It is Monday and I live in Texas.

The Broken Spoke? Never happened—I couldn’t find it! I did inadvertently stumble on Flipnotics, though, where I drank my first Lone Star beer (after all, I live in Texas now!) and caught the end of a set by a guitarist-accordion duo. Not really my thing, this cutesy indie rock stuff, and not exactly what I had hoped for my night out, but driving down Lamar and drinking in the neon signage, and passing a restaurant at which a fire dancer was performing, made it an interesting jaunt nonetheless. I plan to have a seeing-Dale Watson rematch tonight at the Continental Club. I’ve never even heard his music, but at this point it’s the principle of the thing. I know I said one nightlifey-type activity per week, but hey, it’s a new week, and hey, I’m unemployed and have money in the bank, so I might as well live it up now.

Speaking of principles (and irrelevant segues), I have discovered WinCo’s benevolent inverse: H.E.B! At H.E.B. (or at least the one near my house on this Saturday afternoon; I have in all truth visited more anarchic permutations), everything is cheap and pristine and people BEHAVE themselves. Items spotted that made me think, wow, I live in a new region of the United States:

Corn nuggets (in the frozen food aisle)

Fresh tomatillos (in the produce aisle)

Various dried chiles (also in the produce aisle)

Red velvet cake (in the bakery aisle)

Also, also, yesterday I made use of my farmer’s market acquisitions to produce the following, from How to Cook Everything Vegetarian by Mark Bittman. But first, a detour: as a fairly enthusiastic follower of various food blogs, I have noticed, along with the interesting ideas and expertly tantalizing photography, a certain breathless, winsome, whimsical, dare I say borderline-precious tone that seems rather common among (at the risk of sounding like a misogynist rather than a misanthropist) lady food bloggers, and I’m sorry to say, this is not speaking my language, people. So, in that spirit, RAWR!  I am lonely and angry and made this recipe! RAWR! I frequently rail against life and The Fates with an apoplexy that would make [insert someone really unbalanced here] look centered! RAWR, I cook like the damned! And without further ado:

Linguine (or in my case, fettuccine) with Raw Tomato Sauce:

Salt

2 C. cored and roughly chopped ripe tomato (I just used what I had, have no idea how much it amounted to)

2 T. extra virgin olive oil (I bet I used more, because I am all about the fat)

2 cloves garlic, lightly smashed (I used all of the miniscule cloves from one farmer’s market bulb, and in truth, I smashed the ever-living daylights out of them)

¼ to ½ C. roughly minced fresh basil leaves (I used a lot more, since I have a ton, and what else will I accomplish with it in a timely manner?)

Freshly ground black pepper (please—what’s wrong with letting McCormick handle that for me?)

1 lb. linguine or other long pasta (okay!)

Freshly grated Parmesan cheese (optional) (well, since it was optional, I exercised my option to skip it)

*

Bring a large pot of water to a boil and salt it. (I salted it before bringing to a boil—nothing bad happened.)

Put the tomato, oil, garlic, and half the basil (I dumped it in all at once) in a broad-brimmed bowl (take a moment to admire the alliteration). Sprinkle with salt and pepper. Mash together well, using a fork or potato masher, but do not puree (no danger there!). (According to the recipe, you can make the sauce an hour or two beforehand and let it rest at room temperature.)

Cook the pasta in the boiling water until tender but not mushy (with fresh pasta, I find that six to eight minutes seems to be sufficient). Ladle some of the cooking water into the sauce to thin it out a bit and warm it up (a technique of which I was always unfoundedly skeptical, until this and other experiments this summer convinced me that it’s like magic!). Remove the garlic (I just picked around it, but then I’m firmly entrenched in the Stinking Rose camp). Toss the pasta with the sauce and top with the remaining basil (if rationing basil throughout the recipe is your thing); pass the (optional, remember!) grated Parmesan at the table. (Or if you’re like me and have no furniture, eat it off a paper plate whilst sitting cross-legged on the floor and your cat inspects it and determines that it is of no interest to him—stupid humans! They’ll eat anything!).

Look! I am a domestic goddess!