We took Skylar to see the beautiful and eery Hayao Miyazaki film Howl's Moving Castle for the second time today. It was the perfect follow-up to last night's half-viewing of Waking Life. And both pictures are good matches with Last Year At Marienbad, which Kim was obsessing on last week. The common thread of these superficially disparate films is the difficulty of distinguishing between experiences that we have "for real" and those that we only have in a dream state. What I'm sitting at the computer to write about on this thunder-filled evening, though, is not that but the extreme deliciousness of the comfort food I prepared for me and Kim tonight. She wanted pasta without red sauce. I made spaghetti and tossed on the remaining reggiano from our last pesto extravaganza. She wanted eggs. I drove to TJ's and picked some up. And there, wandering the aisles I know so well, the line between film and life dissolved. I couldn't stop thinking of the scene in Howl's Moving Castle when Sophie starts to make bacon and eggs, only to have Howl walk in and take over the cooking duties. So I picked up some Niman Ranch dry-cured bacon and, after wresting permission from the lady of the house to fill it with that distinctive odor, fried it up alongside the over-easy eggs. Now I'm finally getting to eat my incredibly fattening and indescribably delicious creation. Al dente spaghetti, good parmesan, fried eggs, and high-quality bacon conspire to make a feast that's a disaster for the arteries and waistline and perfect for a dark and stormy night in Tucson. My point, other than sharing my excess, is that it was Miyazaki's film that inspired a desire fulfilled in material consequences. Am I dreaming? Perhaps. But it's a dream of cruel, unhealthy food savaging me with bliss.