This morning the yelling and recorder-playing were followed by the sounds of violent, ear-shattering retching. I have only heard one other person vomit like this in my entire life, and I remember thinking that the sounds coming from this person's body didn't even sound human; I mean, I know throwing up isn't fun, but do you really have to scream while you do it? The only other sound I can compare it to is my grandmother sneezing, a sound which scientists have actually reported picking up on seismometers in China.
I stumbled into the kitchen this morning and mumbled a hello to my wonderful host, Molly. "Did you hear Paloma today?" she asked me.
"Yeah, I did," I replied. "Did you hear that god awful noise he was making, too?"
"Yeah," she replied with disgust. "I think it was a recorder."
"No, I mean...Well, yeah," I agreed. "Yeah, I think you're right."
For my fellow foodies, this was my breakfast this morning:
After my early-morning vomit serenade, being greeted by a bowl of watery, chunky tomato pulp was a bit hard to stomach, quite literally, and so I was understandably a bit skeptical. But never wanting to be one to step down from a gustatory challenge, I partook, and I have to say that with a little olive oil and salt mixed in, and a slice of turkey on top, it was quite tasty. Of course Molly may still be a few steps ahead of me, foodie-wise, as she voluntarily eats pate for breakfast, and I love me some pate, but for breakfast give me some Nutella any day. Also there is currently in her kitchen a ham, and this ham has a hoof, and it has hair, and Talia, I am just warning you now, so be prepared. These Spaniards, even the adopted ones, love their meat, it seems, perhaps almost as much as the Christians do.
Tonight: paella. To be continued...