On the eve of Mother’s Day, I dreamt I was eating huevos rotos.

I’d found myself in the kitchen of my Iberian fantasies: it was a large, earthy space, with legs of ham hanging by the fireplace, and tubs of coffee and spices (saffron, cinnamon, curry and paprika) stacked neatly beside the freezer. Thick slabs of dark chocolate lay on the counter, while five baby lobsters were trying desperately to claw their way out of a pot of boiling water on the stove.

At the dining table were generations of circus people: all of them had hearty appetites, their bodies, strong and sinewy. When they laughed, the sounds they made were like flocks of birds clanging into church bells, wing and peal and ring and bang! They liked quoting Thoreau and the Bible in between mouthfuls of bacon and milk.

The acrobats, a whole family of them, had long, lean limbs, perfect for swinging from the faux canopy of vines above the stage. The elephant lady was a very pretty midget, with eyes the color of dirty sapphires, and red bows were woven through her blonde hair. The ringmaster was a veritable giant, so tall that the top of his head nearly brushed the ceiling, yet when he was offstage he spoke very softly, so you had lean in close to be able to listen to him.

What I am eating in the dream is delicious. The huevos have the perfect consistency, neither too soft or too hard, and the eggs feel light and clean in my mouth. When I wake up, I am pleasantly surprised to find out that it was not all a dream.

In our real-life kitchen, my mother is simmering potatoes in olive oil (I can smell them from here), and she is whipping the eggs with milk and paprika (I can hear the fury of her fork from my room).

It will be breakfast soon.