Last night I dreamed that I was back at my hometown high school attending a poetry class taught by someone who reminded me simultaneously of both my high school Frech teacher and Rachels’ mother on Glee.
(Note to self: must get healthy again so I stop watching TV all day.)
Our teacher told us all to open our books to a poem called “Wonder Why.”
Everyone else executed this perfectly while I remained a bit stumped.
Turns out that instead of bringing an anthology of poetry to class, I had brought a Vietnamese cookbook.
When I opened my book, hot steamy, fluffy rice poured out, with a side of flank steak.
Which I think means my subconscious really wants me to get better, stop eating toast for every meal, get in the kitchen, and do some real cooking.
That or my food is pure poetry?? Ha Ha! 🙂