When I was growing up, it was fashionable for young children to experience recurring nightmares about the atomic bomb. Far from the fresh-faced boys and girls of the "aughts" and their sugarplum fairies, we reveled (or slumbered) in giddy post-nuclear holocaust fantasies in which families, pets, and classmates were seared beyond recognition like so many meaty, runny popsicles. In each of these scenarios, we, the children, were the planet's only survivors, left alone to survey the damage and to brave the hardships of the dismal nuclear winter.
Ah, memories.
As I've grown older, I've lost many of my childhood fears. Today, I'm happy to report that I can face squirrels, killer bees, and even sock puppets with a rigid jaw and a clear voice. And since the Cold War ended, I doubt I've thought of the nuclear holocaust more than ten or twelve times a week, on average. Not surprisingly, my dreams have now become so peaceful that I hardly remember them at all. Maybe I'll recall catching a glimpse of my grandfather's ghost or something about swimming naked with my uncle, but usually, no. Now, sleep is just an inky, silent void.
Or, I should say, was just an inky, silent void.
In recent weeks I've experienced no less than five times a haunting dream, a dream that would strike fear into the hearts of most Americans. It's a dream that lays bare my fears of inadequacy, incompetence, and ineptitude. In this harrowing narrative, I'm surrounded by scorching 5000-watt spotlights, a bank of sweeping cameras, and a thousand-member studio audience. Yes:
Julia Child is filming a cooking show in my kitchen, and I'm the featured guest.
As it turns out, we're shooting a holiday special, and I'm supposed to share my many secrets of cooking the perfect Christmas goose. I've no idea how I got there--nor why it's goose I'm cooking, since my family has always insisted on turkey and a pineapple-ringed ham every December 25. I have arrived in medias res and out-of-body: I see myself standing there, a razor-sharp knife in my right hand, a giant carcass on the butcher's block before me, and dozens of those impossible-to-find little glass dishes lined up in little rows, each filled with only a dash or two of some foreign-looking spice or diced tuber.
As the scene fades into view, I'm doing strangely well with the demonstration. My posture is confident, and I'm projecting an air of culinary authority. Then in mid-sentence, I suddenly snap-to: I pay attention to what I'm saying, and I see the impossibility of it all. I feel not unlike Wile E. Coyote when he realizes he's standing in mid-air miles above the Grand Canyon floor. It's the beginning of the end:
ME
So then, after you open the bird, you just.... (Trails off into long pause)
JULIA
(Prodding) Yes?
ME
Huh?
JULIA
(Trying to help things along) You were explaining what you do after you open the bird....
ME
I, um, sure. Yes, of course..... Well. It's really quite simple. You just--(Pointing frantically out the window) Omigod! Look! The Hindenburg!
(Me breaks for the door, but three beefy, chrome-dome bodyguards from the Jerry Springer Show pop out from behind a well-braised lamb shank, twist Me's arms behind his back until his shoulders teeter on the brink of dislocation, and shove Me back toward the gaping corpse on the countertop. Julia proceeds as though nothing unusual has happened. It's clear that Me has no choice but to cooperate. Faced with this, he pauses, taking a few very deep breaths. Slowly, Me's left eyebrow arches impossibly high, then his eyes narrow to slits. When he speaks again, he adopts a tone of outlandish sarcasm.)
ME
So after I open up the goose and stuff it, I like to lick the skin of the bird before I seal it up. It's kind of like licking an envelope. (Me tongues the length of the de-plumed goose, carelessly flirting with salmonella) Why don't you give it a try, Julia?
JULIA
(Slowly lowering herself into position, she takes a few polite laps, then laughs) Oh, goodness me, that does bring back memories! I used to have this very same recipe, but I haven't used it for years. I got it from Simone de Beauvoir when we were in the same unit of the Girl Scouts. She was an excellent cook and was particularly fond of this method, which she claimed was of ancient Greek origin. My, I thought this technique was all but lost! (Truly happy and giddy) I'm thrilled that you've brought it back to share with us today!
ME
Well, my grandmother used to cook her geese this way, and she tried passing it on to my mother, but between you and me, I don't think mom paid much attention to anything grandmamma had to say. In fact, mom tried it one day while cooking a whole boar, and, honestly, she hasn't been the same person since. She's lost all sense of taste and smell and has taken to wearing flowing purple robes of ratty organza and a moth-eaten chenille scarf. It's all fine and well until company comes over, then it's the Isadora Duncan routine all over again.
JULIA
Yes, yes, my mother went through the same thing, but she was a real trooper, as the kids say today. She finally came out of it after being terrorized by a horde of torch-wielding pig farmers during a family vacation to Indiana.
ME
Really? We may have to try that soon.
JULIA
I highly recommend it.
ME
I see.
JULIA
Best thing in the world. I swear by it.
ME
Well....
JULIA
Yes....
ME
We'll talk after the show.
(Me has now become completely comfortable with his surroundings and though he knows absolutely nothing about cooking or how he got here, he's not afraid of improvising. In fact, he's having fun being audacious.)
ME
So, now that the goose has been eaten, it's time to cook it!
JULIA
Oh, my, that's a naughty one!
ME
Yes, isn't it? First, we take some American cheese like so (removing individual slices from wrapper), and we make a little bikini over the bird's private parts, just so it doesn't get too self-conscious--it is appearing on national TV, after all.
JULIA
Well, we certainly hope so. (Turning directly toward the camera) And to make sure of that, we'd like to ask you, the viewing public, to do everything you can to support your local public television station. If you haven't made your annual contribution yet, please, go to the phone right now and--
ME
Um, Julia, I hate to interrupt, but what are you doing?
JULIA
Oh, don't mind me, you go right on with that scrumptious bird. I'm just making a pledge pitch.
ME
Well, Julia, I might be out of line with this, but I can't begin to tell you how much I hate those things.
JULIA
What things?
ME
Pledge pitches. They come right in the middle of excellent programs about Mongolia and supernovae and then suddenly it's like a really, really, really, really long, long, long, long commercial brought to you by some PBS loser that doesn't understand the value of shutting up.
JULIA
I see. I guess you didn't know that I've been on PBS for decades and that I'm probably one of those "losers" to whom you're referring.
ME
I guess you are.
JULIA
So, what I'm hearing is that you want me to shut up because I'm a dumb old bag.
ME
I wouldn't say "bag." Perhaps "hag," but not "bag." Anyway, you said it, not me.
JULIA
(Pulling an 18th century filet knife from her bodice and brandishing it with remarkable dexterity for a woman of a certain age) Well, I think you ought to take it back.
ME
(Grabbing the only thing nearby--a half-used pastry bag of strawberry chantilly) But I didn't say it, you insipid harridan! (The sky rumbles and Me trembles slightly, keenly aware of the blasphemies he's spouting.)
JULIA
All the same, you're going to apologize for thinking it.
ME
Bring it on, batwoman! (Another rumble)
(She lunges at Me with the knife, barely missing his chest and popping off the top button of his pajamas-which he suddenly realizes he's wearing.)
JULIA
Aha! Thought I was just another old trollop, eh?
ME
(In imitation of Moe Howard) Lady, you must be psychic!
(Me attacks, swinging the pastry bag, hitting Julia in the head and nearly knocking her off-balance. She recovers with a standing backflip.)
JULIA
You'll have to act faster than that, pretty boy, if you want to tangle with this sly fox!
ME
You duplicitous culinary charlatan! You slattern of the soup kitchen! You ought to be working at McDonald's, you insipid old hack!
(She strikes again and misses. Me grabs her arm, twists it, and throws her face down onto the linoleum floor. Me pounces, turning her over onto her back. He dots her eyes with chantilly and drags a line of it across her lips, then bangs her head once on the ground to sedate her. She looks like nothing so much as Bette Davis playing a comatose Little Orphan Annie.)
ME
Take that, chef! (Me hops up and triumphantly walks away, but as he does, security guards suddenly appear again and grab him. Julia leaps to her feet, charges, and butts Me in the stomach with her head. As the lights fade to black, Me hears Julia begin to speak of gutting and stuffing and ratatouille.)
And then I wake up.