Florence Nightmaregale (Do Not Read While Eating Breakfast)
Okay, this entry is TOTALLY GROSS.
So don't read it if you're really not in the mood for macabre. REALLY GROSS, I'm saying. And I'm not saying it as a challenge, I promise.
Sita makes us this gorgeous breakfast this morning. Stir-fry. Using the inevitable leftover onion, the last pepper - half red, half green - from the garden, some bamboo shoots, some water chestnuts, some pineapple.
She makes a cooking sauce. She's reheated the leftover brown rice. It's beautiful. I am drinking tea and enjoying myself. Then suddenly, just as she's taken her first bite, I remember my dream...
"Last night I dreamed about a bad man who'd cut off pieces of himself and then sew them onto his enemies. The flesh would turn necrotic, and then his enemies would get infected and die from his rotting flesh."
Sita's eyes widen. She stops chewing.
"Sorry," I say, covering my face. "Sorry, sorry, sorry!!!"
"I don't know that I can swallow now."
"I'm SORRY! I can't HELP it!!!"
We're both laughing, sort of horrified, but I let her finish chewing before I continue.
She may have laid down her spoon to listen.
"So! But! There's more! So the bad man, he walks around in a smock and a sort of bandage-diaper on. With his minion at his side. And they stalk around the city scaring people. And one of the people he's sewed part of himself onto was his wife - well, ex-wife, I guess, that's why he was angry at her - and she was slowly dying and in great pain. He'd cut off his... Well, you know. And sewed it onto hers. Ew.
"Anyway. I was trying to help her. And there was this brownstone house where a bunch of young medical students lived. This was turn-of-the-century, and the house harbored both men and women in the profession - which was unusual at the time. All these young students living together in this community. I went to them because I knew they wouldn't be afraid to help me.
"And I asked, 'What I need is a young woman who's almost finished with her MD. But she needs already to have a lot of experience. Preferably one who was a nurse on the front, with trauma experience. My friend needs to see a woman doctor.'
"This was, for some reason, very important, and the young medical students agreed to put the word out. Now. Isn't that sweet?"
"Yes," Sita agrees, shaking her head no. "Very sweet. A sweet, sweet dream. My daughter, Florence Nightmaregale."
We both howl with laughter until we're crying.
Sita says, wiping her eyes, "You made me COL. Cry-out-loud."