A still from the TV show Drop Dead Diva, from which one line stood out in a recent viewing: “Don’t let anyone tell you how to live your life, unless you’re a serial killer.”

The enthusiasm from last week has spilled over. Time has been marked by delicate movements — setting out to INA market to buy pork, placing an order for liver, picking it up the next day, so that all of Monday evening was spent with my sister and I role-playing as Goan housewives, supervising each other as we tended to the boiling and the cutting of the meat, followed by the roasting of each diced bit, and finally the assembling over the fire till we were left with a rich portion of Sorpotel, enough to feed a party of 50. Last night, we administered over the Goan green curry chicken, picking off tender shoots of coriander that would lend its hue to the masala, adding a generous helping of grated coconut that would alter its texture, with boiled potatoes thrown in as the finale drew near and the three kilos of chicken was bubbling like the contents of a witches’ cauldron.