I dream of fire. Those dreams are tied to a horse that will never tire. And in the flames, her shadows play in the shape of a man's desire.

I tried out a recipe of my imagination last night. It was supposed to be like a vegetable primavera. I took a baggie of frozen broccoli and carrots and boiled it with some multi-colored whole grain rotini. Then, I prepared a roux like sauce of flour, olive oil and soy milk. I mixed it all togother and topped it with shreaded velveeta and matzo meal. I baked this concoction at a medium tempurature for about 30 minutes in the oven. The kids loved it. The husband loved it. I didn't love it. I mean it was okay, if the meaning of okay is like blowing like a jazz band in a New Orleans funeral procession.

It was something different coming from the four prison walls of my oven and it was certainly a colorful casserole, even pretty. It sat heavy on my stomach, even though my husband celebrates it's success. He even wants me to cook it again.