Tamales are Calling for Me

You should hear Alex sing Art is Calling for Me. He's a pro. I just hope it doesn't get him harassed by his peers as he gets older.

His latest and greatest, in my opinion, was yesterday, when he was singing Una Voce Poco Fa, but instead of "e cento trappole" he was singing, "Cecilia Bartoli." I asked him about that... apparently he thought those were the words. Husband, of course, knows that they're not, which is why HE sings, "a chinchilla barfed on me" in that spot. Charming, no?

The conservatory has been able to arrange private lessons for Alex with his former teacher. He starts tomorrow. I'm so happy! He's happy about it too. I wonder what she'll do with him.

So it's all working out. Since his lesson will be 30 minutes to my 45, Husband will have to take them. Then they'll go to the farmer's market where, besides fresh produce and local meat, this little hole-in-the-wall Mexican grocery store sells fresh tamales from a big container in the back. No doubt someone is up at 3am making these to sell every Saturday at $1.50 each. You unwrap those babies to find chicken or pork with red, green or mole sauce, surrounded by corn meal. Spicy enough to burn but not so spicy that they ruin your day. My mouth is watering just thinking about them. My only fear is that the health department will one day realize what's going on and will shut them down. Until then...Saturday's lunch AND dinner taken are care of each week.

Now I'm so distracted by the thought of those tamales that I can't write any more.