5th Floor, Going Up

It was Martha Jefferson Randolph redux.

But when the Virginia Historical Society posted on FB today, "Do you need something to do on this cold and rainy day?" it occurred to me that I did need something to do.

So for the second time, I went to hear Cynthia Kierner talk about her book, "Martha Jefferson Randolph: Daughter of Monticello."

Unlike that lecture last June at the Library of Virginia, here, this one began with VHS president Paul Leavingood reminiscing about how long the Banner lectures have been going on.

"Some of you may remember going to these talks back when they were on the fifth floor of Thalhimer's. We've come a long way, baby."

A lecture and a lingerie shopping trip, now that's an afternoon from a different era.

Kierner began by apologizing for the lack of visuals.

"I don't want you to think I'm a Luddite and can't do a Power Point presentation, but we're having some technical difficulties, so there won't be any pictures. They say a picture's worth a thousand words, so my talk may run a little long because I'll have to say those thousand words. But I talk fast."

So she began going through the story of yet another wildly dysfunctional 18th century Virginia family, the kind where strong women shore up weak men and the history books ignore her.

Or they did until women started writing them.

She mentioned how Thomas Jefferson had worried that his daughters would marry blockheads and that while Martha's husband, Thomas Mann Randolph, wasn't a blockhead, he was a poor businessman.

Since I'd heard the basics before, I took note of her picture-less observations, things like, "In a cookbook glossary for her daughters, she defined grits as coming from wheat. Even I know that's wrong and I'm from New Jersey."

When she spoke of Martha's husband, she said, "I have to describe this portrait to you because I paid a lot of money to the Virginia Historical Society to use it in my book. But it's for a good cause."

Her point in describing the portrait was that the artist was unskilled at drawing hands so while Randolph's hands look deformed, it's the artist's fault and not pictorial reality.

The lecture ended, as did the last one, with her talking about the truism that "well-behaved women seldom make history," which may or may not apply to Martha, depending on how you want to argue that point.

After a quick trip to the grocery store (for sauerkraut) where sure enough, the shelves were cleared of all milk except skim (latecomers will no doubt have to settle) in anticipation of snow, I came home to find a message from a friend requesting my company for lunch.

I chose the new sandwich place near VCU, Boo's Brown Bag, because I'd heard they were cooking their own meats.

Nothing like turkey or roast beef someone else has taken the time to cook for me.

The place was bright and open with a half dozen tables for eating in, a big picture window for watching the street theater of the lower Fan and a reappearing Quickness rider picking up to-go orders for delivery.

My friend had saved a table with a view and I scoped out the menu.

I'd arrived late enough that they had sold out of turkey, so instead I chose the yellow fin tuna sandwich because I never pass up tuna salad made with fish from the water rather than a grocery shelf.

In fact, for years I patronized Christie's in Carytown solely for their albacore not-from-a-can tuna sandwich.

I liked that Boo's sandwiches come with chips and one of nine sides, things like beer-battered fries, coconut black beans and baked cinnamon apples.

But hearing that the veggie of the day was sauteed green beans, I chose them.

My sandwich showed up with a thick layer of fresh-tasting tuna on thick Weiman's wheat bread toasted and the green beans were outstanding, not overcooked and seasoned nicely.

Friend raved about his grilled chicken and roasted tomato salad with cranberries, walnuts and shredded Parmesan with a housemade roasted tomato vinaigrette.

I was happy to see that Boo's had not ignored the sweet-dependent among us, offering an array of locally made goodies, including stuff from WPA Bakery in Church Hill and Sweet Temptations by Teresa.

The pound cake with lemon frosting was dense with a rich, buttery frosting I could have eaten by the spoonful.

While eating, I watched the parade of soggy humanity go by, amazed, given the driving rain, to see a guy go by with no hood, no hat, no umbrella, and understandably miserable looking.

But even soaking wet, he had his ear buds in.

My guess is that's just the kind of blockhead TJ was worried about Martha falling for.

Maybe we haven't come as far as we thought, baby.