Soon Atmananda and Sal were delivering trays of crunchy nachos. I garnished mine with sour cream to alleviate the delicious, consciousness -altering burn of the hot sauce. As we ate, I felt proud that I had managed to stop thinking about the women. Then I had to tell myself to be careful, lest my ego swell instead. Finally, I told myself to relax. Which I did. The food, the crackling fireplace, and the medieval trumpet and recorder music reminded me of something distant, intangible, and noble. My spirit soared. "The kid and I are going to write some songs for you," Atmananda announced. I looked at him, perplexed. After all, I was no longer "the baby" but "the kid." He motioned for me to follow him upstairs. I immediately assumed that my brother would be right beside me when I climbed those stairs: him first and then me. But he just sat there, boosting my confidence with a faraway smile. I nearly told Atmananda to write the song with my brother. Instead, I chose instead to go with the flow. I climbed. "If you are going to study English," Atmananda told me, "you might as well get used to putting together words." He grinned mischievously. "Let's write songs about Sal." At first, he was the driving force behind the creative process; I merely smiled at each of his ideas. Later, though, I came up with a few lines of my own, which seemed to blend with his, and after about forty-five minutes we marched triumphantly downstairs and sang together. Soul of Sal (sung to the tune of O Sole Mio) Ohhhh, soul of Sal, Aspire tonight. Don't be a shmuck-o, Manifest Light. Tomorrow--may be too late, Now is never, My gazpacho, she cannot 'a wait. Now is the right time, The food delight time, So open up 'a you mouth, And face the south. Tomorrow--may be too late, Now is never, My gazpacho, she cannot 'a wait. We sang and danced around Sal, who tried to maintain a dignified countenance but who ended up laughing along with the rest of us. Then Rachel made cinnamon-spiced, hot apple cider and we sat around the fire sipping the brew. Later, Atmananda sang a revised version of I Don Quixote from Man of La Mancha: Hear me heathens and wizards and servants of sin, All your dastardly doings are past, For a holy endeavor is now to begin, I am I Atmananda--the humble and pure! My destiny calls and I go, And the wild winds of fortune shall carry me onward, Oh whither soever they blow. Whither soever they blow, Onward to glory I go!