I love indian food. Love it. Own a bunch of cookbooks about it, have a bag where I segregate out my stinkier indian spices, seek out south indian food when I travel, cook it from time to time. Great stuff.
But. Pretty much every time I eat it, my stomach stays pretty busy for the next 12 hours. Not really upset, per se, but … active. And a lot of times, this means I sleep poorly and have lots of bizarre dreams.
For instance, last night:
- Out with Kate. Stopped by a gas station. Kate wanted a candy bar. I wanted a Kit-Kat. Hers was $5.05, mine $0.99.
- At a fancy restaurant, later on. The waiter barely manages to whisk away our ramekins filled with lemon water before we commit the faux pas of dipping our escargot in them. (We were supposed to dip them in the smaller containers of lemon-butter. Oops.) Then some family friends of Kate’s show up and take the other two seats at our table, since the restaurant is full. They give us some belated wedding gifts, including a gorgeous all-wood spaetzle maker which I’m sure doesn’t exist in real life. Imagine if Dana Robes made a spaetzle maker.
- At Wesleyan for reunion, I have to borrow my mom’s surprisingly cool cell phone to negotiate with the people who currently own my grandfather’s boat, Dovekie about how much it would cost for me to buy her back from them. I woke up very concerned about running up my mom’s phone bill, and it took several minutes to shake the concern and realize that it wasn’t real.
As it was, we went to bed at 10:45, I woke up at 4 with a very full bladder, and tossed and turned until Kate got up at 5:40 to go to work. (Fortunately, the kingsize bed we’re sleeping on is big enough that tossing and turning doesn’t tend to affect Kate much.)
So now it’s a grey day, there are lawn mowers rolling around outside, I’ve got a several very tight deadlines this week as I transition into new job responsibilities, and I feel like I’ve got sand in my brain. Welcome to Monday.