I don’t ever throw away leftovers. I figure anything wrapped in petrochemical-based plastic and stored in the refrigerator will last longer than my memory, which means I will forget how old the food is anyway.

I have a strong stomach and an even stronger cheapness. Besides, I figure the microwave will kill anything that doesn’t belong in my body, which is not a temple, more like a dumpster for leftovers.

But now I wonder, although old food doesn’t seem to be an issue for my digestive system, maybe it’s messing with my mind.

One dinner last week was a bowl of five-day-old broccoli, tomatoes, black beans and ground turkey. All cooked, of course. A mishmash of colors and textures, which I figured would hide any mold or discoloration anyway.

It tasted fine, and I later went to sleep.

Then it got weird.

I dreamt I had joined a tour of some kind, dockside in an unidentified Alaska town. It sort of looked like Juneau. I was the only non-cruise ship passenger to climb aboard the small tour boat — it looked like one of those orange motorboats that cruise ships use to shuttle people back and forth to shore when they have to anchor in front of town.

That I even joined the tour makes absolutely no sense — I get seasick.

We cruised along the shore for a bit, it was foggy, low clouds, a typical Southeast Alaska day. Then the next thing I remember we were on land, as if the boat had pulled up its rudder and set down its tires. We were driving on a narrow road, which sort of looked like the Seward Highway going out of Anchorage.

Traffic was busy, and the next thing I remember our boat with wheels was driving on top of the trucks and buses and cars in front of us. I remember it was a bumpy ride, bouncing from rooftop to rooftop, but no one said anything. Not the other passengers or the drivers below, who surely must have wondered about the thumps over their heads.

As we were getting close to a town, I saw massive stacks of junked cars. One person on the bus asked me about the cars, and I said maybe they were electric vehicles junked by the president. I guess my sarcastic political humor is alive in my dreams.

We pulled into a seaside tourist city, sort of reminded me of Seward. I was the only person on the bus who was hungry. Everyone else was from a cruise ship and already had eaten. But I had no money, since I had not expected to go on an all-day drive. There was a kid selling glasses of lemonade for $1.50, but that was $1.50 more than I had in my pocket.

After a short visit in town, our bus driver — or was he a boat driver, the motorized “thing” still looked like a boat — announced we were leaving and everyone should get back on board. I had to run to hop aboard.

As he was about to get on the highway, he said everyone should stop at the restroom before the drive home.

He directed his passengers to the one public restroom on the waterfront.

I knew the line would soon stretch around the block. And I knew where another public restroom in town was available, so I slipped away from the group and happily walked over to a private restroom.

And then I woke up. Good thing too, because I needed to go to the bathroom, for real.

Larry Persily is a longtime Alaska journalist, with breaks for federal, state and municipal public policy work in Alaska and Washington, D.C. He lives in Anchorage and is publisher of the Wrangell Sentinel weekly newspaper.