Metaphysics

For a while after he died my father didn’t seem to discern dream visitors, but I was amazed nonetheless to witness his swift and serene rejuvenation. From time to time I’d find him dining outdoors in beautiful locales, a multicolored grain on his plate I’d never seen elsewhere. Yes, laughed the server, it’s a staple here; a sort of national dish, I guess, like potatoes in Ireland, pasta in Italy, couscous in Morocco, rice in Japan or Madagascar. We can’t get enough of it, and it’s remarkably nutritious. What’s it called? I asked. She replied, metaphysics.