We have just finished the last of the three roadkill pheasants brought in Geoffrey's backpack on the plane from London (along with a huge bag of flour from Ireland). They were very fresh ... better than the last one bought at a supermarket, wrapped in plastic and turning green after unexpected delays in Seville.

For the first several days after he got back, there were feathers on the floor, clogging the kitchen sink, and stuck to a couple of items. I have to keep a close eye on the kitchen, or the things in it, after he cleans things like this, or fish. Nothing bothers him. Bits of feather (fish scales), or flesh, or blood on the counter (wooden, porous). I know by now the things I have to sterilize: the scissors, the tap handle...

We made the last one with mushrooms and chestnuts. None were up to snuff, Geoffrey says because he did not hang them. I said you could have left them on the road for longer. But hanging must be done in a clean environment, and cold. Roadkill pheasants, as long as a trained eye can tell they are fresh, may be more desireable than hunted ones, as you always have the piece of lead from the shot inside, he tells me.
The hunting season must not have started yet. He said near his friend's estate, they were all over the place.

I am very proud of my scarf he brought me from Ireland. I feel like Ireland is an exotic, far away place. Somewhere that is actually cold at this time of year... somewhere you could hang pheasants.

More death (or theath), though not of animals... algo a bit more sinister. My students find this a difficult word somehow - either the pronunciation or the conjugation or something...

A student of mine who works in a former convent, last major renovation the 16th century (it is now a school), told me that there is a "dead baby" in the wall "right here" (he raised up his left arm to show the location), in his office. Apparently the nuns had illicit relations with the priests. There were secret passageways between the cathedral and two of the convents here, at least. So it is said. An older teacher related that back in some previous decade, there was work being done, and the workers discovered it. Apparently there are numerous dead babies in the walls. The nuns had to put them somewhere.

I mentioned the story to another student and she told me without missing a beat, that this is a common story across Spain. Her aunt was having a house built (back during the Civil War). It was near a convent, or over a former convent. There was a secret passage under the ground, which when dug up, revealed skulls. The aunt, being a very Christian lady, took home one of the skulls, and prayed for the poor thing's soul.

And that is my pre-Halloween, Jerez news.