Broiled Sandwiches


I dreamed that I was at the company office.  My boss invited all the employees and their spouses to his house for dinner, so we drove over.

Dinner was a “broil your own sandwich” affair, but the broiler was a finicky machine that needed constant supervision.  The boss's brother kept messing with it while my sandwhich was cooking and let too much steam out.  When my sandwich finished cooking, it had shrunk to the size of a finger.  The boss's brother picked it up and squeezed it between his thumb and forefinger, and the meat shot out of the bread like a wet bar of soap.

That was the last of the food, so I had to go hungry.

There was more to the dream, but I don't remember what.