Yesterday we began to methodically attack the chicharon (deep fried pork yum yum) that Mama apparently bought in bulk. After months of healthy living in Boston, I sat down after breakfast and felt my blood pressure go up and up and up. All I needed to complete the experience was some whiskey and tobacco, and then perhaps a shovel and a coffin.
This Christmas Eve morning, Mama prepped a salad and a vegetable-heavy dish (sinigang) to counteract the oily fatty heart attack that is our main meal. It was glorious. According to my math, I will live another 10 years if the pork doesn't kill me first.
That sound you're hearing isn't the sound of Christmas bells -- it's my arteries going CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
Merry Christmas! HO HO HO!!!
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