Does it count as a nightmare if you wake in anger?
I don’t dream often. That is, I don’t frequently remember having dreamt. The slow advance of sleep apnia all but eliminated my REM sleep for a few decades, and now that I’ve recovered, waking to remember a dream is still quite an event.
The other night, I awoke in a start, absolutely furious. As my waking mind gathered itself, I slowly began to remember my dream. I was standing in front of my stove. It was actually my stove, not some generic kitchen appliance, placed in more-or-less my kitchen. On my stove was a stock pot. It wasn’t the stock pot I think of as mine. Mine is a generous 30 quarts of “Who’s your Daddy?” that belongs to only me. This might have been another of the large pots in the house, one that wasn’t hard to look down into. The pot was about two-thirds full of water, and I was tossing spices into the pot: peppercorns, cloves, thick strips of cinnamon, roasted fennel seeds and a few star anise pods (that adds up to non-Szechuan five-spice if you’re following along at home). I think there was a flexible cutting board with rough-cut aromatics on the side: shallot, garlic, ginger, maybe some cilantro stems.
It’s at this point that I knew I was making pho, that supernatural, ultimately harmonious elixir of stock, spices and aromatics that can banish winter and transport me back to Southeast Asia in a single whiff. I know, in my dream I’m building the stock backwards, but it made sense at the time. I had water warming in the pot with whole spices bobbing on the surface, aromatics on the side, and I reached out to pick up the meat. In my hand was a package of beef tenderloin. I gaped. I can’t make a decent stock with lean, boneless meat! I looked around for what must be the rest of the meat. I found some cut steaks, but they, too, were boneless. In my dream, I don’t know who did the shopping. It might have been someone else, it might have been me. All I know is I’m halfway into assembling a sacred pot of pho-to-be, and I’m missing the most important ingredients: bones and connective tissue! I felt the beginnings of a feral growl starting in the back of my throat as I looked back and forth at the boneless meat in my hands incredulously, exasperatedly, furiously.
I sat up in bed in a flurry of arms and sheets, my pulse pounding in my temple, ready to yell at someone, anyone. The predawn room was dark, the setting serene, the sound of another’s breath eating away my near-rage in small bites, one after another. I hadn’t ruined a pot of pho. Nobody had failed at provisioning. All was right with the world. I might not be able to find my way back to sleep, but the sun would soon rise. Time for a cuppa.
The other night, I awoke in a start, absolutely furious. As my waking mind gathered itself, I slowly began to remember my dream. I was standing in front of my stove. It was actually my stove, not some generic kitchen appliance, placed in more-or-less my kitchen. On my stove was a stock pot. It wasn’t the stock pot I think of as mine. Mine is a generous 30 quarts of “Who’s your Daddy?” that belongs to only me. This might have been another of the large pots in the house, one that wasn’t hard to look down into. The pot was about two-thirds full of water, and I was tossing spices into the pot: peppercorns, cloves, thick strips of cinnamon, roasted fennel seeds and a few star anise pods (that adds up to non-Szechuan five-spice if you’re following along at home). I think there was a flexible cutting board with rough-cut aromatics on the side: shallot, garlic, ginger, maybe some cilantro stems.
It’s at this point that I knew I was making pho, that supernatural, ultimately harmonious elixir of stock, spices and aromatics that can banish winter and transport me back to Southeast Asia in a single whiff. I know, in my dream I’m building the stock backwards, but it made sense at the time. I had water warming in the pot with whole spices bobbing on the surface, aromatics on the side, and I reached out to pick up the meat. In my hand was a package of beef tenderloin. I gaped. I can’t make a decent stock with lean, boneless meat! I looked around for what must be the rest of the meat. I found some cut steaks, but they, too, were boneless. In my dream, I don’t know who did the shopping. It might have been someone else, it might have been me. All I know is I’m halfway into assembling a sacred pot of pho-to-be, and I’m missing the most important ingredients: bones and connective tissue! I felt the beginnings of a feral growl starting in the back of my throat as I looked back and forth at the boneless meat in my hands incredulously, exasperatedly, furiously.
I sat up in bed in a flurry of arms and sheets, my pulse pounding in my temple, ready to yell at someone, anyone. The predawn room was dark, the setting serene, the sound of another’s breath eating away my near-rage in small bites, one after another. I hadn’t ruined a pot of pho. Nobody had failed at provisioning. All was right with the world. I might not be able to find my way back to sleep, but the sun would soon rise. Time for a cuppa.