Shall I put all the leftovers in the stew? Those wrinkled potatoes, the wilted string beans, the left-over turkey from Christmas that's still in the freezer? Shall I throw you in as well, my darling?
You do need to be blended with other ingredients, you know. Diced up and stirred in the pot. The fire will bring out your juices, that lingering sap still running in your veins. Whale-watching won't do it—nor will trout fishing or star gazing. You need to be righteously transformed into gravy, into the body and blood of Christ.
And you don´t have much time left. You look like a piece of smoked charqui hanging from the roof of the ruca in winter. Hard as leather—why, one could easily crack a tooth on that hardness.
Don´t you want to go back to the ancestors a bit more in shape? Softer, more seasoned? After all, you will be welcomed by your mother, your father, your other kin—including that grandfather of yours who abandoned the family. You may even be met by me!
So get ready. There´s the pot. Jump in.