Firsties

This blog starts with a dream. A dream about dinner with a dead woman. That sounds awful, but it's kinda great. The dead woman in question is my mother, and I have to see her when I can, and when I can is only when I am sleeping. The last dream of her I had, which is about an hour ago, is the first time I remember eating in a dream with my mom. I remember dreams of being with her on a school bus, and at home, and in pet shops, but never at a restaurant. Last night we ate at a fancy two-story pizza restaurant with authentico pizza Italiano. I was reviewing the restaurant in my head the entire time, explaining to my mom that I had started a food blog, taking note of everything--the consistency of the dough, the service, the bathrooms. (Non sequitur: I remember a politician buying dessert for his waiter, which was nice, unless it took the place of the waiter's tip, I'm not really sure.) As for what we ordered, I honestly can't remember, although I remember wishing I'd ordered something with wild mushrooms, which sounds accurate because I usually have some second thoughts about whatever delicious thing I was lucky enough to order in the first place, and I really like wild mushrooms.

Anyway, the pizza came and was coldish and not as good as she'd remembered, my mom said. Everything brought to the table was served cold. Hmm. I remember defending the food to her, saying it was really good, trying to make up for the fact that she'd come all this way, from the dead and all, to dine with her daughter. I mean, that was really special. The food really didn't matter, because it was just a dream, and I wasn't really eating. I was, though, really having a nice time with my mom. It was just nice to see her, and I'm glad my brain created that scene, especially since the last restaurant I remember eating at with my mom was a Shoney's when I was maybe 10, and it was not a nice memory. And I really like going out to eat now; it's one of my favorite things in the whole world, so it makes sense that I'd want to share that with her. (For the record, while we had some bad restaurant times, my mom and I, we had some great kitchen and dinner table times--my mom was a fabulous southern cook, which I will hopefully address in the future.) Anyway, even though the dream food didn't really matter, I was still taking notes to talk about it on a blog where food really did matter. And I think my mom was a little impressed, or proud, and maybe a bit jealous, I don't really know. My mom and I had kind of a difficult relationship. I make up for this by not having a difficult relationship with food, even though I like to critique it. However, this blog is less about critique and more about promotion. I am promoting the celebration of food, the savoring and experience of it. The taste, the quality, the texture, and also restaurants, the owners, the service, and the surroundings. Food, I am lucky to have you in abundance, to eat you at nice tables, and I really really like you a lot. I think I'll write about you.

I've thought about doing a food blog for awhile, and this dream confirmed to me that I should. It's been supported beyond the grave. My mom said I can. And while I can't think of two things that go together less than food and dead people, or a less appetizing way to start a food blog, it's just how it happened.

This is my mama in a kitchen, circa maybe 1978-ish.
She's really very happy to meet you.

Let's do this.