I dreamed I was a Roman cook in a kitchen that never got cold

It was just after noon, the sun high and heavy, and I was stirring a pot of lentils in a stone hearth that didn’t need fire. The air smelled like thyme and old bread, but not burnt—just lived-in. No one else was there, but I knew the dishes were for a feast later, and I kept adding things: a pinch of cumin, a scrap of dried fig, a drop of honey from a jar that had no label. I didn’t know who would eat it. I only knew it had to be right. When I woke up, my hands still felt warm.