calbotes ate handfuls. More than a tradition, was a necessity, like a mantra or an elixir of life, yet rustic way, of course. Since everything is short, I knew better than everything else. And the smoke rising from the coals and slipped through the holes in the pan ass was purifying, no doubt. crushing peeled chestnuts in his hands, almost burning, because no one wanted to wait until it cools, and the fingers were sooty black, but no matter. Blew the wrinkled fruit before stuffing it into his mouth and chewing still going direct to the next.
And slowly he was killing the winter to autumn.
