as i go on toward those seventies, my dreams become ever more detailed. i am much younger during those nightly delusions, waking at first in frantic delight. then, as in a beethoven quartet, interwoven, melody chasing the theme, at first harmonic, but soon turning dissonant, giving me the sense of absolute self-depreciation and sadly, unworthiness. such night time figments, fancies, even strange reveries, had me often in the kitchen from where i served the famous, some infamous, or at least those blatantly wicked. some done up as beautiful woman. or as ruthless villains. i have baked bread in the past while awake, wanting a fresh loaf, berkeley and acme too far to drive. i'm good at bread, but expanding at night in this dream on one occasion, i constructed a fruit pie. truly. layered with almond paste, fragrant of black currant. but i ask you, why was it conquered for vladimir putin? true, while awake, i had seen an image of the man, eyelashes extended, lids bluely shadowed, cheeks heavily rouged, and thickly glossed lips. it must have impressed me. 

another night had me dish up french onion soup, which in my dream was spooned off with slurpy delight and much - of this i am certain - vivid burping by heidi klum. please understand that i hardly know who she is, as my admiration for feminine dreams revolve more around woman like 'flat as a board agatha', the baker girl of little cakes in the movie grand budapest hotel. having seen this film three times in as many days, she has yet to enter my nights. though, i like the idea of cake baking, i have to confess that various tidy exactitudes rendering recipes into cakes always worry me. my cakes mostly turned straight from the oven into door stoppers, having risen not more than by half, greasy sinkers, even when pursued with eager diligence from lowly techniques and likely proofed elementary to most bakers. i simply have no genetic feeling for measures. nor for addition. my math teacher already told me so then. his claim that one apple plus two apples makes three, to which i said then, it would depend on the apple. a northern spy and two gravenstein won't ever make three. mr.rosenblum threw a wet sponge, missing, but messing the homework of the girl behind me. mathematics in general, chiefly algebra left me dumb and stupid, without comprehension. pythagorus may have had an angle with his hypotenuse, but what did he know from apples?

my dreams typically wake me at a crescendo. like the moment the pope changed from his day-shoes to red slippers. that key moment in my slumber had me turn on my radio, where listeners were asked to name the first anti-pope. right away i knew, it was none other than hippolytus of rome. when asked how i knew, i said: see, my uncle was a pope. dreams can be so revealing, i'm lutheran really, but only because my mother was jewish and her dad had converted scarcely in time. i never know where is the truth in my dreams. the brain, which, after all holds the essence of all reality, functional, fictional, petty parochial even. dreams and factual truth must have the same origin somewhere, at times i think there is a cocktail shaker up there in  my head, a cement mixer, an egg beater. depending on the result, what goes in has to arrive first via the variant intake sensors, eyes, nose, mouth, ears, subliminals, like impressions and commencements.
then i had this dream. it was all about touch, smell, mouth taste and at that, a very peculiar sensation of embouchement. having recently seen the movie 'eat drink man woman', which you might recall, starts out in a chef's chinese kitchen. amongst those many other foods he prepared was this very elegant and beautiful sequence of making wontons. you know, those exquisite delicacies wrapped in plain noodle dough and either fried or ventured into a simmering broth. in my midnight reverie i began making the broth. an oxtail, chopped into five pieces and rendered into a bouillon after a simmer for several hours. so, i had time, though in my weary dozing time had no sense, i prepped the filling of wontons, a lovely mingle of rock shrimp, lean pork, white bread, chives, pea sprouts and those usuals, salt, pepper and mustard. spooned onto the wonton square, folded in a diagonal half, edges gummed in egg yolk, tips pinched across, in all, i made a dozen, simmered for minutes in my heavenly broth.
you can see that this fancy needed a next day reality. i got all the ingredients, oxtail, pork, shrimp and wrappers, and like in the dream, worked all into those wontons for our dinner. luscious, moist, succulently lavish, sumptuous and delectable. stephanie turned chinese, her mandarin lips lush in praise of my savory endeavor.