Last night I dreamt that I stole a cranberry-stuffed scone (an empascone?) from one of my childhood neighbors. I was standing in their family room (as my adult self), making casual conversation with them as though it hadn’t been 10+ years since I’d spoken to them, and it wasn’t at all strange that I should be dropping by for a visit on Christmas Day.
(Yes, apparently, it was Christmas in my dream – not some other more relevant or timely holiday like Valentine’s Day or National Nutella Day or even Groundhog’s Day.)
So as I was standing there, awkwardly asking them about their children whose names I couldn’t remember and didn’t even really care to remember, I noticed a platter of cranberry-stuffed scones. I kept looking at them, waiting for my seemingly gracious neighbors to offer me one, but they said nothing. They just continued on attempting merry conversation, doing their best to conceal the fact that they wanted me to get the heck out of their holiday and their lives.
But I didn’t leave. And even though I knew it was wrong as I was doing it, I reached out and grabbed a scone like it was the most normal thing in the world to do. I then proceeded to devour the oversized pastry while the saucy, cranberry filling dripped out all over my smug little face.
I paid no notice to said drippage. I just kept eating, silent except for the loud mastication noises that I couldn’t seem to control, while they stared at me with blank, horrified faces.
Just as I was getting ready to reach for another scone, I woke up.
And immediately felt disappointed that I wasn’t eating a cranberry-sauce stuffed scone the size of two of my fists combined.
It’s been five days since I’ve had any sugar, alcohol, meat, or cheese, and I think I might be starting to crack.