Team Wet Dog

i'm no andy warhol — phone image #87.3

The fire alarm went off at 2 a.m. last night — not the one in the building that you normally ignore because you know, just know, that you'll get halfway down the stairs with a bunch of other still-asleep people, and then it will go off, no, this was the smoke alarm in my apartment.

Half asleep, I sat up  and looked around. No fire. I tried to smell something burning, but there was nothing. The smoke detector had gone silent, so I fell back into bed.

Strange dreams followed. School and family, cooking. Voting. My father. My childhood home. But they didn't really make sense, not in the way you'd expect.

When I woke up again, hours later, I could taste cilantro.

This nutrition class I'm taking will be over in two days. To be honest, I don't think I've learned very much; I'm just happy to have one less thing weighing on my time.

The class was supposed to be "Nutrition for the Culinary Professional" (I'm not, for the record), but it ended up being a basic nutrition class with 90 percent of the menu planning regarding how to feed special populations — vegetarians, diabetics, the elderly, people at risk for heart disease.

All important topics, of course, but not what I had hoped to really learn. Maybe I'll look back in a few weeks or months and realize I learned more than I thought, but so far I am doubting it.

— Robert

(11/7/06) 
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