All I Have to do is Dream

I kinda have a thing for Anthony Bourdain. I've never watched an entire episode of his show on the Travel Channel, never read any of his books*. My feelings for him have none of the depth I reserve for my next husband, Steve Martin. But there's just something about this guy...

He's kinda handsome in a Lurchy kind of way. He has a deep, groovy voice. He's got a bit of a hipster/bad boy thing going on and for all I know he could be a big jerk (although someone who understands food and eating on the level that he does cannot possibly be all bad). His writing style, at least his food writing, is fairly casual. But I heard him on NPR the other day and he blew me away with his cynical, self-deprecating humor and articulate use of the English language. (I'm big on articulate people being not so much articulate myself. I repeat myself alot and never seem to have handy the word I want when it's needed...thus my admiration for people who can say beautifully what they mean to say).

Last night I dreamt that I was trying to clean wads of dough from a big, white plastic tub. I was very intent on the job, which wasn't going well, but was very calmly sticking to it. Looking up, my gaze went through a doorway into a vast kitchen. Anthony Bourdain, in a white chef's jacket, was manipulating a large sheet of very thin dough, like for a strudel. He radiated the peace of a Zen master, intent on what I would deem a thoroughly thankless task. He was fully in the moment and the sheet of dough thinned and rippled out over the large marble table, exactly as strudel dough is supposed to do.

I've watched people make strudel dough. It is an experiment I will never make. Life is too short.

The interpretation of this dream wouldn't be too difficult. It doesn't matter, though. There was something very lovely about that image of Mr. Bourdain making strudel. That's all.

*Update, as of March 2011 - I have seen all his shows and read nearly all of his books. And now I love him even more.