My sister-in-law had a dream last night that I was in a small, local bookstore. The only local bookstore I could think of was the giant Borders on St. Charles, so I went. The magazine section was HUGE, bigger than the one at Barnes and Noble at the Grove in L.A. They had many sewing, crafting, and jewelry making magazines I’d never seen before and a giant section for guns and an even bigger one for hunting and fishing.
Upstairs, the film section was much smaller and the music section was much larger than in L.A. But, the biggest section of all was the cooking section. It had dozens of subdivisions: local cooking, restaurant cookbooks and books about restaurants, books from television shows or their stars (complete with a television playing a cooking show), wine, international cooking, and on and on. I used to collect cookbooks so it was pretty overwhelming.
Don’t know what my sister-in-law’s dream was about, but as I was leaving, a shorter local version of Keanu Reeves walked past me and smiled.
While cooking tonight, or rather, while eating what I cooked, I realized that I’ve been considered a good cook my whole life and now I may be one of the lamest cooks in the city. Damn, just when I moved to a place where men care if you can cook.