I met G_____in Berkeley yesterday and we went to the Kermit Lynch store, in that little complex on San Pablo with Acme Bread and Café Fanny, for their outdoor Chez-Panisse-taste-the-Provencal-wines-I’m-not-sure-what-the-hell-this-is-supposed-to-be affair. Fifteen bucks a plate for seared tuna and some grilled veggies, plus an octopus confit I thought I’d hate but didn’t. We came back to my nabe in Oakland where the Laurel merchants we’re allegedly having a street fair. It was dismal – maybe three little clumps of people, widely spread along MacArthur, with balloons. We came back to 3701 and drank DietCoke and talked—for hours.
Today, I’m trying to rescue a failed pot of posole that I’m supposed to take to Carla B_____’s potluck in an hour and a half. I could only find dried hominy, and, though I have boiled it at this point for something like seven hours, it won’t soften. I had to start all over again with the base ingredients (chiles, onions, garlic, stock) because I had basically boiled all the flavor out of the other trying to get the hominy to soften. I bought some canned hominy just in case. I guess I’m giving it another 20 mins before deciding whether I have to give up and go with the canned. The reality is that I don’t want to go, and the posole fiasco is almost a good enough reason to stay home.
I seem incapable of doing anything concrete, and what’s more — I don’t care. This morning I couldn’t stop crying as I read the NY Times – my copy of it was lying on the grass this a.m., intact but out of the bag (which was missing), as though someone had picked it up to read and then put it back in the yard. Information has become like a drug.