Of enchiladas and beer

'Til last night, I'd only made enchiladas once in my life, and I don't think that counts, since Amber technically did the "making," and I just sauteed the onions and spinach and ate a couple tortillas when she wasn't looking.

And last night, my culinary non-prowess was almost defeated when the rotisserie chicken called for in the super-easy recipe I was using was unavailable because Wal-Mart sucks.

Improvisation, according to my fellow enchilada partaker, is a key ingredient to good cooking, and I believe him. Diced, skillet-cooked chicken breast is every bit as good as shredded rotisserie chicken, even if it delays the enchilada-enjoying experience by an hour or so.

My domestic diva-ness (followed by "Rocky") capped what can only be described as a very, very, very good weekend, during which I drank much beer (including Guinness — I know!), was surrounded — on two separate occasions — by drunken men singing "Kiss Me, I'm Shitfaced" (don't ask — I don't get it, either, but there they were, and quite enjoying themselves ...) and got an Electrical/Computer Engineering for Dummies/Sarah edumacation ...

Cheers.