Working Monday through Friday 8 to 6: could you remind me again why I do this? I hated that schedule years ago when I had an office job. I loved having a cook’s schedule (2PM-11PM). I don’t mind long hours, I don't mind working on Friday or Saturday nights, I just hate giving up the best part of the day to work.

Well, I don’t have antibodies to TB. My arm is sore from my tetanus booster shot. I still have antibodies to hepatitis A & B from the vaccines (if you’re gay and having sex, you need to get vaccinated, boys).  I just had a physical (one of the entrance requirements for trade school).  I'll get the results of my first cholesterol test in a few days.

I think we have found an apartment in Rio. I know the street; it’s half-way between Copacabana and Ipanema. After a tussle with Western Union, I wired the money for a deposit. My horoscope said that it would be a good day for real estate transactions. I can’t wait. How could you not love a country that produces coconut scented dish-soap!

And since everyone seems to be posting lists of things, here’s a partial list of the cookbooks I’m clearing from my shelves. I still have about 200 left. I’m de-accessioning the ones I’ll never crack open again.  (This list will bore those of you who aren't cooks; come back another day.)

Bitter Almonds: Recollections and Recipes from  a Sicilian Girlhood, Maria Grammatico, 1994. (lots of good recipes for Sicilian cookies and treats)

Coming Home to Eat: The Pleasures and Politics of Local Foods, Gary Paul Nabhan, 2002 (interesting, even if the author suffers from massive self-absorption).

English Puddings: Sweet and Savory, Mary Norwalk, 1996 (lots of delicious English dessert recipes—not just puddings)

Enoteca: Simple, Delicious Recipes in the Italian Wine Bar Tradition, Joyce Goldstein, 2001 (lots of nice pictures, too)

Flavors of Puglia: Traditional Recipes from the Heel of Italy’s Boot, Nancy Harmon Jenkins, 1997

French Cheeses: The Visual Guide to More Than 350 Cheeses from Every Region of France, 1996 (very thorough and comprehensive)

In Nonna’s Kitchen: Recipes and Traditions from Italy’s Grandmothers, Carol Field, 1997

The Making of  a Cook, Madeline Kamman, 1971

Marcella’s Italian Kitchen, Marcella Hazan, 1986 (this is her third book, the one with the picture of her on the cover, very reliable, even if she is sometimes contrary and wrong-headed)

Mediterranean Cooking: Revised with 75 New Recipes, Paula Wolfert (quite nice, and from the period when she was still writing accurate recipes)

Pampille’s Table: Recipes and Writings from the French Countryside, by Pampille (originally published in French in 1919; this edition translated by Shirley King in 1996. Elizabeth David liked the original very much).

Simple Cooking, John Thorne, 1996 (very nice; opinionated, but in a good way)

The Slow Mediterranean Kitchen: Recipes for the Passionate Cook, Paula Wolfert, 2003 (signed by author and inscribed to me. Includes disclaimer from publisher: “The advice and strategies contained herein may not be suitable for your situation. You should consult with a professional where appropriate.” Amen.)

Sweet Sicily: The Story of an Island and Her Pastries, Victoria Granof, 2001 (lots and lots of Sicilian sweets)

I had the day off, and a quiet weekend. I was going to write about the trivia of my life, but his post this morning threw me into day-long melancholy. As the French say, the “I” on the page is not “I” that holds the pen, but I can’t believe that he has been such a monster.

I’ve been struggling all day to put into words why and how much I’ll miss his voice, his insights, his little essays about desire and longing and self-sabotage (and his ginJer martini recipe). Oh man.  

Nine more work days and I’m done! Once school starts, I’ll still help out here and there with the project, but on tasks that don’t require me to be there every day or to manage anyone. We’re now coding about 35,000-40,000 pages a day.

I was feeling sorry for myself Friday evening. I stayed late at work at the request of the I.T. guys. They were doing a data export and needed an extra hand. I was too tired for the gym, had no interest in going out, and needed really badly to do the laundry (I was down to the Santa underpants). Poor Carl, no plans but dirty clothes on a Friday night. My newly shaved head is working out nicely. A foxy latin guy (not again!) started his laundry at the same time I did. I thought he was straight (but sensitive, since he was writing in his journal). He kept looking over at me, and then I got a clue. As I walked past him to get my stuff, he stepped back a little so that his butt would brush against the back of my hand. We folded our laundry side-by-side. Somehow, as he was sorting what came out of the dryer, a big stack of his boxers and jockstraps ended up right under my elbow. Hmm. I gave him my number. I wanted to invite him over, but he was on his way to L.A. to meet his new nephew. He said something that could describe me as well: “I’d make a terrible father, but I’m going to be a great uncle.”

I got a hen and some grapes at the farmers’ market: I’m thinking of preparing the chicken à la Veronique (with grapes and white wine), but I’m not sure how I want to get there. Poaching? Spatchcocked? Boned and rolled? A sauté? I think more dinner parties are in order, now that I’m not cooking at the restaurant.

The August issue of Saveur has a nice article on Zuni, the only good, urbane, and adult restaurant in my neighborhood (I’m sorry, but Absinthe is just bogus, inside and out).

A bittersweet weekend. I cooked for perhaps the last time at the restaurant. I grilled squab (all 400 tiny pieces of it) that I had placed in a spiced marinade of my own devising (clove, allspice, black pepper, star anise, thyme, summer savory, sweet wine, and a little vinegar. It sounds more medieval that it tasted.). I have something percolating in the back of my mind about what working there has meant to me and what it has meant to be part of an institution that has been shaping the way we eat for the last thirty years. I first ate there nearly twenty years ago; I first wanted to cook there about twelve years ago; I started as an intern over six years ago; I didn’t get hired until a year or two later. No matter what I do with the rest of my careers, working there will be one of the biggest professional accomplishments of my life. When the wife of one of the chefs interrupted her dinner to come into the kitchen to say about my fish stew, “Et la soupe, c’est vraiment un tour de force,” I felt that I had earned another master’s degree. And now that chapter is over. I’ll now have just one set of knives at home, not one in the drawer and one in a knife bag to bring with me to work.

Sunday dawned sunny and ended up rather deedy: laundry, a double batch of chocolate chip cookies, a replanting of the window box, the printing of the latest set of coding conventions for work, a little bicycle tune-up, a frustrating trip to Dolores Park for a friend’s going-away picnic and a free concert by the Symphony (I never found my friends, and, just when I realized that I would not ever find them, I espied the Catalan and his gay lover, all cuddly on a blanket, snug, smug, shirtless, and vexing), then the gym, and then a quick deposit as part of my community service efforts (he was Latin and about 30).

I just got back from Leos Janacek’s Cunning Little Vixen. I live about three blocks from the opera but don’t  profit from it much. I decided to treat myself to a ticket as part of self-appreciation month (i.e., while I can still afford it). I went alone. Of course, the place was full of gays, mostly gays in couples. This usually doesn’t bother me, but tonight it sent me into a bitter spiral. Not that I’m doing anything about it except complaining. To answer your question, no, I haven’t called either of the guys who gave me their numbers and are interested in me. I’ve been “busy.” I’ve had a “cold.” Mosquitoes have been biting me at night. My desk is too messy. I’m in the middle of a novel. I don’t have the right shoes to go on a date. I’m in the middle of a life transition. I needed a haircut.

I’m not going to run out of excuses. Maybe I should just face up to it. I’m too chicken. I think my life will be made chaotic if I start dating someone. It will feel like an intrusion, an invasion of my privacy. I don’t remember how I used to do it so blithely.