fromthemouthofmoi

This is a dish I imagined and saw in a dream. I saw the layers of colour and couldn't believe how gorgeous it all was. The white rice with the pink salmon coloured shrimp which swim in a gorgeous yellow sauce that has slices of avocado which hold two shades of exquisite green. The colours woke me up but it was the ingredients which I was sure would esthetically work. I had to close my eyes to stay in dream state to remember the ingredients though. Gather together what you need: 1 Large Spanish onion Uncooked White or Basmati rice (enough for 4) 1 Avocado 1 Chicken bouillon cube (Better Than Bouillon is better) 20 fresh uncooked shrimp (as large as you can afford) A thickening agent such as cornstarch Water Black pepper (Black was seen in the dream but white pepper works better) A saucepan for the rice and a frying pan for everything else. I did not use cast iron in the dream. Slice the onion from pole to pole. Slice the onion again so that you are left with the natur

I just dreamt Obama took me on a date to his favourite restaurant. Once you entered there were four old venetian pressed glass doors to choose from. Each door had a word printed on it which gave indication to what sort of food would be served on the other side. He said we were going through door four. We entered, somehow traveled downwards, landed, and had to travel down yet again. We entered a vaulted room, a beautiful room with wood wainscoting and tiles reminiscent of the Oyster Bar in Grand Central except it was smaller and more intimate. The table before us was round and no bigger than a plate. They brought an appetizer which I began to eat when suddenly I needed to excuse myself to the bathroom. I left, fell down some stairs, got In a fight with a woman who imagined I was messing with her husband ( I wasn't messing with him, she just caught him adjusting my bra strap after I'd asked him too), and I realized that I had gotten some weird stain on my dress, the dress Obama h

The day of this dream I am sent some pictures of a man I know wearing a funny hat. The hat looks to me like the kind of hat white men wear when they are trying to communicate with Bob Marley. Something dreadlocks are meant to be stuffed into. I go to sleep and dream this:  I am wearing your hat; it is stuck on my head.  I waken, lean over to check the time on the clock and begin to tell you, out loud, about the dream I've just had. I've forgotten you are not here. Extraction : This man and I talk about racial stereotypes. I have ideas of my own about white men and Bob Marley. And I have strong feelings about hats. I think I've just combined it all into my own little movie where it ends with me accepting this thing I began by imagining was a his shit, not my shit type of thing. I woke to the realization that I had a meeting of the minds with him. I feel so connected. I miss him and had simply forgotten he wasn't there.

Last night I dreamt that Zaza received a visa and came to visit me as a surprise. We went to buy groceries but I couldn't find my car so we walked. As we walked we got even more lost and suddenly we were walking near a place called the French Gorge. The water was beautiful and filled with violent whirlpools. The grass we walked upon was bright green and mossy. As we looked out at the water suddenly a large black and white shape began to emerge from the water that looked like a whale. It was so close we could almost touch it. As the shape broke through the water we saw that is was a cow. We learned that the cows entered the water to eat at the bottom and that when they needed to come back up the whirlpools sent them back to the surface and that the cows had taught themselves to do this. The cows were always placed standing back on the grass. We continued to walk and as we did the animals became more and more odd and frightening. Always Zaza held my hand and helped me walk along the

I am being shown a series of books written by pilgrims that include photos of them engaged in group sex. The man showing them to me keeps them in an archive and claims they are too profound to be seen by the public. He offers to take me to lunch. On the way to lunch I fall and he runs to help me,  lifts me up and holds me close and I can feel he has a hard on. When the embrace ends I see he is a priest and instead of lunch he takes me to mass. At mass, instead of hosts and wine for communion, mini fruit cups and mini martinis are passed around. The kid seated next to me in the pew is trying to lose weight and is picking the olives out of everything. Spaghetti, which seems to be wiggling, is coming out from under my coat and I am collecting it in a jar. Another parishioner sees the wiggling spaghetti in the jar, even though I am trying to conceal it, and begins to point at me. I try harder to cover the jar when I notice that one strand of spaghetti has gotten away and is crawling away

This blog entry was inspired by Dawn French's one woman show,  30 Million Minutes I once picked up a cat and threw it down an air shaft in rage. Since that time I have made amends by becoming a collector of cats unloved and abused by the former likes of me. My hands have done many a thing, some things not so wonderful but mostly good things. That cat lived with only surprise and shock; no broken bones had it. Once I tried to slap a man and another cat, -a different cat and time,- leapt up and scratched me good. It was so sudden and so obvious what the cat was doing that the man laughed, picked up the cat, praised its heroic efforts and went off with the cat cradled in his arms, like the lover I should have been. I slunk off feeling nothing but shame. I had been shown up by a cat. Nothing is more humiliating. A good lesson learned. My hands are things even cats have opinions about. By the way that cat, Jake, was my cat and not his... When I was in my teens my hands spen