So my dream last night went thusly:

I was told that my grandmother was actually black and that she was a cook at some mysterious restaurant, and that once I found her I had to try to find the right dish she made in order to understand my true black heritage soul. Well, after trying all the entrees in the place I got frustrated and gave up. As I left the place a group of Italian Blackshirts embraced me in the street, and a rather obese one carrying a flag started poking me. As he poked me I laughed and turned into the Pilsbury Dough Boy. The end.