i do think about things other than food, but only rarely

I have nothing to blog but my weekends.

Friday, lunch (actually breakfast) at Tartine with Scott the WiFi guy; olive cake and one of their amazing little endive salads. Kappy and her retriever Boston dropped by to pick up a birthday cake – the white-nectarine-and-raspberry tart – for my boss, so Claire and I accompanied them to the office for gossip and a slice of tart. Claire played on the rug. My coworkers gurgled with delight. Tartine’s vanilla cream is a wonder of the world.

Back out in the street I ran into Karie. She used to live up near Shotwell Films; I remember walking to work my first day at the451, back in 2000, and she called out of her window to say hello. She was planting jasmine in an old toilet bowl on her fire escape. Just the kind of woman she is, Martha Stewart by way of Burning Man and Valhalla. She, too, cooed over the sleepy baby.

Next Claire and I headed over to the SF Public Library. I’ve never been a giant fan of its architecture or collection – it’s no Mitchell Library or Long Room – but Claire greatly enjoyed the atrium and skylights, and made me realize how spoiled I’ve been. The Mitchell and Berkeley and Fisher Libraries are truly great, and even the Mechanic’s Library is very good, and it’s churlish of me to not-love the SFPL just because I secretly want it to be the British or New York. Anyway, I found what I needed: Fussell’s Wartime, Ian Buruma’s The Wages of Guilt and a decent-looking book on the Viennese.

Saturday we bought a dozen bagels at Katz and spent most of the afternoon on Ian and Kiki’s back deck, smearing said bagels with avocado and cream cheese and topping them with excellent smoked salmon, chopped onion and capers. Saturday night a big group of us met up at the Tonga Room. Jack loved his Gaugin shirt – “It’s shiny! And it’s by some old guy, which is cool!” Ian and Kiki got him a tool belt from Cliff’s Hardware. Every half-hour or so there would be thunder and lightning and a shower of rain. I drank virgin coladas and talked to the funny-as-she-is-beautiful Justine all night. It was very splendid.

Sunday Jeremy announced that brunch with Peter would be “in a place of Rachel’s choosing”, then objected strenuously to my choice of Foreign Cinema on the grounds that it has a pretentious name, which it absolutely does. But it was amazing – a huge beautiful courtyard off Mission Street, filled with sunshine and reminding me vaguely of Brennan’s in New Orleans or the Irish Film Centre in Temple Bar. I had a mimosa and the Flatiron steak, with fried Yukon potatoes and rabe. It was beyond delicious. I didn’t so much eat it as absorb it directly through the membranes in my mouth, via osmosis.

Otherwise I slept all weekend, because the child is growth-spurting again and feeding off my precious bodily fluids. Oh well. If I must be enfeebled, at least I can be diverted. Fussell is always a cracking read, and Spirited Away is just as wonderful the second time around.

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