I started feeling the itch of throat over the weekend, which signaled the arrival of a full-on head cold. Brain inoperative; testing a batch of something that may resemble magic sauce from The Flame Broiler delayed.
For now, it’s me and a pot of pozole that my housekeeper providentially delivered this morning. I make it, and it’s good. She makes it, and it’s incredible, an elixir which makes angels weep in the face of its earthly perfection, the opaque cinnabar liquid delivering spice without heat amidst chunks of tender ham hock and juicy hominy. I hope she gives me the recipe some day. That, and teaches me how to make tamales.