Sog

I forgot to say what Lisa and I had at Sparrow Bar and Kitchen: she had a burger and fries, and I had a veggie burger and fries. The burger was made out of black beans and quinoa and had a wholesome but rather bland flavor, and a substantial portion of it fell out of the bun the first time it was hoisted aloft. The chips were uncrisp, but had a fine flavor. The side of fried cauliflower was also tending to the soggy, though it might have been in snappier form right after it was prepared, an estimated 45 minutes before we received it. Nonetheless, it was good, most particularly the fried sage leaves, and Lisa said her burger was great.

I’ve been eating some wild-caught salmon this past year, about half a small can per day, but now that radiation presumably from Fukushima is showing up in fish off the California coast, I’ve decided to stop. I asked Lisa for her thoughts on fish oil, and she said that while she also avoids eating actual fish, she’s going to keep taking a brand of fish oil that tests for everything, including radiation, so I’m likewise going to keep taking my fish oil, which is from Carlson. For a while, a beloved relative was on an omega-3 kick, so I heard a good deal on this subject, and did give up or largely give up some things that have a poor omega-3 to omega-6 ratio (chief among them peanut butter), and I started taking fish oil or algae oil, and actually did notice it had a generally elevating effect on mood. Lack of omega-3 is associated with depression, among other things.

On Sunday I went to Rainbow and cooked kidney beans and brown basmati rice and listened to On the Media and then to music, including the extremely catchy “Happy” by Pharrell Williams. In the evening, Tom and I had dinner at the Vietnamese place Thanh Tam II on Valencia St. The server and I had a long discussion about a hypothetical dish that would feature chow fun and steamed tofu and were able to broker an agreement, but then he came back to say, with a rueful smile, “No more chow fun!”, so I had eggplant with garlic and basil, which was mostly superb—flavorful and meltingly soft, but also, as at Chili Cha Cha 2, overly sweet.

That was the night the 49ers played the Seahawks, and as we were walking to the restaurant, we passed several bars with excited patrons spilling onto the sidewalk. There was a lot of happy yelling while the game was going well, suggesting that there might be an explosive celebration later, but while we were at dinner, the Seahawks won the game, so I was surprised to hear helicopters overhead later on. There may have been disgruntled fans expressing their disappointment, or maybe it was just the TV stations hoping blood would run in the streets.

That evening, I watched Shame, with Michael Fassbender playing a sex addict and Carey Mulligan playing his boundary-lacking sister, years after hinted-at childhood trauma.

Lately when I’m in the bathroom seated in the primary place there is to be seated, Hammett rushes in and grazes my left leg, and stands facing the wall behind me, looking at something that he obviously finds objectionable. Then he suddenly swings around, like a little furry sailboat coming about, so that he’s still against my leg, but facing the same direction I am, and then he plants one of his rear feet on top of my left foot, but in an ultra-casual manner, as if to say, “Oh, am I standing on your foot? I didn’t even notice!”

On Monday, a day off from work, Lesley drove us over to near Kezar Stadium, where we left her car, and then we took a walk in Golden Gate Park, followed by lunch at the Marnee Thai that’s on 9th Avenue. I had yellow curry with tofu, and the majority of an order of fried corn cakes.