divine angst

I dreamed last night that I was hanging out with Martha. We were at her home, but it wasn’t in Connecticut—or, if it was, it was near a subdivision of homes on a series of canals.

So we were making sandwiches at her various neighbors’ homes, and the only sandwich I remember clearly was the one at the home of her neighbor who had just caught a 2-foot long goldfish in the canal in front of his house.

(By the way, there was also a barge tooling around on the canals, ferrying people and mail, and it almost took us down. Even though we were in a Ford Explorer.)

Back the sandwiches. This neighbor had an adopted daughter—a toddler—from Russia. So we were making “Russian” sandwiches.

What did this involve? Well, it involved potato bread, which I love, something in a squeeze bottle that said “Mayonnaise with Cheese” and had the consistency of caesar dressing. And then it had lettuce, radishes, and beets. I despise radishes, but I made myself a big sandwich with radishes. And beets.

And then I woke up to discover I was drooling copiously on my pillow.