Several months ago a food writer in the SF Chronicle scornfully chastised any Bay Area resident who would even think about using frozen duck. I don’t know what her definition of “readily available” is, but she clearly hasn’t been to my local Safeway, which, while totally adequate, has a way of always missing some key item I’m looking for. Things I have looked for and not found, either because they’re out of stock or because the store doesn’t carry them: whole wheat pasta, candied ginger, mixed nuts, amaretti, whole-grain crackers, plain nonfat yogurt, chocolate chocolate-chip ice cream (you see the extent of my dilemma. . . .). Don’t even think about looking for tahini. Just don’t. So there I am in the greeting card/paperback/magazine aisle recently, because printed matter compels me to reading the way fresh duck compels an SF food writer towards snobbery, and in between the romances (will our tempestuous auburn-haired beauty be able to tame the brooding duke/cowboy/lawyer who mysteriously turned up in town? Something tells me she will!) and the true crime paperbacks (will your husband murder you in your bed and run off with his secretary? He very well might!) there’s a Latin-English dictionary. Several of them, in fact, so it’s no random volume left by a rebel scholar who has no dog to eat his homework, but an actual stocked item with a bar code. I don’t even know what to make of this.