Just caught the last Top Chef episode on the DVR last night, and oh, the pain. Dale, though prone to bouts of frightening immaturity (see: punching locker, grabbing crotch threateningly), went far too soon, especially considering the caliber of some of the remaining contestants on the show:

Hate hate hate! How can anyone look at that face and still have an appetite?

All the stupid hats of Ricky from Project Runway’s Season 4, fused with the blockhead conniving of Wendy Pepper from PR Season 1.

The sooner these two are banished from my television screen, never to return, the better. Alas, Dale’s departure this week means that one of these chucklefucks is going to make it to the final four. I would say this is even worse than Tre’s infamous early exit last season, because at least the remaining contestants weren’t completely talentless* and thoroughly infuriating in every way possible. And the worst part: my beloved Bourdain had to deal the blow! I do, however, understand and respect his decision. If only Dale hadn’t made that awful scallop dish, one aberration in an otherwise strong season. If he had lost that coin toss to be executive chef. Or if the judge had just given him the Quickfire award instead of Antonia. If only!

It’s okay, Dale. Let the tears flow. We know you’re better than Lisa and Spike and so do you.

Speaking of kitchen nightmares, maybe I should lay off watching endless re-runs of Kitchen Nightmares for awhile. Perhaps the repeated shots of Gordon Ramsay disrobing are starting to sear their way into my psyche, like the permanent W on the chef’s chin.

I had a dream the other night that Chef Ramsay and I were hanging out at a mansion, listening to folksy music play. He seemed like a duck out of water, far removed from hot kitchens and incompetent line cooks to yell at. So we chatted for a bit about food, and other subjects. Made some catty comments about the band and the line-dancing Branson-esque audience members. Did I mention that we were sitting on a bed?

…don’t worry! This dream was totally G rated and Puritanically chaste. He ended up departing early, leaving a cookbook behind. In the cookbook were scraps of paper, and on those scraps of paper - a long, rambling love letter! In the letter he said that he enjoyed the time he spent with me. Unfortunately he was already committed to a wife and kids in this life, but that in a future life we would surely see each other again, because we were both “weird souls.”

What does this mean? Is my soul mate really an aging, foul-mouthed generator of creative expletives, a crusher of budding culinary dreams? What will I tell E? And if this is truly the case, why couldn’t it have been Bourdain, for chrissakes?

My actual, waking life, dark tempered and foul-mouthed culinary crush. Nothing against Ramsay, but blonde guys with W’s carved into their chins don’t usually do it for me!

* Looking back at that season, I had totally shut out of my memory the fact that Cokehead Brian and Sweaty Bear Howie lasted longer than Tre. So Tre’s elimination still ranks as the most egregious moment in Top Chef History, but this one is definitely a close second.

Last night Elijah and I were talking about a question that has been floating around the back of my mind: what do blind people dream of? Not people who have lost their vision due to accidents or macular degeneration, but people who developed having no sense of sight whatsoever. This came up due to a recent Something Awful thread posted by a blind person, who had been asked about this very subject:

It’s a little hard to say for sure since it’s not like I’ve experienced someone else’s dreams. I don’t really see in my dreams if that’s what you’re asking, but I will have more of an awareness of what’s around me and I’ll intuitively know whatever I would ordinarily be able to sense. For example if I’m standing next to a building in a dream, I’ll know where all the entrances are, how to get to them from my location, the types of doors, if people are around them, etc. but I don’t scan the building with my eyes and pick up the information as I go.

As one who has extremely vivid dreams, the idea of dreaming without vision is absolutely fascinating to me. So I mentioned how inconceivable I find it to dream with no imagery, no visual information whatsoever, and E said, “It’s not that hard to imagine. It’s not like you actually see things when you think of them.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Can you? Like, if I tell you to think of a pie, can you actually see a pie? With your eyes closed?”

“Of course I can. Wait, you mean you can’t?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know, I think of a pie, but I don’t really see anything.”

“No colors, nothing?

“Nope.”

This proceeded to blow my mind on multiple levels. “You don’t see anything? What’s in there then? What happens in your brain when you try to conceive of ‘pie-ness*’?”

“I don’t know. It’s just…blank.”

We then spent the next hour trying to communicate what the other ’sees’ mentally when trying to evoke various images, images that haven’t necessarily been ‘perceived’ by the eyes but nevertheless are within the realm of the familiar. For instance, the pie I ’saw’ is not a pie that has ever existed, at least to my knowledge, but rather a composite pie, incorporating elements of both pies I have seen and what I tend to associate with pies. The pie has a golden flaky crust, scalloped edges and is sitting on top of a blue gingham tablecloth. A cliché pie, two parts Betty Crocker and one part Country Time. It looks delicious.

Elijah can see the cliché pie, especially after I describe it, but it doesn’t appear that he does so spontaneously at the mention of a pie, nor can he ’see’ it very clearly. “I can see what you’re saying, but from far away, like I’m looking through a blurry lens.” A blurry lens that blocks out color information.

Now, the cliché pie isn’t perfect in my mind, despite borrowing from the uber-hausfrau Betty Crocker’s aesthetic. The image changes as I cycle through my memories and concepts of ‘pie-ness’ and update the image. When I first visualized it the pie was in a blue tin, then the tin was modified to an aluminum one. But the pie still exists for me. It doesn’t for Elijah. He has to really concentrate in order to visualize that pie, and even afterwards, it sounds as though it is a much dimmer version of what I get.

Should Elijah get himself to a neurologist, stat? Am I the one who is strange? Do androids dream of electric sheep, and if so, are they black or white? I know some of you (three) who read my blog are cognitive scientists; please chime in with your ideas!

* Edited to make this look less like another word.