Comfort scoop

I just woke from one of those delirous morning-time dreams that fill you with excitement.  I was nestled in a Fritos Scoop Chip, floating around a pool where some friends and family were playing.  Some co-workers were playing funny tricks on one another, and my young cousins were splashing around with their floaties on. 

Why a Frito’s Scoop, you ask?  They’re made in Michigan, and we used to pass the Fritos factory on I-94 when we went to visit my Grandfather in Dearborn.  They’re corn chips, but unusually large.  I don’t eat them anymore because I want to retain the memory of how good they were- now when I eat them, I find them to be too greasy and they leave me feeling flat.

When I was young the only food my father consistantly made was hummos, and he’d put it in a big blue bowl and bring it to the table with a bag of Fritos Scoops.  I loved it.  Because I knew he never used a recipe, I’d always consider what the most dominant flavor was in each batch: did he add more lemon this time?  or tahini?  Sometimes the garlic would tingle and linger.  And those Fritos Scoops- big and roomy, crunchy, salty and delicous.  Somehow they planted themselves in my subconscious as a comfortable spot, serving as a ‘flying rug’ of sorts.

In the dream I remember commenting to someone on how much I enjoyed sailing around in my scoop, and I recall the excited stomach feeling of swaying freely from side to side, up and down.  Everything but the scoop and I had a bluish hue.  I don’t recall the place, but there was a pool surrounded by a building with a balcony, and the air was comfortably cool like in California.

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