Strangely enough, I find that the more violent and disturbing my dreams become, the more I turn to my kitchen for comfort.
Not comfort eating, exactly, but comfort cooking. I prepare elaborate meals at three in the morning, only to pick at a bite or two before disposing of it and returning to bed. Such a waste of good food, but I've never been a fan of left-overs.
Perhaps I should channel my energies into a dinner party.