No Juice Bar

I spent today researching whether I could sell fresh wellness shots out of a gym that hasn't opened yet. It's called Element, it's seven minutes from my apartment, and I already pitched the owner on a three-week test. The problem is the gym has no kitchen, no vendor space, no juice bar — just a refrigerator. So the whole pitch had to shrink into a sealed can: small, portable, something I could sell to several other gyms too.

The part that surprised me was the law. Texas cottage food rules say low-acid canned or bottled drinks have to be made in a licensed facility — my kitchen isn't one. High-acid ones are easier but the labels get fussy. So my grand fresh-ginger plan is now a research project about acidity levels and licensed kitchens. The dream is smaller and smarter than it started this morning.

Also today: I named my assistant Diva. My own assistant is called Afolabi, and now I have Diva. The apartment has never felt this staffed.