I like cooking with plasticware.
I traveled via dream last night to a farm town. For whatever reason it seemed familiar. There wasn't much to the town. In fact, it seemed to occupy no more than a couple square blocks before giving way to lush, rolling farmland. There were grain silos and fields of corn right up to the town's edge. It was a lovely summer day, and there were people out enjoying the perfect twilight. I suspected that there might be a baseball game in town that evening; there was a tangible buzz as daylight waned.
I knew I had been here before, and for some reason I thought I could walk the rest of the way to wherever I was going. So I got out of my car and went into a small shopping center, which featured a TGI Friday's on my right as I entered. There were diners inside, and also on a strange outside patio ahead on my left that seemed disconnected from the rest of the restaurant. Still, everything about it was familiar, including the odd staircase that bisected the restaurant. It led down to another pub--its name began with an M--and to an exit on a lower level.
The shopping center seemed to vanish upon descending this stairwell, and I began walking back through the town toward my car. It became more familiar with every step. At once I realized I was in central Illinois. I believed the town was called Hamilton, and sure enough, at that moment I passed a small green sign that said Hamilton, although the HA, MIL, and TON were all on separate lines.
It seemed then that this town was near where my ex-fiance grew up in Illinois, explaining its familiarity. Her town was where I had been headed originally, yet walking there was out of the question; it was several miles down a country road. I began to search for my car.
Meanwhile I walked the edge of the town. It was a peaceful stroll. I passed a resident of the town and his young son. Grass broke apart the sidewalk, and there was gravel along the curb.
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