Iddy's Dream from mid-May 2008

Okay, I finally get my OWN William Shatner dream and don’t just guest star in someone else’s…

The dream appears to take place during William Shatner Weekend (WSW) but the atmosphere is more casual and intimate than the two real-life weekends I’ve attended. During the dream WSW is actually the culmination of a whole week of events celebrating Bill’s birthday. His whole family is involved and we WSW’ers are allowed to comingle in their presence at his house. If only!

It is during one of these chat fests, you know, the kind of family get togethers where the kids run amok and the parents just ignore them, when one of Bill’s grandsons comes to me and asks if I will help him make cookies for Grandpa...

Now, “ask” is being generous, he actually grabs me by the hand and yanks me away from a conversation with Elizabeth, demanding that I help him make cookies. (Does the child have a clue? Do I *look* like I know how to make a cookie?—No on both counts-- but this is a dream, remember?) He’s about four or five years old, so I pretend to be a grown up and excuse myself from the adults.

Sitting in Bill’s kitchen, we diligently look through two cookbooks before deciding to make some sort of gooey granola thumbprint cookies with cherry jam in their centers. And no, I have never made these cookies before-- nor would I even like them--both detesting granola and any sort of gooey jam. However, I am worried about when Grandpa will be around looking for said cookies, so we try to get our act together but mostly just make a mess in the kitchen. After many tries and some serious looks of disgust from the boy, I finally produce a batch of decent cookies.

He soon marches off into another room that looks suspiciously like the banquet hall at the Burbank Equestrian Center—I think to complain to mama (and no, I have no idea who he belongs to) that I am pretty dismal in the kitchen. There is a ruckus going on in the room between Bill’s daughters and one of the WSW’ers. I step back, refusing to be a part of the argument but Elizabeth steps in, scolding them for their behavior and telling them they’ve never worked a day in their lives. The daughters are all doughty, not still youthful and beautiful like Elizabeth.

I must have made points for not getting into the fray and helping bake the cookies, because as my reward I get to sit at Bill’s knee in front of his fireplace and be a part of an intimate conversation between him and several other people! My arm is draped casually across his lap and he seems quite content for it to be there. The lights are low, with only the firelight illuminating our faces. Of course Bill is gorgeous, his eyes gleaming in the fire’s glow as he tells one story after another. We chat until the wee hours but I remember none of the conversation.

Upon reflection I’ve decided I must have been channeling a real desire of Bill’s for these despicable cookies. If so, I could learn to bake—couldn’t I??