I had invited R., a painter, for dinner, through facebook. He accepted but refused to publicly say so on fb. I didn't have much food in the house but I had some cold chicken in the fridge (as in fact I do). I was somewhat nervous, because there were an indeterminate number of people in the house and I wasn't sure who was eating. (I do know R. in real life, with a large group of mutual friends, but we are not close.) He arrived and we didn't have much to say to each other. Then he began to look at the art on my walls, asking questions about a book attached to the wall with a black and white photo. I didn't know what it was, but I somehow enjoyed the process of my taste in art being critiqued by this famous painter. (There had been an earlier, waking conversation in which another artist W., told an anecdote featuring himself, R., and another friend, B. In the house where I am staying this week to dog sit there is a painting by R.)
Dinner was taking shape, I had some cherry tomatoes that I was making into some kind of relish or miniature salad, but it kept shrinking before me since the tomatoes had gone bad. My mother was in the house and was also cooking, so I felt relieved that there would be a dinner of some kind. The dream took another course and consequently we never actually had dinner.