read Christmas poem by Ferlinghetti here.
If moving from this house has no other benefit, I am assured to lose weight. Living in a home where good food is plentiful, I am the one forced to make the hard decisions. I have to tell them to make my plates light. Portion control is a necessity when aerobic opportunities are limited. Now in the days before Christmas I recall a friend asking me "Are your shirts fitting tighter lately?" Indeed they have. There is something about how these cheap fabrics shrink, and keep shrinking...
Still, it is exciting to watch the house alive with industry. The holiday effort includes the production of hundreds of tamales. Masa purchased in huge bags have been mixed to coat the insides of corn husk, a filling of chicken, cheese and jalapeño, then wrapped securely for steaming.
Also, on the stove, fresh jalapeños sit on the grill, turned until all sides are black, then tomatoes are roasted similarly. The black skins are discarded, and blended into the finest chili salsa with green onions, cilantro, and fresh garlic.
The kitchen comes alive like this every night under the guidance of my house manager. Paralyzed from the neck down, she guides all the work in her kitchen step-by-step.
Under her guidance many men and women have learned how to cook and manage time in the kitchen. So, in addition to the tamale effort, the kitchen will come alive tomorrow for the Christmas party.
My desire to get well enough to move out again is strong. Every day, I master new skills, and recapture pieces of my previous, independent life. Still, I am not as overly private as before, and my unsocial crust is falling off. I have come top like the people in this home. I guess I can stay a while longer.
Merry Christmas. Thank you for reading.