There was a party with young people. They were having a great time seeing which kitchen appliances could shoot a ping pong ball across the room. The popcorn popper seemed to work for this. Not the microwave. There were great peals of laughter and I was among those laughing.
My daughter had come back from a trip to an Asian country, possibly Malaysia or Thailand. She had discovered there a dish to make which she called simply "The Food." "The Food" was easy to make and only required a few, easy-to-find ingredients. We were eating it along with some things we had gotten at the poke bowl place, and some other things I couldn't identify. There was a large group of people there. "The Food" had a nondescript aspect to it, and, of course, no memorable taste, since food never has taste for me in my dreams.
There were numerous other dreams before or after these two, in rapid succession and with little continuity. I was at the MLA at a hotel bar. A young woman with short brown hair had just arrived. We talked about the wounds the profession had inflicted on us. I said something dismissive about her experience (!) and she answered with a "That's easy for you to say." This rebuke was fully justified, but of course the entire dream emerged from my brain, so I feel comfortable telling you about it. I then lay there half awake for a while thinking about whether the wounds of the profession and of life, in my case, have been self-inflicted.