By New Year. 2023. The year the savings cross six figures. The year the Manual reaches completion. The year — maybe, possibly, if courage and capital and timing align — the year the lease is signed. The year Rivera's gets an address.
Jessica and I sat on the patio with champagne and the spreadsheet and the goals. 2023 goals: 1) Cross $100,000 by February (on track). 2) Complete The Manual by April (12 pages to go). 3) Enter the State Championship again. 4) Begin lease negotiations with David Kim. 5) Hire an architect for the build-out design. 6) Set the opening date.
Goal six is the one that made my hand shake when I wrote it. Set the opening date. An actual date on an actual calendar when Rivera's opens its doors and serves its first customer. The date is not final. The date may move. But the act of setting it — of committing to a target — changes everything. A dream without a date is a wish. A dream with a date is a plan. We have been planning for seven years. It is time to set the date.
Roberto called at midnight. He does not call at midnight. He said, "Happy New Year, mijo. This is the year." He said that last year. He says it every year. But this year, for the first time, I believe him. Not because the words are different. Because the numbers are different. Because the location is available. Because the Manual is nearly done. Because the savings are nearly there. Because the fire has been building for seven years and the fuel is stacked and the air is flowing and the only thing missing is the match.
This is the year. Or the next year. Or the year after. But the years are getting shorter and the dream is getting closer and the fire does not wait forever. The fire wants to burn. And I am ready to let it.
Black-eyed peas. Cornbread. Luck and happiness. The tradition that starts every year, that anchors every January, that reminds me that the simplest food — beans, bread, salt — is the foundation of everything. You do not build a restaurant on brisket. You build it on black-eyed peas. You build it on the belief that the next year will be better, and the year after that, and the year after that, and the fire does not go out.
2023. Let us cook.
Every year I make the same thing on January 1st — black-eyed peas simmering low on the back burner and a skillet of cornbread that fills the kitchen with the smell of something real. But before the cornbread, there is the flour. This year, with the savings nearly crossed and the Manual nearly finished and Roberto’s voice still echoing from midnight, I wanted to start from the very beginning — not a box, not a shortcut, but flour I made myself, in my own kitchen, on the first morning of the year that might finally be the year. Homemade oat flour is almost embarrassingly simple, but that’s exactly the point: the foundation is always simpler than you expect.
Homemade Oat Flour
Prep Time: 5 minutes | Cook Time: 0 minutes | Total Time: 5 minutes | Servings: Makes about 1 cup
Ingredients
- 1 cup rolled oats (old-fashioned or quick oats; certified gluten-free if needed)
Instructions
- Measure your oats. Add 1 cup of rolled oats to a high-powered blender or food processor. For a finer, smoother flour, a blender will give you the best result.
- Blend until fine. Process on high for 30 to 60 seconds, stopping once to scrape down the sides if needed, until the oats are ground to a fine, uniform powder with no visible flakes remaining.
- Check the texture. Rub a pinch between your fingers — it should feel like soft, slightly coarse flour. If you still feel gritty flakes, blend for another 15 to 20 seconds.
- Sift if desired. For baking projects like cornbread or muffins where a light crumb matters, sift the flour through a fine-mesh strainer to remove any remaining large pieces.
- Store or use immediately. Use right away, or transfer to an airtight jar and store at room temperature for up to 3 months, or in the freezer for up to 6 months.
Nutrition (per serving, approx. 1/4 cup)
Calories: 110 | Protein: 4g | Fat: 2g | Carbs: 19g | Fiber: 2g | Sodium: 0mg