A little burnt out. I don’t know if I’ll be working on Saturday. Mr. Avoidant volunteered for a shift a the restaurant, but now he hopes he won’t be called in.

Yes, it’s another example of my using work to avoid the rest of my life (as in dating). Any day now a Monsignor in a large black limousine will arrive from the diocesan office with a thick cream-and-gilt envelope bearing my Certificate of Secondary Virginity from the Vatican.

Since we’re on the topic of late goddesses, Marlene Dietrich would have been 105 today.

It’s raining. I worked, but puttered a lot. My apartment still hasn’t recovered from the catering episode (which went well, by the way). Equipment is scattered in every room.

The following is a sample of what I send out every year as holiday cards.  Not everyone celebrates xmas, but everyone can, and should, celebrate Elizabeth David's Birthday.

Fennel with Parmesan

In memory of Elizabeth David, who was born on December 26, read one of her books, eat good food with friends, or make this dish, which I have adapted from a recipe in her 1984 book, An Omelette and a Glass of Wine.

            This is a simple and refreshing vegetable dish; it is surprising that it is not better known . . . .

Allow one large fennel bulb per person. Other ingredients are butter, grated Parmesan cheese, and breadcrumbs. Preheat the oven to 350° F/180° C. Trim the bulbs by slicing off the top stalks, the thick base, and any bruised outer layers. There is a good deal of waste. Slice the bulbs in half, vertically, from the base to the tip. Plunge them into a saucepan of boiling salted water. According to size, they should cook for 7–10 minutes. When tender enough to be pierced fairly easily with a skewer, drain them. Have ready a well-buttered gratin dish or Pyrex just large enough to hold the fennel in a single layer. In this arrange the fennel halves, cut side down. Strew the breadcrumbs over them (about one tablespoon per bulb), then the grated Parmesan (again, about 1 tablespoon per bulb), and finally dot everything generously with butter. Put the gratin dish into the oven and leave for 10–15 minutes until the cheese and breadcrumbs are very pale gold, and bubbling.

Studying and working. Finally, IRC Sections 2035-38 are starting to make sense. General powers of appointment, too. And generation-skipping transfer taxes. If only I could wrap my mind around the marital deduction and grantor trusts, I’d be fine.  The final is on Saturday. Yoikes.

I saw my favorite couple-crush last night at the gym. The cuter one is sporting a sexy new moustache. He has the devil in his eye. They were changing just as I left, which was nice (and inspiring).  I met the cuter one years ago, but I don't think he remembers. He was in a mischievous transaction at the time . . .

Busy with work and school. Falling behind in my studies, alas. Spending precious time wondering about the pagan origins of the xmas tree. Eating too many sweets. Starting to panic, a little.

I think I’m supposed to remember some anniversary connected with this date, but I can’t recall what it was.

Lovely day shopping with my sisters.  I made a pork sugo Bolognese for our lunch. We had a delicious dinner at Zuni: duck rillettes on prune toasts, and braised rabbit with a creamy turnip gratin. Just what the doctor ordered.

Life without a  muse: not pretty.

This morning, as I was polishing my shoes before work, I remembered my worst ex-boyfriend, a nouveau riche from Bel Air, who told me one day when we were dating that he had just learned about polishing shoes (at age 26).  Before this epiphany he had been in the habit of simply discarding his fancy Italian shoes as soon as they got scuffed. We broke up soon after (citing irreconcilable differences).

The Google indicates that among his "essays" is an “influential cultural manifesto.” I puke. 

"But the problem with readers, the idea we’re given of reading is that the model of a reader is the person watching a film, or watching television. So the greatest principle is, 'I should sit here and I should be entertained.' And the more classical model, which has been completely taken away, is the idea of a reader as an amateur musician. An amateur musician who sits at the piano, has a piece of music, which is the work, made by somebody they don’t know, who they probably couldn’t comprehend entirely, and they have to use their skills to play this piece of music. The greater the skill, the greater the gift that you give the artist and that the artist gives you. That’s the incredibly unfashionable idea of reading. And yet when you practice reading, and you work at a text, it can only give you what you put into it. It’s an old moral, but it’s completely true."

I’m running late for work, and it’s “casual” Friday. Will I ever get it together?

A very long dream last night about towing ravioli behind me on a little platform behind my bike as I rode from L.A. to S.F.  Any clues, Dr. Freud?

And, since it’s the first of the month, good news: only 780 days until Chimpy will, in theory, at least, no longer be our president.