"Mañaña, mañana!", it birdie kept answering to my gran's murmured prayer to come down a ledge it had found temporary safety upon.
It was the only word it knew, but for once at least it had found it to be becoming... if not of use.
No sooner is it in the sack than you may drown it in the sink, smash it against a wall, twist its neck to avoid looking into its eyes, or hearing its words while imagining it means them... Enough of that: whichever way it's going to end up where it rightly belongs: en la cazuela...
A pressure cooker works best: pluck the exotic thing thoroughly and throw it inside, half-gutted, together with: 1 peeled tomato, half an onion, chopped, one chili pepper, a clove of garlic, a drizzle of oil, and a pinch of salt.
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