Last night I dreamt I had put cheese in the dishwasher. Orange cheese, which I had previously shaped into spirals and cones and placed on cocktail sticks and skewers. Then, so I wouldn't eat it, I cleared it away into the dishwasher, carefully placing the cheese kebabs upright in the cutlery basket so they wouldn't get damaged.
This is worrying on so many levels:
Firstly, I put cheese into the dishwasher. The new dishwasher. Why would I do that? Why not just through it in the garbage?
Secondly, it was orange cheese. I love cheese but only, for example, the sort of artisanal cheese made by lederhosen-clad goatherds on a hillside in Sicily. That artificially coloured mass-produced stuff? Ugh. That sits right along with pumpkins, carrots and the actor George Hamilton - all lurid shades of orange are kept well away from my kitchen.
Then there's the cheese-shaping aspect. I have absolutely no Martha Stewart tendencies. Cheese is served on an old but impeccably designed wooden Bodum platter, the only adornment a handful of whatever nuts are available at that moment. I don't shape food, I eat it or rather at this moment I avoid it.
This must be my psyche telling me that I am taking this dieting thing too far. Cheese denial. Cheese dreaming. Can sleepwalking refrigerator raiding be far behind?