Grit Fries and Good Vibes

It's the manic/depressive nature of freelancing.

I devote my day to driving to Urbanna, a place I've never been, to interview a woman for a piece I am writing.

Having to do so means I drive on uncrowded roads on a sunny day to the river to spend hours sitting on a couch talking to a happy woman.

She lives with the love of her life and they run a business together.

An avid cook, she blogs about what she cooks for him every night.

And every night, they go to sleep on their houseboat.

Oh, sure, they have a house, but that's for guests...and the six chicks currently living in the living room.

Her charming partner was there because they'd just finished lunch together and he insisted on giving me a brownie from the lunch for my drive home.

Needless to say, it was a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon, hearing another woman's interesting life story.

After we finished, I asked for a suggestion on where to eat lunch.

Leaving the store unlocked, she walked me next door (literally) to what was once a Coca-Cola bottling plant and is now a boutique hotel.

The interior had a New Orleans feel, with a fountain scavenged from the Big Easy and screen door frames (retrofitted with glass), which came from the old John Marshall hotel, of all places.

Best of all, she'd been right; they were still serving lunch despite the late afternoon hour.

Ostra, the restaurant, had only a few customers at that point, but she knew them and introduced me.

One of the servers, upon hearing I was from Richmond, told me she used to live there and still enjoys picking up "Style Weekly" when she visits.

"It makes me feel so in-the-know," she said, even more impressed when she learned I wrote for them

Rather than leave me to my lunch (because she needed to return to their shop next door), she insisted I get my food to go and return to eat it with her.

And she insisted I try the grit fries.

Seeing me scanning the menu, the bartender leaned in and told me that the new chef was from Kansas.

My eyes immediately jumped to the half pound Ostra burger with aioli, Gouda, applewood bacon and port onions on a Kaiser bun.

Surely any Kansas boy worth his salt does a decent burger.

When my food came, I took it next door to eat it while chatting off the record with my former interviewee.

She applauded my choice of beef, saying it was the chef's strength (good guess).

And the grit fries were as delectable as she's promised, with a mixture of goat cheese and grits cut into little cakes and fried up to crispy perfection.

That's the way to teach a Northerner to like grits.

It was girl talk par excellence with a woman who'd been a stranger when I'd walked in four hours earlier.

Great fun.

Driving back towards Richmond, listening to a favorite car mix CD, I basked in how lucky I am to earn my living in a way that allows long talks and late lunches.

So naturally, I walk in to find a message from one of my editors telling me a piece slated for print might get pushed aside and end up online only.

Don't get me wrong, I'm happy to see the results of a two-hour plus interview with an artist end up anywhere people can read it, but I'm also old-school enough to know that some people will never read what I wrote unless it's in print.

Because it's about art. If it were about restaurants, I'd know plenty of people would see it even without the print product.

Ah,well, that's the way the cookie/canvas crumbles.

Being a freelancer means that as long as they pay me the agreed-upon fee, they can run it anywhere they want to.

But I gotta admit, it was just a little bit of a dark cloud on otherwise lovely way to spend a working day.

Good thing I had that brownie to ease the sting a little.