STILL DREAMIN' . . .

Marcel (from this season's "Top Chef"), B, Chandra Wilson (from "Grey's Anatomy") and I were the finalists of a culinary competition. In the middle of war-torn modern-day Moscow, we were given oasis in a posh hotel and ordered to work together to rustle up a three-course birthday dinner for a Muscovite big-wig and a large group of her hotsy-totsy friends. The four of us gathered in the lobby of the posh hotel, and I put forth what I thought was a very mature, very innovative, and very interesting menu. Stuffed appetizers using a very delicate pastry shell that would be hand-made, a succulent protein dish accompanied by fresh vegetables unseen in Moscow at this time of year, an unusual dessert mixing sweet and spicy. I spoke in a friendly voice, making eye contact with everyone on the team, and ended my suggestions with the question, "what do you guys think?" really meaning that I cared what the team thought. Chandra was on my side but she is quiet in character and so did not speak up. B was silent, and I boiled inside, seeing this as a complete lack of the support that he had promised to me. Marcel cocked his head, the cocky bastard, and proceeded to denigrate my suggestions and instead proposed finger sandwiches (amateur!), chicken wings ("because these Russians love anything American!") and a tossed salad ("to have something green on the table"). Because nobody protested and I did not want to fight, Marcel's menu passed the team's muster. I fumed. Such a childish, amateur menu would surely take us out of the rest of the competition.

We left the hotel lobby to go shopping at Whole Foods Market. Two had opened mere storefronts apart from each other on the same street in Moscow, and our hotel's door happened to stand right in the middle, equidistant from each Whole Foods Market. I stepped to my left, thinking the one I had chosen to go to was a tad bit closer. In any event, the check-out lanes were better arranged and the produce was fresher there. But the three other members of the team walked to their right and we all took a few steps before realizing that we weren't a complete group. I had no choice but to go along with the majority, and again I fumed that B, my best friend, seemed not to know my mind and reasons, and seemed voiceless to stand up for me. As we walked along the sidewalk in tense friendliness toward the Whole Foods Market, my handler -- for I was a spy, you see -- brushed by me and passed me a note containing my next instructions. I felt so stressed out. Not only did I have a three-course meal to cook with a bunch of amateur knuckleheads in just an hour and a half, but now I had to complete a spy mission that could have international repercussions. A woman's work ...

The cooking competition had finished, and sure enough, we lost. Our entire team was eliminated from future rounds and we were all sent home. I read the note that had been passed to me by my handler. It instructed me to keep an eye on B and make sure that he did not follow me or interfere with my departure from Moscow that evening. This frightened me -- I had trusted B implicitly and confided in him so many things. And I was supposed to return with him to the home we shared! I struggled, "was B working for the enemy, and would I have to take him out or get killed myself?" I fretted as I got into my SUV and drove down an empty and rainy Moscow main drag. I headed towards the highway and tried to concentrate on the task at hand as I peered through the rainy windshield to read the road signs; I had to make sure I was going in the right direction, and I had to get home before B did. All of a sudden, a toll plaza came upon me, and it hit me that I did not know whether I had my EZ-Pass tag with me. The toll plaza was coming up fast, for I had been driving very speedily and did not want to brake too hard on the slick asphalt. I headed toward a cash-only booth even though I knew I no longer had any Russian rubles in my wallet and would be unable to pay the toll in cash. At the last minute, my right-hand -- rummaging about in the center console of my car -- made contact with the EZ-Pass tag, and I swerved violently to get into the EZ-Pass lane to my right. I barely missed the concrete barrier separating the toll lanes and manged to slow down just enough to have the scanner accurately read my EZ-Pass tag.

I thought I had gotten off scot-free when I saw the spinning lights of a Moscow police car aimed at me, directing me to pull over. I thanked God that I knew enough Russian to butter up the police and rolled my window down, ready for the brow-beating I'd get about my violent and unsafe driving. Instead, the officer strode up to my window, stuck his head in and whispered, "B is not your enemy. Go to him now, he is waiting for you to take you away. You must trust him and take this to him. When you go with him, you will be safe, and your work here will be finished. Don't worry, Marcel is finished." Then he handed me an envelope, straightened up and strode back to his police vehicle. I felt such relief that B was not a traitor after all and that I could go home to him in peace. I tucked the envelope away in my shoulder bag and put my car in gear. I had been pulled over in a rest area, so I had to maneuver around a couple of very small cars -- ah, these Europeans -- before I could get back on the highway. It was nighttime but the rain had stopped; the roads were still wet, but I did not pick up too much speed. I just coasted along on the highway, glad to put the cooking competition and my spywork behind me.