Today was a testament to the peccadilloes of family. You see, my Dad is in a local hospital after surgery for kidney stones. As the sole Richmond daughter of six, I am the closest to the hospital and, by default, the hostess to all who come down to see Dad.
Colorful Sister #3 was the first. Well, actually, Sister #5 was the first because she was there with my mother at the hospital room when I arrived to take up my post. But she soon headed north for Maryland, leaving me and Sister #3 to carry on caring for Dad.
Perhaps our most compelling conversation was about whether Mom or Dad had chosen each of our names and middle names. Mom settled the score, making it clear which names had been chosen by whom and why. These were stories I'd never heard shared.
Naturally, I had to invite Sister #3 out for a bite and a drink since she'd never come to visit me in Richmond.
While she tied up loose ends at the hospital, I visited the Valentine Museum for the opening of "In Gear: Richmond Cycles," a look at how our fair city took to and advanced the cause of the bike. Because it was the Valentine, there was a fabulous slide show of (far superior) old black and white photographs and (interesting but lesser) color cigarette cards documenting the development of bicycle culture here.
Every aspect - Christmas morning with tricycles, courting couples, families on bikes all wearing black socks - was covered along with actual bikes owned by Richmonders. Video showed extended shots of local cyclists. In the crowd I saw bike kids, rich people and artsy types, all curious about Richmond's cycling past.
Back at my house, I met Sister #3 for a nickel tour ("It's not at all tiny like Mom said") before heading the seven blocks to Magpie. The Rolling Stones were blaring and we waited patiently for two bar stools to empty out before taking our rightful places at the bar.
Having given herself over to Fall, she went with red wine, but I held out for La Bella Fernando Tempranillo Blanco (because why not a white skinned mutation of the dark-skinned Tempranillo?) and a plate of roasted goat shoulder, Romesco, petite salad, orange vinaigrette and Manchego. Beer bread and honey butter filled in the cracks. Our server shared that the very same goat had been the taco filling at lunch of late, a Magpie meal I've yet to experience.
Because it was her first time there, I strongly suggested my sister begin with Chef Owen's pork and Manchego sausage, an obscenely large portion of sausage and onion rings. "Go on, I know you like a good onion ring," my sister cajoled, so I did.
Both servers, upon hearing of our status as one of six daughters inquired, "How have you not killed each other?" It's a question I ask only when I spend any time with one of them.
Our conversation about family travails caught the attention of the bartender, who was a middle child (like Sister #3) with a younger sister. "I could tell you were sisters by the way you talked to each other and the way you talked about your Mom and Dad," she explained. With exasperation, right?
The funny part is that Sister #3 and I are far from the closest but yet share certain very particular traits. Both city people, we are outspoken and at ease anywhere. Not so others (sisters #2, 4 and often 5). If anyone's going to dance on tables, it's the two of us.
In fact, years ago, Dad shared with me that the sisters could be split into two groups. Half were the result of a romantic meal with Mom and tender lovemaking afterwards.
The other three (and I fall into this group, as you may be able to tell) were conceived after wild nights out with guy friends where he came home and had a ripping good time with Mom. As you might imagine, the resulting spawn are wildly different.
Celebrating the sisterhood, we enjoyed corn bread cake with Nutella ice cream and blackberry gastrique to end the meal, discussing how Bessie, our Richmond grandmother, had been an impressive role model when it came to fried chicken, biscuits, string beans, walking, abstinence and life advice.
Perhaps because we'd been so flamboyantly different than her and her Cumberland County ways, we'd appreciated her wisdom. Sister #3 even selected her as the person she'd most like to talk to from the grave, should she be given the chance to glean from a past family member. I didn't go that far.
What finally ended our evening of reminiscing and one upmanship was that my sister needed to get back to her hotel. Seems her husband had discovered online that she'd booked herself into a local pet-friendly hotel and like any good spouse had decided to gather up the dog, drive down from Baltimore and come spend the night with her in Richmond.
I'd be barfing at the corniness of it if it wasn't quite romantic. He's off tomorrow, she's in a nearby city (relatively speaking - it's a 2 1/2 hour drive), so why shouldn't he come help keep her king size bed warm?
I may never have hitchhiked barefoot to Ocean City like Sister #3 did, but we're blood
Isn't that what middle sisters do?
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