my pantry’s a liar. looks organized from the outside — wooden door, little handle, nothing scandalous. open it though and you’ll see… chaos. like, bags of dried chilies shoved behind cereal boxes, one lime rolling around like it’s hiding from taxes, a half-used pack of tortillas with the clip missing so they’ve curled into hard little fans. every “essential” is in there, but it’s not the Instagram version. it’s the real-life version.
there’s always beans. always. sometimes dried, sitting smugly in a jar like they know I’ll forget to soak them. sometimes cans — pinto, black, refried — stacked in awkward pyramids because I get overexcited at sales. once, I thought I was being fancy and bought heirloom beans online. waited three days soaking them (okay, maybe it was one, but it felt like forever), cooked them, burned them because I left the stove to water a plant. the plant died too.
dried chilies. oh man. ancho, guajillo, pasilla, chipotle. I collect them the way some people collect shoes. do I remember which is which? nah. half the time I grab a random one, sniff it, shrug. sometimes I get a mild, smoky hug. sometimes I get punched in the face with fire and regret. one time I mixed them all together because I couldn’t decide. tasted amazing but I had to sit with a glass of milk like a child.
side note: chili flakes spill everywhere. I’m convinced they multiply overnight.
masa harina. the bag I keep buying because I swear I’ll make tortillas “properly.” I did, twice. flour storm all over the counters, little disks that turned into frisbees. I almost cried, then laughed, then ate them anyway because who throws away fresh tortillas even when they’re ugly? now the bag just stares at me every time I reach for sugar.
rice. so much rice. I try to make Mexican red rice and it betrays me every time. too wet, too dry, somehow both. my neighbor Brenda (yep, her again) once said it tasted “fine” while pouring herself another glass of wine. “fine” is not a compliment, Brenda.
spices. cumin, oregano (the Mexican kind is different, by the way), cinnamon sticks I swore I’d use but mostly just trip over in the drawer. once I found a rock-hard packet of achiote paste in there, older than my lease. couldn’t throw it away. felt like it had seniority.
canned chaos: chipotles in adobo (always a half-used can in the fridge door, sticky, daring me to forget it), hominy (bought for pozole, never made pozole), random salsas from the “import” aisle that cost too much but made me feel cultured.
and hot sauce. dear god, the hot sauce. valentina, tapatío, cholula, bottles with labels I can’t pronounce. do I need twenty? no. do I use all of them? also no. but one time a friend came over, opened the pantry, saw the lineup, and said, “wow, you’re legit.” so now I keep buying more like it’s a personality trait.
things that shouldn’t be there but are:
limes (always end up shriveled, fossilized)
tortillas (half-open packs)
random chocolate bars I hid from myself and forgot
dog treats (?? why)
I read some glossy article once about “the authentic Mexican pantry.” it listed hibiscus flowers, piloncillo cones, mole pastes in cute jars. I wanted that. but real life? real life is me at midnight, staring into the pantry, pulling out a can of beans and a packet of tortillas and pretending it’s intentional.
and maybe that’s the essential thing. it’s not having the perfect list. it’s the mess. the surprises. the fact that even in the chaos, there’s always something to turn into dinner.