases so far. 

As I write this, we have one more to go. 

The most important one. 

This Saturday morning, it'll just be my wife, my daughter, and me in our own pajamas, with our own tree. 

That's the Christmas we're powering through all this for. 

The one she'll remember.

The highlight of all this travel wasn't a gift. 

It was an hour in a warm living room that smelled like gingerbread and thread. 

My 96-year-old grandmother, Betty. 

This last year was tough. A hospital stay, a broken hip, but you'd never know it. 

She's the toughest person I know. 

She had a box of baked goods ready for us.

My wife and daughter had never been to her house. 

She's a seamstress, a quilter. 

She showed us her fabric room. 

Picture this: all four walls are floor-to-ceiling white shelves, each one stacked perfectly with fabric organized by color.

It's a rainbow of material, a lifetime of projects waiting patiently. 

My wife took a picture of her standing in the middle of it.

It looked like a portrait of a whole life's work.

We just talked. 

My daughter awkwardly played in a sunbeam because, like every great grandma's house, there's nothing for a three-year-old to touch besides a deck of cards and some Crayons.

In her case, the untouchabes are hundreds of elephant figurines from all her travels,  in a huge curio cabinet.

Before we left, she gave my daughter an original Beanie Baby elephant named Peanut, the tag still on it.

As we were leaving, I saw that look in her eyes. 

She was so happy we came, and she was already sad we were leaving. 

She'll never get to come visit us, to see our home and our life. 

So we go to her. 

That look is the whole reason we do this. 

It's why I believe it's my responsibility to make the trip. 

And as my own parents get older, that duty isn't going away.

Every year, after the last goodbye, my wife and I swear we'll do it differently next year.

We'll stay home. 

But we haven't yet. 

I think we both know our role in this.

Now, we're home. Next week is short, and I plan to finally hit the reset button...on the house, on my diet, on everything. 

But first, I need my kitchen back. I need to cook the feeling of being home into our bones.

Here’s what’s on my reset menu...simple, soul-fixing food:

Carne Guisada: That rich, slow-simmered beef stew that fills the house with the smell of cumin and comfort for hours. Just spoon it over rice.

Crock Pot Charro Beans: Pintos cooked low and slow with bacon, jalapeño, and cilantro until they're creamy and smoky. The ultimate sidekick.

Chicken Fajitas: The classic. Getting the charcoal grill screaming hot for that first explosive sizzle is therapy.

Brined & Fire-Roasted Chicken Quarters: For that crazy-crispy skin and unbelievably juicy meat. It is stupidly simple and delicious.

"Fake" Guacamole: That awesome green sauce from your favorite taqueria. Guess what, there’s no avocado or sour cream in it.

For me, cooking at home…real, restaurant-quality food, always starts with a great foundation. 

And nothing changes a meal faster than a killer sauce. 

It's cheaper, healthier, and lets you know exactly what you're eating. 

If you're looking to take your dinner game up a notch this year, I put together my Sauce Collection—the 10 most popular sauces from 2025, plus 5 of my personal favorites I cook all the time.

Thanks for being here.

I hope your Christmas was blessed, and I'll talk to you in the New Year.

1.10.2026 - I'm sure I can't be the only one who feels this way

You know that feeling?

You miss the holidays, but damn, you're also relieved they're in the rearview mirror.

I miss the slow mornings and the loose plans, but as someone who recharges in quiet, being "on" for everyone outside my wife and kid since Thanksgiving has me running on fumes.

The social tank is bone dry.

I'm a creature of routine, a planner.

I find a weird comfort in the puzzle of fitting workouts, content creation, work, and bath time into a day.

Getting back to that grid is like a deep breath.

And sleep. Glorious, uneventful sleep schedule.

The first Monday back was a soft crash.

The holiday glitter had settled, leaving that dull, dopamine-drained feeling.

An inbox full of "URGENT!!" emails that, let's be real, could have waited.

But then, by Wednesday, it happened.

The holidays felt like a story from last year.

It's wild how fast we slip back into our own grooves.

I'm hoping my weekend is quiet.

The smell of Meyer’s cleaning spray on a Saturday morning, the simple satisfaction of a crossed-off to-do list.

Not much profound to report, just a few fragments that stuck with me this week.

I heard this guy on a podcast say it's healthy to go a little crazy once in a while.

Not be a crazy person, but just let the seams show a bit.

Remind people you have a limit.

As a guy who defaults to "steady," it resonated.

I've had my moments...A passionate, maybe slightly unhinged rant about cross contamination or replacing the paper towel roll.

It lands differently when it comes from the calm guy...Makes people lean in.

Then there was this example of the *normal” I was ready to get back to.

I was at the kitchen island, making my kid her classic avocado-mayo sandwich.

The jar was open, lid off...She was perched on a stool, watching my every move with those big, greenish-greyish eyes.

Out of nowhere, she says, "Dad, can you pretend you're not looking?" I played along, turning to fuss with the stove.

I heard the soft snick of the plastic lid.

A quick glance over my shoulder confirmed it: she had the lid in hand, carefully, deliberately licking it clean like a tiny, satisfied cat. I didn't stop her.

I just laughed and said, "Kid, I would have given you a spoon."

She finished her mission, placed the lid back with a quiet finality, and that was that.

A perfect, weird, little moment.

She also faced her first dentist chair and a flu shot this week like an absolute champ.

A few inevitable tears after the shot because it stings, but she brushed it off.

The resilience of a three-year-old is a terrifying and beautiful thing.

There was a long stretch of my life where I saw myself on a solo path.

Finally married at 40, first kid at 44.

Now, the coolest part of my day is often the ten-minute conversation about why the where the moon is or the intricate plot of Super Kitties.

It's the mundane magic I'm happiest to return to.

And of course, that return is tasted in the kitchen. This week, that means:

· Crockpot Korean Beef Cheek Bowls: For that deep, unctuous shred that only hours of slow cooking can give you.

· Garlic Chicken Noodles: A savory, garlicky slick on chewy noodles—the ultimate weeknight comfort.

· BBQ Salmon Lettuce Wraps: Flaky salmon with a sticky-sweet char, all wrapped up in cool, crisp leaves with a surprising coconut curry drizzle.

· Fried Pickled Jalapeños & Onions: A hot, tangy, crunchy punch with a herby cilantro ranch to dunk them in.

· A Spicy Queso Dip: Because sometimes you just need a pot of molten, spicy cheese.

I'm leaning into the routine, but the trick for me is to nudge it, just a little, all the time. I'm plotting some bigger moves for this whole Easy Eats endeavor.

Feels like it's time to push.

If you want to help push this passion project into different realms...Check out my digital recipe book with My Most Popular Sauces of 2025.

It's packed with crowd tested and pleasing concoctions, perfect for beginners or the seasoned cook looking for ideas to mix it up.

Thanks for listening to me ramble. It means more than you know.

2.07.2026 - It’s a machine designed to entertain us, sell us stuff, and keep us comfortably numb.

So Super Bowl Sunday is upon us.

And I know who’s playing, but really couldn't' tell you much more...besides Sam Darnold is a starting quarterback in a SB????

I’m not trying to be cool or aloof about it.

It’s just that between the three…soon to be four-year-old with never ending energy and needs, the day job sucking the life out of me, and trying to figure out why my social media doesn't have a million followers yet...the NFL has quietly slipped out the back door of my brain.

I used to live for this stuff.

Bachelor life meant fantasy leagues, all-day Sunday marathons on the couch, and a serious investment in alcohol and pizza.

I was pretty good at it, too. The fantasy leagues and the booze,

But to be good, you have to watch. A lot. And I just don’t have that kind of time anymore.

It’s all probably rigged anyway, or might as well be. It’s a machine designed to entertain us, sell us stuff, and keep us comfortably numb.

Fat on wings, drunk on light beer…while the world crumbles.

I’ll still watch the game.

Of course I will.

Because at this point, it’s not about football; it’s about an excuse, a very American excuse…to gather and eat stupidly good food.

Which brings me, somewhat gracefully, to another holiday built entirely around consumerism: Valentine’s Day.

Look, if your person cares about it, you care about it. Full stop. Save the complaining and just make the day nice.

Luckily, I married a woman who thinks a dozen tacos and a single sunflower is a perfect evening.

But now we have a kid. And kids? They LIVE for this stuff.

The pink, the hearts, the glitter. So I’ll lean in.

I’ll cut the sandwiches into heart shapes until she’s old enough to realize it’s all a commercial construct designed to separate us from our money and make people without plans feel lousy.

But hey, celebration of love! I’m for it.

It's on a Saturday this year. If you haven’t booked a table yet, you’re probably screwed.

So might I suggest staying in? Cook something. Light a candle.

You’ll eat better, spend less, and you won’t be so stuffed that you can’t, you know, properly conclude the evening.

Our Valentine’s Day is booked solid with our three-year-old’s co-birthday party with her gal pal in the morning and my parents in town. So I just got a table at our regular neighborhood spot.

No overpriced prix-fixe, just good burgers and whiskey. My kind of love language.

Alright, enough ranting about things I can’t control. Let’s talk about the one thing I can: what goes on my plate (and hopefully, yours).

Here’s what’s bouncing around my head for the coming week:

· Leftover Brisket Crunchwrap. Imagine smoked brisket, a spicy jalapeño sauce, that smoky roasted red pepper ranch, all wrapped tight and griddled until the exterior crackles.

· Cheeseburger Soup. Yes, really. All the savory, beefy, pickle-speckled, melty-cheese essence of a burger, in a spoon. It’s a hug in a bowl.

· Harissa Salmon over Roasted Cauliflower. Flaky salmon with a smoky chili paste crust, piled on a heap of caramelized cauliflower and carrots. Bright, bold, and feels healthy without tasting like punishment.

· Thai Beef Wraps. Savory, gingery beef wrapped in flout tortillas with a crunchy peanut sauce you could drink with a straw. 

Notice a theme? The sauce is the star. It always is for me.

The dish is the vehicle, but the sauce is the experience. The part you remember. It’s why I’m borderline obsessive about them.

And because I want your Tuesday night chicken to taste as good as my Tuesday night chicken, I gathered up my absolute favorite sauce recipes.

The ones that make regular meals memorable, into one simple digital download. Inside you’ll get 10 of my most popular sauces and 5 of my personal staples. They’re the building blocks for turning the ordinary into something special, no chef’s coat required.

Whether you’re yelling at a referee or cutting heart-shaped pancakes…enjoy it. Truly. There’s enough to be cynical about. The food doesn’t have to be one of them.

1.31.2026 - If you’re still riding the wave of a resolution you made at midnight on the 31st, I salute you.

Man, the first month of the year is already in the books.

It flew by in a blur of weather reports, a tumultuous news cycle, and the quiet realization that a new calendar doesn’t actually reset anything unless you do the work.

If you’re still riding the wave of a resolution you made at midnight on the 31st, I salute you. That’s genuinely awesome!

Making real changes is hard. The trick isn’t about January 1st; it’s about February 2nd, or March 15th, or any random Tuesday you decide to start something. 

If you haven't stuck to your commitments...be kind to yourself.

This is exactly why I don’t do “resolutions”. They make starting feel like a once-a-year event, and failing feel like a permanent mark. Just start. Anytime.

Speaking of dates on a calendar, let’s talk about the big one looming in mid-February. 

I’ll save my full rant about the manufactured romance of Valentine’s Day for next time. But if you love your person and you’re planning on going out, for fuck's sake, make the reservation today.

Do not wait. Do not think, “I’ll do it tomorrow.” The good spots are gone. 

If you’d rather skip the prix-fixe menu and the crowd, my page is packed with dinner ideas that are impressive, delicious, and won’t leave you in a food coma or too full to...you know, be banging later.

We had a couple of proper snow days here recently. The world just… stopped. My wife (a teacher) and our daughter got bonus days off, a sudden, quiet gift of time. 

I was still working remotely, but the office was officially closed. The usual flood of emails and “quick questions” dried up.

It’s funny what you notice in the quiet. I realized how much of my “productive” workday is spent wrestling with the very tools that are supposed to make me efficient.

I spend more time on the phone with IT explaining a software glitch, or in a meeting about a new system to track our efficiency, than I do actually being efficient. 

We have two full-time IT guys for a company with about a dozen office people. Sometimes I think our quest for maximum productivity is like a snake trying to eat its own tail. 

I’m good at the core of my job. All the fancy packaging around it just seems to make the simple things unnecessarily complicated.

You know what doesn’t need an IT guy? A good dinner. 

You know what’s never let me down? A sharp knife, a hot pan, and a few real ingredients.

Here’s what’s on my mind for the week:

· Chicken with Roasted Apples & Poblano-Tomatillo Sauce: Sweet, charred apples against a smoky, tangy green sauce. It’s like fall and a Tex-Mex joint had a delicious baby.

· Pad Thai Chicken Noodles: The ultimate balance of sweet, salty, sour, and savory. All the takeout flavor, none of the mystery.

· Shrimp Skewers with Miso Aioli & Ginger Scallion Sauce: Plump shrimp with two powerhouse sauces—one creamy and umami-rich, the other bright and pungent. Simple, fast, and stupidly good.

· Chicken & Bacon Salad with Creamy Black Bean Sauce and Roasted Red Pepper Ranch: Think of it as a deconstructed, supercharged burrito in a bowl. Hearty, fresh, and packed with flavor.

By the way, if you enjoy these weekly rambles, I’ve started archiving them all in a new section on my website. It’s nothing earth-shattering, just a collected stream of consciousness from my kitchen and my life.

If you’re new here or just want to kill some time, you can head over and catch up. It’s a good way to get where I’m coming from.

And while you’re there, if you’re looking to build your own arsenal of simple, game-changing flavors, my Sauce Collection is waiting. 

It’s the 10 most popular sauces from last year and 5 of my personal, can’t-live-without favorites. 

Thanks, as always, for reading. This is a two-way street. I love hearing from you.

Your emails, your kitchen triumphs (or disasters), your own rants…Hit reply anytime.

Here’s to a productive February, in whatever way that means to you.

12.13.2025 - A ballet, a heavy heart, a concert, and bone marrow salsa.

Before we begin, a quick note: this newsletter is a ride.

We’re going to start way up high, with a magical, funny, and pure moment from last weekend. 

Then, we’re going to drive straight into a deep, personal valley. I need to talk to you about, especially now. 

Finally, we’ll climb back out with some loud music and a look at the seriously good food coming your way. 

If you're only here for the food and yuk yuks, feel free to skip to the end.

There’s a particular kind of chaos involved in getting a three-year-old into a fancy dress when it’s 75 degrees and sunny outside in December. The Christmas spirit in Texas is a stubborn, sweaty act of defiance.

My daughter in emerald green, my wife in a sleek black and red number, and me in a green pinstripe shirt I had to excavate from the back of my closet. 

We were a walking holiday card that felt slightly out of phase with reality.

The venue was stunning, all historic grandeur and perfect acoustics.

Our seats were strategically in the nosebleeds, pinned to a main aisle for a quick escape. The first rule of parenting at a formal event. 

Below us, the orchestra was so precise, each note so clear, it felt like we were inside the soundtrack. 

The crowd was a symphony of its own: the rustle of silk, the low murmur of anticipation, and the unmistakable, squirming energy of dozens of other kids.

It was permission to relax. 

The pinnacle of this highbrow experience came when the theater fell silent for a delicate dance, and a toddler directly behind me released a fart of such impressive depth and duration that my entire body shook with the effort of not laughing out loud. It was beautiful.

Then came the moment I’ll keep forever. 

After the intermission, the ballet became more vibrant. The soldiers and mice clashed with energetic leaps, and the audience roared with applause after each number.

And there, under the thunder of clapping, was my daughter’s tiny, unabashed voice: “YAY!” 

She wasn’t just watching; she was in it. That raw, unfiltered joy is the entire reason for any of this.

This high made the rest of the week feel like a drop into a canyon. 

December 10th marked four years since my older brother died by suicide. The anniversary has a way of hollowing out the days around it.

He left behind a fractured world…a wife, children, grandchildren he never met, including my own daughter. My parents are forever changed, carrying a grief tangled with anger, confusion, and unanswered questions that makes simple healing impossible. 

The last time I saw him, we made loose plans for Thanksgiving. When he didn’t show, didn’t answer my calls, I dismissed it. 

He’s being an asshole again, I thought. 

We’ll connect at Christmas. 

We never did.

I’m sharing this not for sympathy, but because the “holiday cheer” can be a brutal, isolating facade. 

The pressure to be happy, to spend, to gather, can amplify every silent struggle.

My brother’s final reasons are his own, but the aftermath is a lesson: check on your people. 

Not just the quick “how are you?” text.

Really check. 

If something seems off, push past the awkwardness.

Show up.

Call again. 

I live with the ghosts of the call I didn’t make and the things I didn't do.

This year, the universe offered a strange, quiet punctuation. 

Months ago, I’d gotten tickets to see Mumford & Sons at Red Rocks for my wife’s birthday. 

The concert landed, unplanned, on my brother’s birthday. We had an extra pair, which I sold. 

At the show, the buyers ended up in the seats right next to us. We got to chatting…the kind of easy, concert-life camaraderie and the woman mentioned they were celebrating her birthday. 

It was that day, the same as my brother's. 

I didn’t bring up my brother; you don’t drop that into a happy conversation with strangers. 

But I sat there in the Colorado night, under a sky full of stars and soaring music, next to a stranger sharing his birthday, and felt the weird, immense weight of coincidence. 

It wasn’t a sign. It was just a reminder of the invisible threads connecting everything.

You can’t sit in the valley. You have to move. 

For me, movement last night was a Portugal. The Man concert. 

The lights, the visceral thump of the bass, the entire crowd screaming the lyrics. It's a sensory overload that scrubs your brain clean. It was a necessary, joyful reset.

And my reset is always, ultimately, in the kitchen. This is where I turn feeling into doing. 

So here’s what’s simmering, what’s getting seared, what’s going to bring some big flavor to the week ahead:

· Bone Marrow Salsa: I’m roasting marrow bones until they’re unctuous and rich, then blending the essence of that decadence into a bright, spicy salsa roja. This will be slathered on…

· Crockpot Pork Carnitas: The ultimate hands-off triumph—slow-cooked until fall-apart tender, then crisped under the broiler for the perfect taco night.

· Roasted Bone Marrow and Cornbread Crackers: Rich and decadent marrow on top of crispy, sweet, and spicy cornbread crackers. A perfect match with a salsa verde.

- Vietnamese Pork Meatballs: Tender, fragrant with lemongrass and fish sauce, dunked into a spicy, cashew sauce that’s good enough to drink.

· Salmon & Spicy Roasted Potatoes: A filet roasted alongside potatoes blistered with dried spices, all smothered in a vibrant sauce of roasted poblano and spinach cream sauce.


This is the work that fuels me. Creating these flavors, testing these recipes, is my anchor. 

It’s the tangible, delicious proof that you can build something good from scratch.

If you’ve found some of that same joy or comfort in the recipes I’ve shared, my digital recipe book is the next step. It’s a curated collection of my 10 Most Popular Sauces of 2025, plus 5 of my personal, never-fail favorites. 

It’s the first of many ways I hope to build this community.

Thank you for making space for this today, for the silly, the sad, and the seriously delicious. It means more than you know.

12.20.2025 - The $40 parking spot, being insufferable, and the perfect taco.

Let me tell you about last Friday. It started with a flat tire. 

My wife called me at work, a screw in the tread, the babysitter booked, concert tickets burning a hole in my pocket for six months.

I aired it up.

I'll fix it tomorrow, this isn't going to get in the way of a great night, I thought to myself.

We were behind, but fine. Then came the traffic. A five-minute pizza run stretched into forty-five. 

The clock ticked. 

My mood darkened.

The plan was a cool bar on the east side. The reality was a gridlock of taillights. 

My running commentary began: the obscene number of cars, the lack of alternatives, the sheer effort required to move through the world. We finally neared the place, only to see a line out the door and not a single parking spot. 

Plan dead.

We diverted downtown, near the venue. After circling, I pulled into a lot. 

The attendant looked at me. "Forty bucks." 

I paid it. 

As I got back in the car, I finally said it out loud: "This feels like a scam." The entire architecture of the evening. The obstacle course of extra costs, delays, and denials…felt designed to extract money and patience before granting permission to have fun. 

My wife, a saint, called me insufferable. She was right. The friction had worn me raw.

Over tacos and a badly needed drink, we talked about that scammy feeling. 

It’s not just the money; it’s the layered toll of trying. 

The planning, the parking, the lines, the premium for every simple pleasure. 

The world outside often feels like a series of toll booths.

But here’s the pivot. That night, the scam ended at the venue door. The music was loud, the crowd was alive, and for two hours, it was worth every bit of hassle. 

The escape was real. But I can’t live for escapes. I need sanctuaries.

My sanctuary is my kitchen. 

It’s the one place where the transaction is pure: effort in, flavor out. 

No cover charge, no valet, no surge pricing. Just the simple, honest work of making something incredible. 

It’s my rebellion against the scam.

So this week, I’m building my own menu. No reservations required:

· Pork Carnitas Tacos: With a mustard slaw, blue cheese crumbles, and a chipotle BBQ sauce that’s better than any bottle.

· Roasted Bone Marrow & Cornbread Crisps: With a salsa verde so bright it cuts through the richest day.

· Hawaiian Chicken Salad: With a pineapple-ginger vinaigrette that tastes like a vacation without the airport.

This isn’t just cooking. It’s opting out of the rigged game. 

If you’re feeling the same friction, I packed my 10 Most Popular Sauces of 2025, plus 5 of my personal favorites, into one digital book. 

It’s a cheat code for restaurant-quality flavor, without leaving home.

1.17.2025 - People ask me all the time if I miss the restaurant industry...

People ask me all the time if I miss the restaurant industry. 

After spending twenty years in it and almost thirteen now out of it…it’s a complicated question. 

My first job was as a host at a Mexican restaurant, a kid just trying to make a few bucks.

That place was a gateway.

From there, I did it all: family-owned joints, corporate chains, swanky bars, dives, fine dining, greasy spoon diners. 

Sushi, pizza, steaks, you name it.

I worked more holidays and weekends than I care to count, and for a long time, I loved it.

The service industry gets in your blood.

There’s a specific, electric urgency to it…the bustle of the kitchen, the hum of a full dining room, the communication between cooks and servers. 

It creates a camaraderie you don’t find anywhere else, a bond with the people beside you in the trenches. 

So yeah, there are parts I miss deeply.

But being out front, dealing with the general public, teaches you everything about people.

Most of what I understand about human nature, for better or worse, I learned within those four walls. 

I also learned how to cook with consistency, what real hustle looks like, and an appreciation for the perfectionists…those chefs and managers who live for the details.

It wasn’t all clean lessons, though.

A memory popped into my head while thinking about this, clear as day. 

My first management job, maybe a week out of training. 

A barback sliced his hand open on a shattered hurricane glass in three compartment sink. 

One minute we’re in the weeds, the next I’m in a bright, silent ER waiting room at 11 PM, the metallic smell of antiseptic cutting through the lingering scent of kitchen on my clothes. 

I got him settled and headed back to finish closing down the restaurant.

I’m pretty steady, not much rattles me, but delegating his closing duties in the middle of the chaos and then doing some myself meant I left hours late, exhausted. 

I had two days off after, and I was ready for them. 

I woke up at 9 AM to a blistering message on my answering machine from the General Manager. 

Let’s just say it was…colorful. 

I’d left notes about the incident, so I figured I’d let him cool off and try to enjoy my time off.

When I came back for my next shift, the AGM, Bill, the guy who trained me…pulled me aside. 

He said the GM was known for these explosions and to just let it blow over. 

Then he added, “But there’s something else you need to see.” 

My stomach dropped. 

I walked into the office where the chef, the sous, and another manager were. 

They started chuckling. 

The chef said, “Well, you got your cherry popped, kid.” 

They pointed to the cubby holes where we stored our personal stuff. 

Mine was filled with trash. Specifically, the trash that had been left in a dustpan that night. 

Of all the things, a forgotten dustpan was the final straw.

The other managers just laughed, a tense, knowing laugh that took the sharp edge off my panic. 

In that moment, their shared eye-roll was a lifeline.

It was a stressful initiation, but I never left anything in a dustpan again. 

Ironically, that GM later became a big supporter of mine; he respected how I handled the pressure.

I’m not sure why that story sticks with me so vividly.

Maybe because it captures the whole messy, intense, absurd, and human experience of that life. 

I’ve got a million of them…crazy nights, famous faces, moments of pure chaos and unexpected grace. 

It was profoundly rewarding, and I wouldn’t change my path. 

My two best friends in the world are guys I met waiting tables twenty years ago. It’s crazy how time flies.

Enough reminiscing. That life taught me about big, bold flavors and getting food to the table with heart, and that’s what I try to bring here now. 

Here’s what that looks like on my own kitchen table this week:

· Cilantro Lime Ranch: The creamy, herby dressing of your dreams.

· Cheeseburger Queso: Yes, it has pickles in it. Trust me.

· Melting Curried Cabbage: Simple, humble, and packed with warm, spiced flavor.

· Italian Potato Salad: A vinegar-forward, herby side that’s anything from ordinary.

· Meatballs with a Roasted Poblano Sauce: Comfort food with a smoky, gentle kick.

If you like the idea of building big flavor without the restaurant chaos, you might dig my digital recipe book, It’s 10 of my most popular sauces from last year plus 5 personal favorites. 

They’re designed for everyone, from total beginners to experienced home cooks looking for that "restaurant-quality" finish without the fuss. 

As always, I’m just happy you’re here reading these rambles. 

This community means a lot.

Feel free to reach out anytime with questions, requests, or even your own kitchen stories.

11.29.2025 - Why cooking at home wins...

The meals that fueled me, the letdowns that bored me, and why cooking at home wins.

There’s something about the crunch of fallen leaves under your boots, the crisp bite in the air that smells faintly of smoked meat and distant fireplaces, and the sound of Christmas lights clicking on for the first time. 

That’s how our holiday week started here south of Austin…with the quiet, satisfying hum of domestic life. I tackled the yard, laying down weed and feed like a suburban sorcerer, while my wife transformed the inside of our house into a festive sanctuary. 

It was the calm before the delicious, and sometimes disappointing, storm.

Of course, no family prelude is complete without the classic "What are we even doing?" argument, which we expertly resolved over margaritas and pizza at our regular spot. A couple of restorative days later, we hit the road.

Our first stop was one of those high-end institutions with the in-laws, the kind where they make you remove your hat.

I’ll set the scene: white tablecloths, hushed tones, the clink of fine glassware. I ordered the prime rib French dip. The meat was tender, yes, but it was a ghost of flavor, a phantom limb of what a good roast beef should be. The jus lacked depth, the meat lacked salt, and even the horseradish seemed to have given up on life. 

It was the culinary equivalent of a beige wall. The kind of food you’d be served at a very nice, very expensive nursing home. Everyone else was happy, so I smiled and chewed, silently noting that I’d just paid a premium to take my hat off for a plate of polite disappointment.

But then, Friendsgiving.

Picture this: The backyard smell of charcoal catching, the primal sizzle of massive, expensive steaks hitting the hot grill grates. The Ninja slushie machine whirring, churning out frosty pina coladas. Great music, laughter, and the sound of kids playing tag in the fading light. 

I manned the Weber like a pitmaster on a mission, searing those gorgeous steaks to a perfect medium-rare with a crust you could hear from the porch. Inside, the spread was simple, seasoned with care, and perfect: baked potatoes, green beans, asparagus, a sharp salad. 

This was the meal to remember. It was alive, it was loud, and it was made with love, not just for the food, but for the people sharing it.

Thanksgiving Day was a traditional affair with the in-laws, and the highlights weren't the main events, but the supporting cast: my sister-in-law's cloud-like homemade rolls, my father-in-law’s decadent creamed corn. 

My contribution? My famous Voodoo sauce, which found its way onto everything from the beef tenderloin to the smoked turkey. And let’s just say the frozen old fashioneds I made… did not last long.

By Black Friday, after a good cardio session to reset, I was ready for a new local spot with a touted executive chef. The hope was for inspiration. What we got was a plate of pedestrian "meh" that could have been airlifted from any chain restaurant in America. The letdown was palpable.

I promise I’m not a restaurant snob. But after 20 years in the industry, you notice things. The care, the seasoning, the soul. And lately, I’m finding that soul not in dining rooms with dress codes, but in my own kitchen, and in the kitchens of my friends.

And that, honestly, is why I’m here with you. This whole week solidified my mission. If "restaurant quality" sometimes means an overpriced, underseasoned disappointment, then let's make better at home. The best meals I had this week were the ones we cooked ourselves. The connection, the creativity, the undeniable flavor, it was all right there, in our own hands.

This is the passion behind my digital recipe book. It’s not just a collection of sauces; it’s your cheat code to reclaiming that joy and flavor.

It’s my 10 most popular sauces of the year, plus 5 of my personal, never-fail favorites. 

This is how you make a Tuesday night taste like a celebration, without having to put on a collared shirt or pay a $150 bill.

As I write this, watching football and gearing up for the drive home, my mind is already buzzing with what’s next. 

This week, the so-called "culinary experiences" didn't refuel me, my friends and family did. So here’s what I’m dreaming up for you:

· An easy, addictive Taco Bell-style sauce

· A zesty Lime Jalapeño Crema

· A Mexican Cornbread, loaded with roasted corn and brisket

· A Shrimp Salad with a Roasted Corn and Poblano Vinaigrette

· Roasted Salmon and Veggies with a spicy Chili Garlic Sauce

It was a week of fantastic food and a few flops, but the real win was the rest, the connection, and the reminder that the most memorable meals aren't always the fanciest…they're the most honest.

Cook your butt off this week. I’ll be doing the same.

12.06.2025 - A little quiet, a little chaos, and what's next...

There’s a certain kind of quiet that settles in after Thanksgiving. 

The decorations are up, the fridge is finally free of leftovers, and a genuine, welcome chill has finally arrived here south of Austin. 

This week, that quiet was broken by the best sound I know: the sizzle of oil in a pan and the rhythmic chop of a knife on my cutting board. 

After a full break from creating over Thanksgiving, getting back to it. Just me, some ingredients, and ideas. My mind is already wandering to soups and all-day crockpot braises.

If I'm being completely honest, returning to my day job after that stretch of pure family time was a bit of a gut punch. 

I live for those long, unstructured days with my wife and three-year-old daughter, and there’s always a low-grade dopamine hangover when they end.

It happens every Sunday, too. A tiny cloud of Monday blues. But this time, it’s mingling with a different, sharper feeling.

As the year winds down, it’s natural to look back and ahead. 

This year, the looking ahead feels charged. 

I feel ready. A plan is crystallizing, and for the first time, the motivation to change things is louder than the fear of it.

Here’s the real talk: I’m trying to build a life where I don’t have to work for “the man” anymore. 

My dream is simple and massive all at once: to do something I’m deeply passionate about, be proud of the work, and earn enough to support my family.

This community, “Easy Eats with Eric,” has been my heartfelt side hustle for a year.

I’ve been semi-successful at growing a following, which still blows my mind. 

But I’ve been hesitant, even avoidant, on the business side. Affiliate links, selling a sauce, monetizing recipes…it’s a maze, and I’ve been waiting for a path to appear instead of forging one myself.

I’ve done a few collaborations, made some money, and gotten some cool free stuff for making reels, which is fantastic. 

But saying "yes" to things that find me isn't the same as building something with purpose.

I don’t want to squander the small but mighty influence we’ve built together. 

So, I’m shifting. I’m going to start pursuing opportunities that truly align with what I believe in. I’ve already passed on a few that didn’t feel right…with the determination to turn this passion from a side hustle into a livelihood.

Just writing that down and sharing it with you is terrifying and electrifying. 

It’s a declaration: Here’s what I’m going to do. 

The doubts are still there…a voice that whispers, “You’re not a real cook,” or “Your recipes are silly.” 

But I’m putting on blinders. 

I’m tired of being tired on someone else’s terms. 

If I’m going to be exhausted, let it be from building something of my own, from creating, cooking, helping, teaching, and maybe, just maybe…making you smile with a story or a burst of flavor.

So, there you have it. More of my ramblings, mission accomplished.

On a much lighter note, my wife and I are taking our daughter to see The Nutcracker tomorrow. 

We’re dressing up, making a day of it with a nice lunch, and ending with Christmas lights. 

I’ve never been a huge Christmas guy, but seeing the magic through the wide, wondering eyes of a three-year-old? That changes everything.

Speaking of which, here’s what I’ll be cooking this week while she runs joyful laps around the kitchen island:

A Flavor-Packed Week:

Get ready for a Garlic Honey Chili Sauce, tangy Homemade Kimchi, and cozy Crockpot Bulgogi Brisket Bowls.

I’m also twisting up a classic into a Kimcheese Steak Sandwich, tossing an East Asian Salad with Apricot Ginger Dressing alongside Chili Garlic Chicken Skewers, and going all out with Roasted Bone Marrow on Jalapeño Cornbread Crackers.

Some really cool stuff is coming your way.

If you’re just here for the sauces and stories, I’ve got you.

There will be plenty. 

If you’ve ever felt inclined to support this little engine that’s trying to, you can check out my 2025 Digital Sauce Book. 

It’s the first concrete step among many I hope to take to build a real community for everyone who finds joy in cooking and eating well.

Thanks, as always, for being here and giving this space meaning. Now, go get some pans dirty.