The Critic, the Dream, and the Waffles

It was a chilly autumn Sunday in Watertown. At 7:30 a.m., I opened my eyes to a bedroom still wrapped in darkness. Rather than face the cold, I decided to stay under the covers until eight, giving the morning sun time to warm the room.

I closed my eyes. Just for a few minutes.

Moments later, I was on the phone with Armand, our book club’s lead organizer. He was not calling to wish me a pleasant Sunday. He had serious concerns about the story arc of my latest piece.

“Did you find my criticism and suggestions valuable?” he pressed. “Are you going to revise your story?”

I defended my artistic vision while trying to sound receptive to his advice. Armand was persistent, and our discussion was growing intense. I was in the middle of explaining why my protagonist’s choices made perfect sense when—

“Breakfast is ready! Eggs and waffles!”

Armand kept talking.

“I'm asking you seriously. Are you going to revise it?”

“Just a moment, Armand,” I said, barely listening. “I need to respond to Marie.”

From the kitchen, Marie called again. “Your waffles are getting cold!”

Without taking my attention away from the conversation, I answered in my most authoritative voice:

“Marie, I’m in the middle of a serious discussion with Armand!”

“Armand? What are you talking about? You’re not on the phone with anyone!”

I froze.

The voice was no longer coming through a telephone. It was coming from the kitchen.

I opened my eyes.

No phone in my hand. No Armand. No book club. Just a dark bedroom, a rumpled blanket, and the faint sound of Marie moving dishes in the kitchen.

Then the aroma hit me—warm, buttery waffles, freshly cooked eggs, the unmistakable smell of a Sunday breakfast waiting downstairs.

I lay still for a moment, piecing together what had happened. I had been so deeply immersed in my dream that I had carried on an entire literary debate without ever leaving my bed.

Meanwhile, Marie had been up since seven, preparing breakfast while I had been busy defending my imaginary artistic reputation.

I laughed at myself, threw back the covers, and finally got up.

Armand would have to wait. My story could be revised later.

For now, there was a real conversation to be had, a real breakfast to enjoy, and a wife who deserved more than a sleepy declaration about a book club meeting that had never happened.

And perhaps, I thought as I headed toward the kitchen, the best revision of the morning was learning to distinguish a dream from reality—before the waffles got cold.