Semi-quiet day at home. In the morning I did a bunch of chores, which made me feel productive enough to lie around for two hours around lunch time. I watched a little bit of the newly sworn in president make the customary inauguration speech. I was unmoved. Rako's bravado got him into a bizarre tug-of-war with Ludwig. In this case, the would-be rope was Rako's face. A short, deep wound now runs down his upper lip. To avoid panic among certain readers, I will try not to mention that I think I could see the inside of his mouth through the wound. Lem assures me that dogs are resilient, but I continue to worry. Rako is napping under the study table, mending.
This afternoon, I read a little bit and thought about the rest of the week. Today feels a little bit like a Sunday, which would make tomorrow a Monday. That is a depressing thought. I'm trying not to get carried away by the sudden slump. Popped in an old DVD of the first (and only) season of Kitchen Confidential. Bradley Cooper is amusing when he is neurotic. It's a shame the series ended too soon, but I suppose the exploits of the real thing are entertainment enough. My friend Hanna lent me her copy of A Cook's Tour. I've taken a hungry bite out of the first few chapters, where Bourdain recounts the slaying of a fattened pig in Portugal. He writes:
I learned, for the first time, that I could indeed look my food in the eyes before eating it - and I came away from the experience, I hope, with considerably more respect for what we call "the ingredient." I am more confirmed than ever in my love for pork, pork fat, and cured pork. And I am less likely to waste it. That's something I owe the pig for. I know now what a pork chop costs in terms of the living, breathing thing that was killed to supply it.
At eight o'clock tonight, I plan to watch Roger Federer play Tommy Berdych in the Men's Quarterfinals. Kim Clijsters took out Justine Henin and later fell to the younger Vera Zvonareva. What does it take for a come-back around here? In other Wimbledon news: John McEnroe wonders when they will get to use the new roof on Centre Court and Alan Wilkins makes an appreciative comment about pineapples from the Philippines (Vijay Amritraj informs us that the pineapple on the Wimbledon trophy is some kind of symbol for wealth.)
I've just about used up my break. Cell organelles and osmosis await me. Later.
