I was walking back and forth in a house that was not the house I live in now but seemed to be mine. It was half filled with uncooked rice. Yes, rice. Heaped in uneven mounds that sloped through the living room. It was possible to walk over it, rather like walking over sand dunes, and I clambered back and forth, preparing a Christmas pudding. I was making Christmas pudding, because I was having people over, and it was important that they should have a "real" Christmas pudding of the kind that I make. My mother (who was very much alive) was in bed at the top of one of these mounds of rice. She had, at some point, prepared some of the pudding, and put it into a bowl that was too small, so I was in search of a bigger bowl. When I found a larger bowl in the cupboard, it was full of red beans, and they all spilled out into the rice. However, I was able then to mix my pudding in the larger bowl.
My mother then offered to help make breakfast for me. I said "no, thank you, stay where you are, I'll do it" and my mother started to cry. I went up to her bed and kissed her and said "Oh, please don't cry; I know you want to help but I have an 8:30 class and I'm in a hurry and I need to go as fast as I can. I'll make your breakfast when I make mine." She said that was okay, but she was still crying and I felt awful.
I know what that was about, because that's what my mornings and days and weeks were like in the years leading up to my mother's death.
I have no clue about the rice, though. Or the Christmas pudding, for that matter.