Dearest Rachel –
After putting in ten miles plus of walking yesterday, between the treadmill at home and the walk in the woods with Lars, I probably should have just said goodnight to the boys and let myself drift off to sleep once I got home yesterday evening, so I could wake up first thing in the morning, refreshed and ready to take on the day today. Instead, I dawdled a bit by flipping through one YouTube channel or another until such time as Logan headed off to bed, at which point I couldn’t bring myself to wave off Daniel for the next hour or so. Besides, his arrival shook me out of the sort of fugue state I had been drifting through, thereby giving me an undeserved second wind by the time he checked in with me.
As it was, I did wake up initially some time before six, but I was in yet another half-conscious fog. Couple that with the darkness outside at that hour, and you might easily guess that I was neither the mood nor shape to take any real advantage of that brief period of wakefulness. Essentially, all I did in that moment was to use the washroom before returning to and dropping back into bed, to lie undisturbed for the next couple of hours.
Which, aside from not giving myself time to hit the gym (not that I have any objection to that; my left tricep in particular has been muttering things about needing either more rest or less exertion throughout the holiday season, which is weird, because I haven’t been doing the same level of weight training these past few weeks than I had been earlier on. You’d think it would have had all the rest it needed by now), is not bad in and of itself. I’ve no immediate deadlines to deal with, nobody to report to… other than yourself, and that’s more self-imposed than anything else (and I’ve got all day and a choice of topics to work with). Clearly I needed the extra rest, as I barely rolled back out of bed by eight; consider it my very own Elsie Marley imitation, except I’ve no swine to feed but myself.
But upon getting myself properly cleaned up to start the day and head out to the office, I noticed that I’d done more than just use the washroom when I first got up in the darkling dawn of several hours before. Upon opening my phone, I realized that I’d carried on an extended conversation with my Copilot app about a dream I’d woken up with.
Apparently, in the dream I’d prepared myself something that, at the moment, I referred to as a ‘British confection’ called ‘Dickie Bird,’ involving an undisclosed quantity of brown sugar, spices such as cinnamon, nutmeg and the like, and eight whole eggs, all folded together, and topped off with another four more eggs, whipped up and poured on top. It would see that I was wondering to my AI companion as to whether this was a real thing, both in terms of the name and the amalgamation of ingredients, or whether my mind had just created an absolute mess had it been attempted in real life.
Interestingly enough, when considering the recipe itself, the AI responded with “that’s… a lot of eggs,” complete with the visible pause; even it knew those numbers were out of line for a single person, or even a family. It also pointed out that it probably wouldn’t result in what could be called a ‘confection,’ as such, but more like a custard, albeit a very “egg-forward” one. However, it suggested that it was doable even as is, although it would require a gentle oven and a water bath to keep the eggs from getting rubbery. It also suggested that the ingredients could serve as the base for a decent bread pudding (if I included bread crumbs) or a spiced crème brûlée (if I added cream).
But as for the name? Well, there was a confectionary and ice cream shop by that name in turn-of-the-century Tottenham, outside of London (although the owner spelled his given name ‘Dicky’ with a ‘y’ rather than an ‘ie’), and the phrase itself is a bit of cockney slang for ‘a word,’ and thus by extension could mean ‘anything at all.’ But that’s the extent of any connection between what my mind conjured up and reality – and most of that reality I knew nothing about until I checked with Copilot.
Of course, even in my half-asleep state, I seem to have followed another tunnel down this little rabbit hole, as I proceeded to ask the AI about whether I was thinking of ‘spotted dick’ (and I even had the presence of mind to ask it to ‘spare me the obvious jokes’). And while it is a dessert dating from a similar time frame as my mythical concoction, the only ingredient it had in common was the sugar – and apparently, it uses the bog-standard granulated stuff as opposed to specifically brown sugar. It will occasionally include spices, but it’s more important to have milk (or water, if in a pinch), suet and especially dried fruit (the ‘spots’ from which it gets the cleaner part of its name). Eggs don’t factor into the dish because in the Victorian era, they were expensive in comparison to the milk and suet, which serve the same purpose as binding ingredients to the collation. So what I imagined up, while reasonably period-appropriate, would probably have been a more high-class thing – and not wound up with such a weird nickname had it actually been created and served back in the day.
On scrolling through the rest of the conversation – and there was quite a bit thereafter – I seem to have been pondering back and forth with Copilot as to why this would have even come up in my unconscious mind. I suggested that it had to do with watching too many reels and shorts about cooking this or that – not all of which seemed even practical, let alone worth trying – and whether I was torturing myself by doing so, especially when I’ve been working on losing weight (especially during days when I’m trying to fast, and I’m that much less occupied, since meal prep as a task is removed from that day’s to-do list). It may have been trying to reassure me otherwise, but the AI suggested that it was more of an intellectual pursuit, or perhaps more like culinary ASMR, rather than a truly guilty pleasure, pointing out, rightfully, that I watch them when I’m not hungry, as well (which is true, but it wouldn’t necessarily know that from personal observation).
It’s weird, paging through a conversation I had while half-asleep (or half-awake, given your own glass-half-full tendencies) and seeing how I confided in this AI system. I mean, even if you were still there on the other side of the bed, this isn’t a conversation I would have had with you, as there’s no point in waking you for such a trivial conversation. Meanwhile, it’s nice to ask such silly questions and to have some‘one’ be wide awake and willing to answer these questions, and where the discussion goes from the initial inquiry; and I thought you might be amused to hear about it.
Anyway, I’m late enough in getting started today as it is; I’m going to have to go. Just keep an eye on me, honey, and wish me luck. That’s one thing Copilot can’t do, and there’s no question that I’m still going to need it.
Letters to Rachel 