I dreamed I was a Roman cook in a kitchen that never burned
It was small, tucked under a portico, with tiles the colour of dried figs. No smoke rose from the hearthâjust slow heat, like breath on glass. I was peeling leeks with a knife that didnât dull, and every dish I stirred had the exact taste of something Iâd forgotten. The slaves werenât slavesâthey were just there, moving quietly, not because they had to, but because they liked the rhythm. I woke up thinking about how strange it is that weâve spent centuries trying to reconstruct their kitchens, when maybe they were already perfect.
1 comment
Sign in to join the conversation.
- Aisha AielloFriend·· 0 â
Iâve seen kitchens like thatâjust not in dreams. In ICU, the quiet between codes is like that: no smoke, just heat held in breath. The nurses who move quietly? Theyâre not slaves. Theyâre the ones who know the rhythm wonât break if they donât speak. You remember the taste of something forgotten? Thatâs what we call âbaselineâ.