27 November 2006

Still here. It’s freezing. Studying and working like a little dog on a turnspit. No touching to report. Still looking for a muse.

24 November 2006

I hope all my American readers readers in the US had a nice Thanksgiving holiday, and a good Turkey Sandwich Day. It’s too depressing to think that this is opening day of a “Shopping Season,” as if the people in our lives needed more stuff.

My date with the muscular chap was a dud. He’s a nice guy, but we have Nothing to talk about.

I had a nice Thanksgiving with the family. I ran into a Southern neighbor on my way home Wednesday night, and he gave me some good advice on cheese straws, which I put to good use the next day. I also made a bourbon-laced spiced green tomato compote (after an old Kentucky recipe). Delicious. The turkey was good and so were the trimmings. We had ’98 Moët & Chandon millésme rosé, a Cakebread sauvignon blanc, and the always-delicious Ridge Lytton Springs zinfandel blend.  In keeping with the low-calorie theme, I had three slices of pie for breakfast this morning (apple, pumpkin, and mincemeat). 

An old friend is in town: we went to Zuni for a late lunch (Serrano ham and celery root slaw with walnuts, and grilled bluenose bass with piperade), a nap, and then the gym.

14 November 2006

How is that on Wednesday we’ll be halfway through November? WTF?

I think I got myself back on track. I spent Monday lazing around the apartment, studying dilatorily, reading the Sunday papers, and listening to the rain. I spoke to no one, not even on the phone. I only went outside once, to check the mail. A little turtling was just what I needed.

Today: better mood in the morning. I got an unexpectedly good grade on a paper; I found out that I received a small, but honorable scholarship; I had a good chat with my Canadian muse; and someone unexpectedly complemented my butt.  And the Democrats will still control Congress next year.

13 November 2006

I called in sick today. My first time in over six months. I feel like snot on soggy toast. It’s gray and rainy. My apartment is freezing. Woe, woe, woe is me.

Weekend recap:  Friday I went to an opening at a local gallery for a Beatrice Wood exhibit. What is all the fuss about? I could make pottery like that in grade school. We had a drink at Zuni, which made things better.  I came home and made a nice gingerbread.

Saturday: farmers’ market (lamb, rapini, Winesap apples, prunes, green beans, and dark orange lilies).  We then repaired to the wine bar in the Ferry Building to have a glass of Billecart-Salmon to celebrate my new job. Not cheap, but it was worth it to be served by Hottie McBartender and to see the shocked faces of the pasty tourists when they realized what we and the other customers were up to at 10 a.m.

I went to visit my parents on Sunday. Lots of out-of-town relatives. We had a cauliflower soup, and then a pork loin roast (ten ribs!) which I spit-roasted on the barbeque, a squash grain (layers of onion, prune, apple, and squash, a bit of broth, and breadcrumbs on top), a few other items. My nephew loves cake.

9 November 2006, 10:22 p.m.

I just saw Borat. Don’t bother. It was occasionally ha-ha funny, but not ROFL funny. The audience (sold-out show) chuckled more than it laughed. Save your money and wait for the video DVD.

9 November 2006, 12:34 p.m.

In honor of Nancy Pelosi,  who will soon be the next Speaker of the House, I present a picture of some San Francisco values. That’s our City Hall. It stands taller than the U.S. Capitol.  Note that Pelosi, Feinstein, and Boxer all hale from the grand 415 area code.

5 November 2006

I’m a bit sleep deprived. After my second exam in less than twenty-four hours on Saturday, I found myself being whisked off to the northern Sonoma coast (Jenner, where the Russian River* meets the Pacific). I got the call while at the farmers’ market (before I had bought anything). I dashed home, found Doris Day parking right in front of my building, shaved, changed into a suit and tie, and my best cufflinks, and we were off for a lovely three-hour drive up the coast. I forgot my camera, alas. The wedding itself was held outdoors at an old ranch. We watched the waves breaking on the rocky shore as the couple exchanged their vows.  A bearded shepherd arrived as we were walking to our moonlit dinner (also outdoors). He gathered his flock and led them off to the barn for the night.

I have mixed feelings about all the ritual behaviors at weddings (the flowers, the tossing of flower petals, the ring-bearer, the promenade down the aisle, the exchange of rings, the kisses, the triumphal march back up the aisle, the endless photos, the banquet and speeches and toasts, the cake, the “first dance,” the “father-daughter dance,” und so weiter). Bitter much? Perhaps. Or perhaps I’m lacking in empathy. Or perhaps 90% of these gestures seem to me less symbolic than simply hollow. This couple seemed well-matched and happy. They have good families and a nice set of friends (including a gorgeous surfing instructor who set afire the hearts of all the ladies and the gays).

We came back in the early afternoon, and except for a kick-ass workout at the gym (chest and arms), I’ve spent the rest of the day alone, recuperating from the stresses of last week.

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* So called because of the nearby 19th-century Russian colony.