|Therapist:||Shall we begin?|
|Therapist:||(tapping pen on pad) Tell me about your dream.|
|Gino:||(clearing throat and pausing)|
|Gino:||I was at a restaurant all by myself. And the chef kept bringing out all these dishes for me to sample. The food was so good that I started making promises that I knew I would never keep and there was this woman telling me I could watch her changing the light bulb if I finished all of my vegetables. Then these bears with picnic baskets full of French bread, red wine, and gargonzola cheese were chasing me through a kitchen. (stopping)|
|Therapist:||What happened next?|
|Gino:||I was taking photos at a Chicago Foodie conference and the foodies were being impatient because a novice chef was taking his time preparing couscous with cranberries and simmering a blogger in a brown gravy. And then Halle Berry was putting a baby bib on me and telling me to divorce my wife and eat a red velvet cake that she had baked for my birthday and that I could have a smoke afterwards. (long pause)|
|Gino:||(thoroughly rumpled) I’m not married.|
Well, that is a bit of a random yet vivid dream, but that is pretty much what I can remember of it. Nothing like going to Wonderland in your sleep after a heavy meal. I had gone to an Italian restaurant with a few friends and we all had eaten way more than we should have. It was several hours before I could lie down with any kind of comfort and no sooner had I fallen asleep than it seemed that I had these weird dreams involving eating more food, a round table of food bloggers with incredible appetites and randy thoughts, and a host of bizarre creations that never would have manifested themselves in my sleep had I not over-indulged at that Italian restaurant. Do I regret stuffing myself to excess? I think that is perhaps the one part of my dream related to making promises that I seemingly will not keep. I have said on numerous occasions that I will never eat until I am miserable, but it is the sweetest discomfort, and so I go overboard. I think Halle Berry popping into my dreams is about something all together different, though.
Now, this thing about other bloggers in my dream certainly raised a question: Would it be possible to get a group of Chicago foodies all in one restaurant together for some casual dining and clowning about our food experiences? I can only imagine the humour derived from getting a bunch of appetite-wild characters in a single room to discuss the food, atmosphere, recommendations or rejections, and any other food topics. There are all sorts of conferences that fill hotels and conventions centres. Maybe there should be a foodie convention and perhaps Chicago could be the city to host the first. Hmm. There could be a guest chef and the speaker of the evening could be lively food critic. There could be seminars on how not to write bad blog posts. Restaurants like Schwa, Alinea, Moto, and Vermilion would cater the food. Then again, I may be dreaming still, even while typing this post. What I know with certainty is that my belly is growling — no lie — and there is a slice of red velvet cake in the kitchen that needs to be loved.
Wait. How did that red velvet cake get out of my dream and Halle Berry didn’t?