Dreams can be confounding, frightening, and amusing. We’ve all had dreams of being naked in public or flying high in the sky.
I dream about soup, particularly the lobster bisque from the American Hotel in Sag Harbor. I’m not a foodie or a connoisseur of fine dining. But there is something about that soup that is what my dreams are made of.
Maybe it’s the fragrance of cognac wafting through the room as the steaming bowl is placed on the crisp, white tablecloth, or the heavy cream that keeps the succulent chunks of tender lobster afloat. It could be the entire ambience of the place. Whatever combination of magical ingredients in the air and in the recipe, all of it permeates my subconscious.
Before leaving Los Angeles and arriving on the East End of Long Island, I never dreamed of soup. I had ordinary, run-of-the-mill dreams — well, nightmares — of being stuck in quicksand or waist-high mud, urgently trying to run, unable to move. I’d wake up panicked in a cold sweat. My mind is calmer now, more serene since I arrived here.
I am not ashamed to tell you I am now bi.
Not bisexual, but bicoastal. Becoming bicoastal took decades to manifest. For years, I traveled from California to New York to visit my family for holidays and occasionally stayed longer. But now I am officially living on two coasts. Please don’t hate me. I do not bad-mouth one coast to the other. I love both.
Because here’s the thing: I arrive out east the day after Labor Day and leave the day before Memorial Day. Many of you have questioned this, insisting I have it reversed; I am doing this backward. I assure the skeptics I am correct and explain that my life in Los Angeles is hectic, noisy, crowded, and congested. My life is one big traffic jam. You all have told me it sounds like summertime in the Hamptons, precisely why I chose the other three seasons to spend here. I love tranquillity. I am awestruck by how nature changes outfits to complement the weather. Maybe the reason I embrace “backward” has to do with my left-handedness or being a Pisces.
The tiny cottage I rent has a fireplace. I also have a fireplace in Los Angeles, but it is a fake, a fraud. I can’t even believe it calls itself a fireplace. I may as well watch the fireplace channel on TV. My fireplace here burns real wood and smells the part. The first thing I did when I moved in was to have half a cord of wood delivered along with plenty of fire starter sticks.
Last winter, I couldn’t wait to cozy up with my 13-year-old, 10-pound rescue terrier and stare at the flickering flames. Sadly, my dog has some issues. (Okay, he’s diagnosed with an anxiety disorder, but who isn’t?) The crackling of the burning wood scares him, so he hides under the bed until the last ember turns to ash. That makes me sad. Now, I snuggle up with my laptop. It’s almost the same.
I’ve met the most creative and kind people since I arrived. They are writers, artists, and musicians. My neighbors across the dirt path are elderly and have lived in the same house for generations. They are lovely and gracious. Last winter, they showed up with snow shovels and shoveled my driveway after a snowstorm. They also gave me a few pointers about parking at the end of the driveway next time.
I have never lived in a snowy climate and thought the snowfall last winter was just perfect. I wonder how this winter will compare. I hear stories about snowfall as high as rooftops and being snowed in for days.
Okay, I will keep my mouth shut and prepare as well as I can, stocking the pantry with nonperishables like microwave popcorn and dog treats.
And plenty of soup. Because, at the end of the day, soup symbolizes what we all crave and need: nourishment, warmth, and security.
Stephanie Blank’s writing has appeared in The Los Angeles Times and the collection “Chicken Soup for the Soul: Think Positive, Live Happy.” She lives in East Quogue and Marina del Rey, Calif., and can be found on Instagram @StephanieBlankWriter.