Dinner is magical. I can eat until I am dead. For the last few days we had soup–a chicken broth with potatoes and spices, plus homemade yogurt, plus homemade corn bread, plus a magical magical concoction known only as tkemali, which is like a plum chutney. Babua has taken it upon himself to oversee my eating. He yells “Ch’amo!”, grabs his belly, and then shakes it. “Ch’amo!” I am a slug.