The standards have changed at the little yellow river cottage I so enjoy.
How else to explain a call from the man of the cottage asking if we could delay our arrival until after 1:00? Mind you, the missus - aka my girl crush - had already said to arrive mid to late morning, preferably with a Hanover tomato in hand. Now he was saying they needed more time?
More time to what? They've both told me repeatedly that I'm not a guest, I'm family. When my visits are in the same month, I ask that they don't even change the sheets on the screened porch bed between visits. The guest cottage requires no upkeep for me beyond opening the windows and making sure there's toilet paper.
Turns out the uptick in housekeeping standards had nothing to do with me and everything to do with the man who was driving the car toward the cottage. For him, they were putting in extra effort on chores. I know because after handing over the Hanover tomatoes, I asked if they'd have warned me off if it had been just me.
Nope.
And while I could be insulted, I prefer to think that it's just an affirmation that I'm like the mint planted in the toilet in the yard: no more than another cottage fixture.
As always, they were the host and hostess with the mostess, taking us for a leisurely power boat ride on the eastern and western branches of the river for the shank of the afternoon.
We admired older river houses built with windows for ventialtion, checked out new construction (including a house on stilts seemingly built right at the water's edge - WTF?) and scratched our heads over waterfront houses without porches facing the view. We spotted an old boathouse out in a cove, the pier behind it long gone and the boathouse now sitting at a precarious 45 degree angle as if it were returning to the water incrementally.
Atop channel markers and buoys, we saw empty nest after empty nest where just last month young ospreys had been learning to fly under the parents' tutelage. They'd since left home and the captain was already missing their distinctive sounds in the neighborhood.
The helmsman turned the conversation to how thug-like ospreys were and yet how noble eagles were, casting them as members of opposing gangs. From there, it was a short leap for the two fans of show tunes to begin snapping their fingers a la the Sharks and the Jets.
We got back just in time to change clothes before the dinner party guests began arriving.
There was the judge and his wife, whom I'd met over dinner last spring. There was the couple next door who'd been invited by text while we were out tooling around on the boat (ah, technology). Then during dinner on the deck, when they saw their other neighbor busy doing yard work (and without his family), they called to him and he joined the party.
After dinner and the judge's wife's Atlantic Beach pie - notably with a Saltine crust - we watched the moon rise over the Corrotoman River, debating whether or not it was full (turns out it wasn't) as it cast a long, shimmering reflection across the barely rippling water. The captain had his fingers crossed that a breeze would pick up overnight.
I've had many a wonderful night sleeping on that screened porch, but I can't recall one with such magnificent moonlight bathing the turquoise floor and the single antique bed.
Sunday dawned just as blue sky-beautiful but definitely hotter. After checking the readout for the weather station atop his boathouse, the captain decided that although it was rather still on this part of the river, it looked to be breezier toward the bay. As always, when he inquired who wanted to go sailing, I was the first to raise my hand.
Then it happened again. My girl crush tells me that they're going to go ahead to the marina and tidy up the boat and we should follow along in 15 minutes. I looked at her like she'd grown another head. Since when don't I go along with you to the boat? Since never.
Wait, was this about cleaning up the sailboat before you-know-who saw it for the first time? Well...
Holy cow, they were doing it again. Just to be sure, I inquired if I'd be going with them if I had come alone. Sheepish looks all around.
Insisting that he could handle meeting the boat no matter how she looked, I said we were coming with them. Riding to the marina is when the boating party gets started, what with anticipation of the adventure, joking around and miscellaneous information shared along the way. With a lawman in charge, there's no booze, but there is a whole lot of smart-assed repartee.
It wasn't our best sailing day in terms of wind, although the new helmsman did manage to heel over a few times and give the girl crush and I - lounging on the bow of the boat in our legless seats - some cheap thrills.
Or, as she likes to put it in her raunchiest voice, "Yea, baby!"
Coming up under the Whitestone bridge near the bay, we admired how the new coating of sky blue paint really does melt the bridge right into the sky when you're moving under it. Which, considering the never-ending construction, is a far better place to admire it than on top with the hot asphalt and Port-a-Potties.
It was a slow but steady trip back with only a little of the time under sail power, with the captain pulling the technology card to snap a photo of his crew to document the momentous occasion. Fortunately, he was not around for the pre-journey home, but oh-so important, final outdoor shower of the weekend. Because what happens in the finest shower on the river, stays in the shower.
Yea, baby.
Showing posts with label dinner party. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dinner party. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 28, 2018
Tuesday, January 10, 2017
To Sum It Up
9:10
Ungodly hour my landlord phoned me to see if my pipes were frozen. Having previously learned that lesson the hard way, I've had my faucets dripping steadily for days now to prevent just such an inconvenience. Not so the pretty young thing in the back apartment who's currently without water. Still, civilized people know that pipe discussions should wait until after 10 a.m.
3
Number of errands I ran over the course of my frigid walk, traversing a decidedly under-populated downtown under leaden skies. One of them was a stop at the Little Free Library nearby to deposit books for neighbors in search of a good read on these long winter days. No one should have to be alone without a good book in weather like this.
2 1/2
Number of hours I spent talking with a man in his East End "study," where walls were covered in magazine pictures of Malcolm X, Prince, Martin Luther King, Michael Jackson, Gil Scott Heron, Dylan and himself, and rabbit ears were inexplicably placed on the stand in front of the TV, meaning he just watches right through them. His life is so colorful, I can't stop asking questions. Before I leave, he compliments my parents and tells me I look exactly like he expected me to after four phone calls to arrange our rendezvous.
6
Number of phone messages I came home to over the course of the day. Yes, one day. Considering I didn't have phone service for 16 days, I'm inclined to think the extraordinarily high number is just some kind of back up that could finally get through. I don't usually get six calls a month.
4
Number of hours spent at a dinner party in a very cool condo in what used to be the Baptist Home for Aged Women. I try not to make any connection between the former name and my invitation. Dinner was a garlicky melange of pig, apples, carrots and new potatoes that scented the whole place and seemed to be planned to feed an army, not two. I am told I threw down the gauntlet by saying I could talk forever. Music ranged from Afropop to Annie Lennox to Miramar to Cat Stevens and the local art collection exceeded mine in size of pieces if not quantity.
18
Temperature when I got home to a message from a friend headed into town hours ago and hopefully seeking my sparkling company for the evening.
1
Missed Monday opportunities.
Ungodly hour my landlord phoned me to see if my pipes were frozen. Having previously learned that lesson the hard way, I've had my faucets dripping steadily for days now to prevent just such an inconvenience. Not so the pretty young thing in the back apartment who's currently without water. Still, civilized people know that pipe discussions should wait until after 10 a.m.
3
Number of errands I ran over the course of my frigid walk, traversing a decidedly under-populated downtown under leaden skies. One of them was a stop at the Little Free Library nearby to deposit books for neighbors in search of a good read on these long winter days. No one should have to be alone without a good book in weather like this.
2 1/2
Number of hours I spent talking with a man in his East End "study," where walls were covered in magazine pictures of Malcolm X, Prince, Martin Luther King, Michael Jackson, Gil Scott Heron, Dylan and himself, and rabbit ears were inexplicably placed on the stand in front of the TV, meaning he just watches right through them. His life is so colorful, I can't stop asking questions. Before I leave, he compliments my parents and tells me I look exactly like he expected me to after four phone calls to arrange our rendezvous.
6
Number of phone messages I came home to over the course of the day. Yes, one day. Considering I didn't have phone service for 16 days, I'm inclined to think the extraordinarily high number is just some kind of back up that could finally get through. I don't usually get six calls a month.
4
Number of hours spent at a dinner party in a very cool condo in what used to be the Baptist Home for Aged Women. I try not to make any connection between the former name and my invitation. Dinner was a garlicky melange of pig, apples, carrots and new potatoes that scented the whole place and seemed to be planned to feed an army, not two. I am told I threw down the gauntlet by saying I could talk forever. Music ranged from Afropop to Annie Lennox to Miramar to Cat Stevens and the local art collection exceeded mine in size of pieces if not quantity.
18
Temperature when I got home to a message from a friend headed into town hours ago and hopefully seeking my sparkling company for the evening.
1
Missed Monday opportunities.
Saturday, May 30, 2015
Lick My Tongue
Ask me for a dark secret and I'll share with the entire room. FYI, I can also stare, get lost and cook.
Walking the pipeline so often, I've seen plenty of people fishing but yesterday was the first day I ever saw men throwing nets. It seemed so, I don't know, European or old-school. Charming and unexpected.
According to the one man staying dry on the sand (as opposed to the two with nets wading crotch-deep in the river in their shorts), the were casting for small perch, although in the 15 or so minutes I watched, they pulled in exactly zero.
Still, it's always cool to see new things happening on the river.
Despite my recent birthday, I am even still at this age navigationally-challenged. Today on my annual trek to Gallmeyer Farms in Henrico, I looked up a new route. Keep it fresh, right?
Instead, I somehow ended up on 895, almost immediately passing over the very road I'd been searching for. After getting off on 295 simply to escape the unknown, I eventually wound my way back to the strawberry farm.
Time eclipsed? Turned out to be a tragic 35 minutes for what should have been a 12-minute drive. It no longer even embarrasses me, it's just who I am.
Coming back from the farm with the box of ripe strawberries perfuming the car, I determined to go back the way I'd intended to come in hopes of seeing where I'd made my mistake. But the failure was technology's, not mine (vindicated!), because the directions had left out a key turn that would have put me on the correct road
Just so you know, this is a very satisfying moment for someone who gets lost as often as I do (such as Tuesday evening leaving Merroir for my parents' house and missing a turn...but I blame the darkness). I hadn't done a thing wrong for a change.
The reason I'd gone for strawberries was partly selfish (they're magical right now) and partly intentional. I was hosting a dinner party tonight and wanted them for dessert, along with the pound cake I'd put in the oven at 11:45 p.m. last night, by the way, the coolest time to bake when you don't use air conditioning.
With clear instructions from one of the guests ("Not gonna lie, I'm not easy to cook for. No meat, no dairy"), I'd chosen Alton Brown's guacamole and someone named Melissa Rubel Jacobson's chipotle shrimp tostada recipes, both of which went over smashingly well. In the process, I went through four avocados, three limes, two colors of tomatoes and onions and most of my cilantro plant.
Given today's heat and the amount of cooking going on in my bite-sized kitchen, I realized late in the game that I should have chilled the metal bowl and beaters before whipping heavy cream for the dessert but managed to achieve stiff peaks even so (culinary aside: the phrase "stiff peaks" ties with "hard ball stage" in candy-making for smuttiest sounding cooking terminology).
Is there anything more May-like than just-picked strawberries and cream? Don't get me wrong, I enjoy pound cake, but it plays second fiddle to berries and mounds of whipped cream this time of year.
On my walk to Belle Isle this morning, I'd noticed that Coalition Comedy was doing a "Dating Game" show tonight and immediately made a mental note. It's true, I remember that cheesy dating show, so I adored the idea of improv comedians riffing on it.
Paying my admission, I heard a woman member of the troupe tell a male one, "Lick my tongue," a proposition which appalled him. "What? No!" he said, backing up. "This is workplace harassment!"
The show hadn't started and already I was laughing.
On the counter was sign suggesting patrons write an anonymous "deep secret" on a piece of paper for use in the sketch. Example: "I call my Mom when I score." I considered some possibilities and then jotted down a secret.
The name of the dating game was "Secret Suitcase"- "The dating game where two contestants fall in love by ignoring all the major red flags!" - and the premise was identical to the real "Dating Game" with one lucky contestant and three eligible men or women.
The recorded music resembled the "Jeopardy" theme.
In the first game, it was a cocky plastic surgeon who referred to himself as a "titty doctor" meeting eligible bachelor girls Crystal ("I have a snack meat addiction"), Denise Jr. ("I judge men who don't sleep naked") and Emily ("I used to date Fabio") and having to eliminate one.
In between rounds, our host did half-assed commercials for Samsonite luggage (all the secrets were written on cardboard "suitcases"), saying things like "Samsonite Luggage...leather and so many compartments" and "Samsonite, what else kind of luggage is there?"
Much of the humor came from the inane questions the emcee asked when he put contestants in the "hot spot." Like, if you had to eat someone who was still alive, how would you do it? (Well, I have a robust pinking shears collection so I'd just cut him up...").
After intermission, we had a woman, Kelsey, choosing from three bachelors to pick out the best of true love. "Look at these three fine, strapping bachelors," the host said.
"I'd do any of them," the giggling Kelsey replied. When one of the bachelors revealed that his member was fake, she dealt with it. "As long as it's a really big fake..."
Another secret read, "I have no idea where my life is going and for the first time, I'm okay with that." One time, a bachelor mentioned the "Kama Sutra" and the host told Kelsey, "I think that's a sex book." Her pause was momentary.
"If it is, I'll start reading!" she gushed.
Once she'd decided on a bachelor and he came out to meet her, they danced together (just like on the TV show) and then the host tossed his index cards of questions up in the air, also like on the show. Somebody had done their cornball homework.
And, as it happens, my deep, dark secret was used in the show, not that anyone but me knew. The woman who'd appropriated it ended up being the bachelor's chosen date. Coincidence?
There must be something to my secrets after all. And, no, I do not call my Mom when I score.
Walking the pipeline so often, I've seen plenty of people fishing but yesterday was the first day I ever saw men throwing nets. It seemed so, I don't know, European or old-school. Charming and unexpected.
According to the one man staying dry on the sand (as opposed to the two with nets wading crotch-deep in the river in their shorts), the were casting for small perch, although in the 15 or so minutes I watched, they pulled in exactly zero.
Still, it's always cool to see new things happening on the river.
Despite my recent birthday, I am even still at this age navigationally-challenged. Today on my annual trek to Gallmeyer Farms in Henrico, I looked up a new route. Keep it fresh, right?
Instead, I somehow ended up on 895, almost immediately passing over the very road I'd been searching for. After getting off on 295 simply to escape the unknown, I eventually wound my way back to the strawberry farm.
Time eclipsed? Turned out to be a tragic 35 minutes for what should have been a 12-minute drive. It no longer even embarrasses me, it's just who I am.
Coming back from the farm with the box of ripe strawberries perfuming the car, I determined to go back the way I'd intended to come in hopes of seeing where I'd made my mistake. But the failure was technology's, not mine (vindicated!), because the directions had left out a key turn that would have put me on the correct road
Just so you know, this is a very satisfying moment for someone who gets lost as often as I do (such as Tuesday evening leaving Merroir for my parents' house and missing a turn...but I blame the darkness). I hadn't done a thing wrong for a change.
The reason I'd gone for strawberries was partly selfish (they're magical right now) and partly intentional. I was hosting a dinner party tonight and wanted them for dessert, along with the pound cake I'd put in the oven at 11:45 p.m. last night, by the way, the coolest time to bake when you don't use air conditioning.
With clear instructions from one of the guests ("Not gonna lie, I'm not easy to cook for. No meat, no dairy"), I'd chosen Alton Brown's guacamole and someone named Melissa Rubel Jacobson's chipotle shrimp tostada recipes, both of which went over smashingly well. In the process, I went through four avocados, three limes, two colors of tomatoes and onions and most of my cilantro plant.
Given today's heat and the amount of cooking going on in my bite-sized kitchen, I realized late in the game that I should have chilled the metal bowl and beaters before whipping heavy cream for the dessert but managed to achieve stiff peaks even so (culinary aside: the phrase "stiff peaks" ties with "hard ball stage" in candy-making for smuttiest sounding cooking terminology).
Is there anything more May-like than just-picked strawberries and cream? Don't get me wrong, I enjoy pound cake, but it plays second fiddle to berries and mounds of whipped cream this time of year.
On my walk to Belle Isle this morning, I'd noticed that Coalition Comedy was doing a "Dating Game" show tonight and immediately made a mental note. It's true, I remember that cheesy dating show, so I adored the idea of improv comedians riffing on it.
Paying my admission, I heard a woman member of the troupe tell a male one, "Lick my tongue," a proposition which appalled him. "What? No!" he said, backing up. "This is workplace harassment!"
The show hadn't started and already I was laughing.
On the counter was sign suggesting patrons write an anonymous "deep secret" on a piece of paper for use in the sketch. Example: "I call my Mom when I score." I considered some possibilities and then jotted down a secret.
The name of the dating game was "Secret Suitcase"- "The dating game where two contestants fall in love by ignoring all the major red flags!" - and the premise was identical to the real "Dating Game" with one lucky contestant and three eligible men or women.
The recorded music resembled the "Jeopardy" theme.
In the first game, it was a cocky plastic surgeon who referred to himself as a "titty doctor" meeting eligible bachelor girls Crystal ("I have a snack meat addiction"), Denise Jr. ("I judge men who don't sleep naked") and Emily ("I used to date Fabio") and having to eliminate one.
In between rounds, our host did half-assed commercials for Samsonite luggage (all the secrets were written on cardboard "suitcases"), saying things like "Samsonite Luggage...leather and so many compartments" and "Samsonite, what else kind of luggage is there?"
Much of the humor came from the inane questions the emcee asked when he put contestants in the "hot spot." Like, if you had to eat someone who was still alive, how would you do it? (Well, I have a robust pinking shears collection so I'd just cut him up...").
After intermission, we had a woman, Kelsey, choosing from three bachelors to pick out the best of true love. "Look at these three fine, strapping bachelors," the host said.
"I'd do any of them," the giggling Kelsey replied. When one of the bachelors revealed that his member was fake, she dealt with it. "As long as it's a really big fake..."
Another secret read, "I have no idea where my life is going and for the first time, I'm okay with that." One time, a bachelor mentioned the "Kama Sutra" and the host told Kelsey, "I think that's a sex book." Her pause was momentary.
"If it is, I'll start reading!" she gushed.
Once she'd decided on a bachelor and he came out to meet her, they danced together (just like on the TV show) and then the host tossed his index cards of questions up in the air, also like on the show. Somebody had done their cornball homework.
And, as it happens, my deep, dark secret was used in the show, not that anyone but me knew. The woman who'd appropriated it ended up being the bachelor's chosen date. Coincidence?
There must be something to my secrets after all. And, no, I do not call my Mom when I score.
Saturday, August 23, 2014
Sometimes It Just Turns Out That Way
You hang as long as you can hang.
At times, it veered toward "The Big Chill," except without the death part.
It was a gathering of friends.
A favorite couple had invited me to join them for an evening of too many cooks in the kitchen, situational tests of memory and music old and new.
We brought each other up to date on our lives.
Over Ca'Berto Prosecco, they shared details of their weekend in Lovitsville, which seemed to be a delightful blend of reading, drinking and seeing the sights, while I countered with crabs, dolphins and wine.
Music selection got off on the right foot with "Under the Covers," a CD of '60s and '70s covers done by Matthew Sweet and Susannah Hoffs of the Bangles, two musicians I like a lot.
We had random dancing in multiple rooms.
Their version of "Cinnamon Girl" was excellent, "Different Drum" took me over the moon, but truly, it was the Who's "The Kids are Alright" that had me dancing with myself in the dining room, just my Ca'Berto and me.
We all pitched in for meal prep.
Then duty called so I joined my hosts in the kitchen to chop, slice and present a summer supper of the best kind.
Garlicky hummus with a hot sauce finish. Olli sausage Toscano and a dry Italian sausage. Sliced cukes. Bowls of olives and gherkins. Pita. Three kinds of mustard.
My contribution had been four succulent tomatoes raised in downtown Jackson Ward, which I sliced and gave a whiff of pink salt to before placing on the table.
We had our major chord feel-good moment.
Happy vibes abounded as we listened to the Sweet/Hoffs cover of "Monday, Monday" while eating these exquisite summer tomatoes, all three of us smiling, dancing and head bobbing in our chairs as tomato juices dripped down our hands.
We had surprises.
My host is a multi-talented man who impressed us over several times with his ability to do or know something.
At one point and only slightly off topic, he informed us with no warning, "I castrated bulls in the '70s." It's the kind of thing you expect to read in a Hemingway novel.
But just to clear (because he did clarify), he's only seen other types of castration.
Apparently that's a distinction a lot of castration veterans want to make.
We had a killer soundtrack.
The music rotated through Sergio Mendez and Brazil '66 (more dancing), Roxy Music (limpid movements and swooning) and Bobby Darrin (to give you some idea of the vibe) as we each spun stories and sipped Graham Beck Brut Rose.
Our humor exceeded the sum of our parts.
At one point, my host had to take his glasses off because he was laughing so hard he was crying. You don't see that every day.
And the conversation grew and bloomed like a stinkweed in a city yard.
We had information sharing.
They were unimpressed with Southern Seasons, she's coveting a steak from Belmont Butchery and he acknowledged men having sensitive nipples.
This is noteworthy mainly because I saw a friend's video this afternoon in which he commented, "Men's nipples really do get hard," after ice water is thrown on his head.
I can't say I've ever had a day where nipples came up so often.
While my host provided color for the conversation with small detours and slight tangents, we tucked into chocolate eclairs and chocolate lava cake, perfectly lovely with the Graham Beck.
You have to appreciate a man who lays in supplies of bubbly and chocolate.
We had laugh attacks.
During a conversation about goodness know what, my host tried to use the word "bodices," pronouncing it "bo-deeces," sending us off into gales of laughter.
We've all been there - read words, understood them, but with no kind of idea how to pronounce them.
My friend couldn't resist playing and talking about the band Time for Three, a classically trained string trio that seemed to meld every genre of music - bluegrass, jazz, rock, classical.
"I'm buying seven or eight copies and giving them to people for Christmas," my friend said. Can't say I've given Christmas presents a moment's thought.
We shared future plans.
There was my friend's screenplay idea, which involves Beethoven, Bach and Mozart being dropped into the '60s to see how they would have changed music. Brilliant.
But after 5 1/2 hours together, these people who had gotten up way earlier than I had today were getting tired.
We went our separate ways.
Back in Jackson Ward, roving packs of freshmen were walking up and down sidewalks, looking for the party, the cool place, to be seen.
Getting out of my car, a trio passes by, all of them intent at making a success of their first Friday night away at college.
"Let's stay up all night!" one squeals as I put the lock in my door and smile to myself.
It's 12:15.
That's a hell of a hang you have ahead of yourself, son. Do what you can.
At times, it veered toward "The Big Chill," except without the death part.
It was a gathering of friends.
A favorite couple had invited me to join them for an evening of too many cooks in the kitchen, situational tests of memory and music old and new.
We brought each other up to date on our lives.
Over Ca'Berto Prosecco, they shared details of their weekend in Lovitsville, which seemed to be a delightful blend of reading, drinking and seeing the sights, while I countered with crabs, dolphins and wine.
Music selection got off on the right foot with "Under the Covers," a CD of '60s and '70s covers done by Matthew Sweet and Susannah Hoffs of the Bangles, two musicians I like a lot.
We had random dancing in multiple rooms.
Their version of "Cinnamon Girl" was excellent, "Different Drum" took me over the moon, but truly, it was the Who's "The Kids are Alright" that had me dancing with myself in the dining room, just my Ca'Berto and me.
We all pitched in for meal prep.
Then duty called so I joined my hosts in the kitchen to chop, slice and present a summer supper of the best kind.
Garlicky hummus with a hot sauce finish. Olli sausage Toscano and a dry Italian sausage. Sliced cukes. Bowls of olives and gherkins. Pita. Three kinds of mustard.
My contribution had been four succulent tomatoes raised in downtown Jackson Ward, which I sliced and gave a whiff of pink salt to before placing on the table.
We had our major chord feel-good moment.
Happy vibes abounded as we listened to the Sweet/Hoffs cover of "Monday, Monday" while eating these exquisite summer tomatoes, all three of us smiling, dancing and head bobbing in our chairs as tomato juices dripped down our hands.
We had surprises.
My host is a multi-talented man who impressed us over several times with his ability to do or know something.
At one point and only slightly off topic, he informed us with no warning, "I castrated bulls in the '70s." It's the kind of thing you expect to read in a Hemingway novel.
But just to clear (because he did clarify), he's only seen other types of castration.
Apparently that's a distinction a lot of castration veterans want to make.
We had a killer soundtrack.
The music rotated through Sergio Mendez and Brazil '66 (more dancing), Roxy Music (limpid movements and swooning) and Bobby Darrin (to give you some idea of the vibe) as we each spun stories and sipped Graham Beck Brut Rose.
Our humor exceeded the sum of our parts.
At one point, my host had to take his glasses off because he was laughing so hard he was crying. You don't see that every day.
And the conversation grew and bloomed like a stinkweed in a city yard.
We had information sharing.
They were unimpressed with Southern Seasons, she's coveting a steak from Belmont Butchery and he acknowledged men having sensitive nipples.
This is noteworthy mainly because I saw a friend's video this afternoon in which he commented, "Men's nipples really do get hard," after ice water is thrown on his head.
I can't say I've ever had a day where nipples came up so often.
While my host provided color for the conversation with small detours and slight tangents, we tucked into chocolate eclairs and chocolate lava cake, perfectly lovely with the Graham Beck.
You have to appreciate a man who lays in supplies of bubbly and chocolate.
We had laugh attacks.
During a conversation about goodness know what, my host tried to use the word "bodices," pronouncing it "bo-deeces," sending us off into gales of laughter.
We've all been there - read words, understood them, but with no kind of idea how to pronounce them.
My friend couldn't resist playing and talking about the band Time for Three, a classically trained string trio that seemed to meld every genre of music - bluegrass, jazz, rock, classical.
"I'm buying seven or eight copies and giving them to people for Christmas," my friend said. Can't say I've given Christmas presents a moment's thought.
We shared future plans.
There was my friend's screenplay idea, which involves Beethoven, Bach and Mozart being dropped into the '60s to see how they would have changed music. Brilliant.
But after 5 1/2 hours together, these people who had gotten up way earlier than I had today were getting tired.
We went our separate ways.
Back in Jackson Ward, roving packs of freshmen were walking up and down sidewalks, looking for the party, the cool place, to be seen.
Getting out of my car, a trio passes by, all of them intent at making a success of their first Friday night away at college.
"Let's stay up all night!" one squeals as I put the lock in my door and smile to myself.
It's 12:15.
That's a hell of a hang you have ahead of yourself, son. Do what you can.
Saturday, June 28, 2014
People Got a Lotta Nerve
Two weeks in a row for me at Friday Cheers. It may be a signal of the coming apocalypse.
Actually, I'd bought my ticket for tonight's Neko Case show months ago, thrilled at a chance to see her for only ten bucks.
J-Ward friends invited me to walk down to Brown's Island with them, but we couldn't align our schedules so I went alone.
Once on the island, I gravitated to a group of familiar faces, WRIR DJs mostly, but within moments, my neighbors appeared and I got to hear about her escapades last week as part of the James River Batteau Festival.
Let's just say now I know how those women pee off the sides of the boats.
We were in the middle of a discussion about the musical "Hair," which I'd seen last night and knew they'd love when I felt a shadow across me and there stood one of my favorite people, a guitarist and terrific conversationalist I hadn't seen in ages.
I accompanied him to get a beer bracelet and beer while we caught up with each other's lives.
By then Laura Viers had begun playing, sans band, so we parted ways and I found a spot under a tree with plenty of shade to watch her.
After a drummer joined her onstage, she brought up a discussion they'd had about the early modern English phrase "believe you me," which she didn't understand, nor did he. Come on, you two, it's verb-subject-object, as any language geek knows.
She did the lovely "Sun Song" and "July Flame," appropriate given how imminent July is.
July flame
ashes of a secret heart
falling in my lemonade
Unslakable thirsting in the back yard
Can I call you mine?
How does a woman who uses the word "unslakable" not get "believe you me"?
Kelly Hogan, Neko case's back-up singer, came out to join Laura, bringing her a cloth to wipe her sweat ("She's a true southern woman," Laura said) and they did a fabulous job on Daniel Johnston's "True Love Will Find You in the End."
I'm counting on it.
During the break, a 20-something guy sitting next to me struck up a conversation, asking me about my musical taste and sharing that he'd driven in from Lynchburg for the show.
A musician, he didn't have much good to say about Lynchburg's scene, meaning he often hit the road for musical reasons.
When he got up to go buy Laura Veirs' record, I made my way to the stage for Neko's set. Not long after it began, he showed up, record in hand to stand nearby.
Neko came out looking fabulous, as always, her red hair recognizable from 100 paces. But it's that distinctively beautiful voice that kills me.
It was during "This Tornado Loves You" that I noticed a guy up on the 7th Street bridge, taking pictures and watching everything from above.
A couple of songs in, she said, "I just want to thank Comfort for not making their cornbread too sweet or putting jalapenos in it. It was so good and now my belly is full," and here she gestured at her flat stomach, "of cornbread with a rice pudding hat on top. I'm like a python who just ate."
Before long she picked up her guitar to play it, the better, she said, to camouflage her "python."
Tonight's weather couldn't have been more different than last week's, the sun hidden behind clouds once she came on and a light breeze blowing over the packed crowd. "Look at that sexy river!" she called out.
"How are you doing, Richmond?" Neko asked. "I'm hot, sweaty and grody!" I was right there with her, especially after having sat on dirt and now sweating in the crowd.
Like the other times I've seen her perform, she'd put her hair up and soon let it down again, catnip to guys in the crowd.
And how's this for odd? I was standing there watching her when all of a sudden, Lynchburg guy puts his arm around my shoulder.
For a minute, I thought it was another friend - I'd seen the Hat, the neighbor, the drummer - approaching me from behind, but when I saw it was him, I whipped around and gave him the have-you-lost-your-mind look.
"I hope she does "People Got a Lotta Nerve," he said in all seriousness. "That song just gets inside my head."
Just keep your head and your hand to yourself, please.
I never tire of hearing "That Teenage Feeling" or the song about her first boyfriend "The Pharaohs" ("Still the best boyfriend I ever had," she said) and the band rocked out hard to "I'm a Man."
It was during that song that a train approached on the overhead track while people waved and the conductor blew the horn.
My high point was probably "Hold On," but at the end of their set, Neko said, "Thank you, Richmond and thank you, railroad train for honking. That may be the best moment of my life!"
I'm not sure about that, but tonight was the sixth time I've seen her in the past decade and easily the most fitting setting for the wild child that is Neko Case. Even she commented on the beauty of the setting multiple times.
After she sent us out into the night, I continued my evening at Holmes' abode for a dinner party, already in full swing when I arrived.
A good guest offers to help and my job was frying corn and tomatoes in rendered bacon fat, an easy enough job to do while sipping Prosecco.
Others manned the grill, steamed shrimp, set the table and changed the music, all with flutes in hand.
Our soundtrack varied from Dylan to a CD of music from the Kennedy White House - "Camelot," Chubby Checkers, Aaron Copland- eventually landing on a CD of the BeeGees number one hits before the night was over, the latter not to everyone's taste.
"None of these songs are in my top five BeeGees songs," Holmes grumbled to no one in particular.
Dinner was a veritable feast: steak, barbecued chicken, fresh North Carolina shrimp, the aforementioned bacon/corn/tomato medley, Asian marinated cucumber salad, two kinds of rice, the ripest sliced tomatoes with balsamic glaze and garlic cheese sticks.
There were toasts to friendship, a tale of private eyes on the divorce trail and stories of boyfriends taking sexy pictures of girlfriends. Dessert was Haagen Daz vanilla with fresh sliced peaches and caramel sauce, the nail in the coffin of the evening for those who'd been up since the crack of dawn today.
I was fine, but we're not talking about me.
Even the usual surefire method of opening a bottle of Graham Beck Brut Rose failed to entice those in a food coma.
And when pink bubbles fail to reignite this group, you'd better believe the apocalypse is nigh.
Actually, I'd bought my ticket for tonight's Neko Case show months ago, thrilled at a chance to see her for only ten bucks.
J-Ward friends invited me to walk down to Brown's Island with them, but we couldn't align our schedules so I went alone.
Once on the island, I gravitated to a group of familiar faces, WRIR DJs mostly, but within moments, my neighbors appeared and I got to hear about her escapades last week as part of the James River Batteau Festival.
Let's just say now I know how those women pee off the sides of the boats.
We were in the middle of a discussion about the musical "Hair," which I'd seen last night and knew they'd love when I felt a shadow across me and there stood one of my favorite people, a guitarist and terrific conversationalist I hadn't seen in ages.
I accompanied him to get a beer bracelet and beer while we caught up with each other's lives.
By then Laura Viers had begun playing, sans band, so we parted ways and I found a spot under a tree with plenty of shade to watch her.
After a drummer joined her onstage, she brought up a discussion they'd had about the early modern English phrase "believe you me," which she didn't understand, nor did he. Come on, you two, it's verb-subject-object, as any language geek knows.
She did the lovely "Sun Song" and "July Flame," appropriate given how imminent July is.
July flame
ashes of a secret heart
falling in my lemonade
Unslakable thirsting in the back yard
Can I call you mine?
How does a woman who uses the word "unslakable" not get "believe you me"?
Kelly Hogan, Neko case's back-up singer, came out to join Laura, bringing her a cloth to wipe her sweat ("She's a true southern woman," Laura said) and they did a fabulous job on Daniel Johnston's "True Love Will Find You in the End."
I'm counting on it.
During the break, a 20-something guy sitting next to me struck up a conversation, asking me about my musical taste and sharing that he'd driven in from Lynchburg for the show.
A musician, he didn't have much good to say about Lynchburg's scene, meaning he often hit the road for musical reasons.
When he got up to go buy Laura Veirs' record, I made my way to the stage for Neko's set. Not long after it began, he showed up, record in hand to stand nearby.
Neko came out looking fabulous, as always, her red hair recognizable from 100 paces. But it's that distinctively beautiful voice that kills me.
It was during "This Tornado Loves You" that I noticed a guy up on the 7th Street bridge, taking pictures and watching everything from above.
A couple of songs in, she said, "I just want to thank Comfort for not making their cornbread too sweet or putting jalapenos in it. It was so good and now my belly is full," and here she gestured at her flat stomach, "of cornbread with a rice pudding hat on top. I'm like a python who just ate."
Before long she picked up her guitar to play it, the better, she said, to camouflage her "python."
Tonight's weather couldn't have been more different than last week's, the sun hidden behind clouds once she came on and a light breeze blowing over the packed crowd. "Look at that sexy river!" she called out.
"How are you doing, Richmond?" Neko asked. "I'm hot, sweaty and grody!" I was right there with her, especially after having sat on dirt and now sweating in the crowd.
Like the other times I've seen her perform, she'd put her hair up and soon let it down again, catnip to guys in the crowd.
And how's this for odd? I was standing there watching her when all of a sudden, Lynchburg guy puts his arm around my shoulder.
For a minute, I thought it was another friend - I'd seen the Hat, the neighbor, the drummer - approaching me from behind, but when I saw it was him, I whipped around and gave him the have-you-lost-your-mind look.
"I hope she does "People Got a Lotta Nerve," he said in all seriousness. "That song just gets inside my head."
Just keep your head and your hand to yourself, please.
I never tire of hearing "That Teenage Feeling" or the song about her first boyfriend "The Pharaohs" ("Still the best boyfriend I ever had," she said) and the band rocked out hard to "I'm a Man."
It was during that song that a train approached on the overhead track while people waved and the conductor blew the horn.
My high point was probably "Hold On," but at the end of their set, Neko said, "Thank you, Richmond and thank you, railroad train for honking. That may be the best moment of my life!"
I'm not sure about that, but tonight was the sixth time I've seen her in the past decade and easily the most fitting setting for the wild child that is Neko Case. Even she commented on the beauty of the setting multiple times.
After she sent us out into the night, I continued my evening at Holmes' abode for a dinner party, already in full swing when I arrived.
A good guest offers to help and my job was frying corn and tomatoes in rendered bacon fat, an easy enough job to do while sipping Prosecco.
Others manned the grill, steamed shrimp, set the table and changed the music, all with flutes in hand.
Our soundtrack varied from Dylan to a CD of music from the Kennedy White House - "Camelot," Chubby Checkers, Aaron Copland- eventually landing on a CD of the BeeGees number one hits before the night was over, the latter not to everyone's taste.
"None of these songs are in my top five BeeGees songs," Holmes grumbled to no one in particular.
Dinner was a veritable feast: steak, barbecued chicken, fresh North Carolina shrimp, the aforementioned bacon/corn/tomato medley, Asian marinated cucumber salad, two kinds of rice, the ripest sliced tomatoes with balsamic glaze and garlic cheese sticks.
There were toasts to friendship, a tale of private eyes on the divorce trail and stories of boyfriends taking sexy pictures of girlfriends. Dessert was Haagen Daz vanilla with fresh sliced peaches and caramel sauce, the nail in the coffin of the evening for those who'd been up since the crack of dawn today.
I was fine, but we're not talking about me.
Even the usual surefire method of opening a bottle of Graham Beck Brut Rose failed to entice those in a food coma.
And when pink bubbles fail to reignite this group, you'd better believe the apocalypse is nigh.
Thursday, January 2, 2014
Bubbling Over
Forget black-eyed peas for new year's day. Kroger had sold out by noon.
A moot point since I'd gotten invited to a Prosecco and prime rib party to celebrate the first day of 2014 and even though it was to be all couples except me, I RSVP'd with a resounding yes.
Good luck comes with more than just black-eyed peas, you know.
I was the last to show up and as I made the rounds to say hello, heard that three bottles of bubbles had been consumed before my arrival.
Is that just a champagne buzz or are you people really glad to see me?
Everyone had stories to share about what they'd done with their Christmas vacation - skiing in Aspen, seeing "Austin Powers" on the big screen, eating a birthday dinner at Mekong while Mekong Express played - while music as varied as Amos Lee and CSNY played at a volume loud enough to feel party-like.
Save me from parties where the music is low or non-existent.
But this one was lots of fun, with a picaresque turn into pink with Mumm Brut Rose, a little restaurant gossip and conversation about the eating and biking pleasures of Boston and Cambridge.
Soon a ceramic boat of shrimp arrived, but only after a discussion of how old the Old Bay in the house might be (new enough, it turned out), horseradish levels were discussed and adjusted in the cocktail sauce ("Every bite should clear your sinuses," according to the curly-haired one) and the visitor from Maryland proclaimed that the shrimp from Libbie market surpasses what she can get at the Annapolis seafood market.
Holiday-induced hyperbole perhaps, but the crustaceans were exceptional and steamed to the point of just done enough and not one bit more.
There were several architectural history lovers in the group, so I told tales of the Frank Lloyd Wright buildings I'd seen in Florida and was rewarded with details about one guy's pilgrimage to see Falling Water. Twice.
It's a very good party when I am listening to a man describe the corner windows of a Wright house.
One of the couples had just seen "Julie and Julia" and been taken with how late in life Julia had found the love of her life and her passion for what she wanted to do.
What I recalled from seeing the movie when it came out was how it made me immediately read Child's "My Life in France," which turned out unexpectedly to be one of the most romantic love stories I've ever read.
One woman's takeaway had been that Julia was always loopy when filming her TV show. Well, sure, that's certainly one way to enjoy your work.
Over succulent prime rib barely cooked to medium rare, I was asked why I don't use Twitter (can't limit myself to 140 characters- "No, that's a valid point with you," someone said) which led to a discussion of Hemingway, kissing in cars and why restaurants should not serve bubbly in coupe glasses.
The obscenely rich cheese sauce was such a hit that people were using it on meat, vegetable and rice, some even dredging bread in it, resulting in questions about its origins.
Seems our hostess had asked a cook at Libbie market for a cheese sauce and he'd obligingly whipped one up right in front of her.
White sauce, grated cheese, boom, done.
Someone told a hysterical story about going into a trendy, new restaurant in Baltimore and asking for lemon in her water. The haughty, twenty-something server informed her that lemons weren't locally in season, so they didn't have any.
Wrong thing to say. The woman asked if the coffee was local. Or the potatoes. Or...Needless to say, lemons were procured from the bar immediately for her water.
Don't challenge an analytical mind. They always have a counter-argument.
When we finally pushed ourselves away from the table, it was only to re-situate ourselves in a bigger room for Poilvert-Jacques champagne, an elegantly floral sipper to accompany a dessert tray of baklava, cupcakes and pumpkin bread.
Every baked bite, like the shrimp, prime rib and cheese sauce, had come from Libbie market. It's a wonder the woman was even able to move away from Richmond and leave her beloved market behind.
I'm not sure if it was the bubbles or the sugar rush, but the conversation eventually deteriorated to one about Google's far-reaching tentacles and how that'll inevitably lead to micro-chips being inserted into nether regions to keep track of men behaving badly.
I couldn't make this stuff up. One minute it's Hemingway and, as a guest pointed out, the next it's d*ck chips.
Our host scored major points with several guests by playing the Ennio Morricone soundtrack to "A Fistful of Dollars," a film I'd never seen despite much of the music sounding vaguely familiar.
That whistling, the epic swelling choruses, the crystalline sound of whips cracking, it all added a dramatic backdrop to the many La Marca Prosecco-fueled conversations then going on in the room.
Not quite as traditional as hoppin' john for good luck in the new year, but a party of smart people, terrific food and endless bubbles portends good things for 2014.
For better or for worse, though, if you're interested, you'll have to hear about them in way more than 140 characters.
A moot point since I'd gotten invited to a Prosecco and prime rib party to celebrate the first day of 2014 and even though it was to be all couples except me, I RSVP'd with a resounding yes.
Good luck comes with more than just black-eyed peas, you know.
I was the last to show up and as I made the rounds to say hello, heard that three bottles of bubbles had been consumed before my arrival.
Is that just a champagne buzz or are you people really glad to see me?
Everyone had stories to share about what they'd done with their Christmas vacation - skiing in Aspen, seeing "Austin Powers" on the big screen, eating a birthday dinner at Mekong while Mekong Express played - while music as varied as Amos Lee and CSNY played at a volume loud enough to feel party-like.
Save me from parties where the music is low or non-existent.
But this one was lots of fun, with a picaresque turn into pink with Mumm Brut Rose, a little restaurant gossip and conversation about the eating and biking pleasures of Boston and Cambridge.
Soon a ceramic boat of shrimp arrived, but only after a discussion of how old the Old Bay in the house might be (new enough, it turned out), horseradish levels were discussed and adjusted in the cocktail sauce ("Every bite should clear your sinuses," according to the curly-haired one) and the visitor from Maryland proclaimed that the shrimp from Libbie market surpasses what she can get at the Annapolis seafood market.
Holiday-induced hyperbole perhaps, but the crustaceans were exceptional and steamed to the point of just done enough and not one bit more.
There were several architectural history lovers in the group, so I told tales of the Frank Lloyd Wright buildings I'd seen in Florida and was rewarded with details about one guy's pilgrimage to see Falling Water. Twice.
It's a very good party when I am listening to a man describe the corner windows of a Wright house.
One of the couples had just seen "Julie and Julia" and been taken with how late in life Julia had found the love of her life and her passion for what she wanted to do.
What I recalled from seeing the movie when it came out was how it made me immediately read Child's "My Life in France," which turned out unexpectedly to be one of the most romantic love stories I've ever read.
One woman's takeaway had been that Julia was always loopy when filming her TV show. Well, sure, that's certainly one way to enjoy your work.
Over succulent prime rib barely cooked to medium rare, I was asked why I don't use Twitter (can't limit myself to 140 characters- "No, that's a valid point with you," someone said) which led to a discussion of Hemingway, kissing in cars and why restaurants should not serve bubbly in coupe glasses.
The obscenely rich cheese sauce was such a hit that people were using it on meat, vegetable and rice, some even dredging bread in it, resulting in questions about its origins.
Seems our hostess had asked a cook at Libbie market for a cheese sauce and he'd obligingly whipped one up right in front of her.
White sauce, grated cheese, boom, done.
Someone told a hysterical story about going into a trendy, new restaurant in Baltimore and asking for lemon in her water. The haughty, twenty-something server informed her that lemons weren't locally in season, so they didn't have any.
Wrong thing to say. The woman asked if the coffee was local. Or the potatoes. Or...Needless to say, lemons were procured from the bar immediately for her water.
Don't challenge an analytical mind. They always have a counter-argument.
When we finally pushed ourselves away from the table, it was only to re-situate ourselves in a bigger room for Poilvert-Jacques champagne, an elegantly floral sipper to accompany a dessert tray of baklava, cupcakes and pumpkin bread.
Every baked bite, like the shrimp, prime rib and cheese sauce, had come from Libbie market. It's a wonder the woman was even able to move away from Richmond and leave her beloved market behind.
I'm not sure if it was the bubbles or the sugar rush, but the conversation eventually deteriorated to one about Google's far-reaching tentacles and how that'll inevitably lead to micro-chips being inserted into nether regions to keep track of men behaving badly.
I couldn't make this stuff up. One minute it's Hemingway and, as a guest pointed out, the next it's d*ck chips.
Our host scored major points with several guests by playing the Ennio Morricone soundtrack to "A Fistful of Dollars," a film I'd never seen despite much of the music sounding vaguely familiar.
That whistling, the epic swelling choruses, the crystalline sound of whips cracking, it all added a dramatic backdrop to the many La Marca Prosecco-fueled conversations then going on in the room.
Not quite as traditional as hoppin' john for good luck in the new year, but a party of smart people, terrific food and endless bubbles portends good things for 2014.
For better or for worse, though, if you're interested, you'll have to hear about them in way more than 140 characters.
Saturday, May 11, 2013
Lobster Convention
I can only be so bad when I'm going to see my Mom in the morning.
So when Holmes invited me to join him and his beloved for a dinner party on the deck, I enthusiastically say yes.
After all, on an 88-degree day, there can be no better place than on someone's deck when they're grilling out.
When I arrive, things are already lively with a Languedoc to drink and various kitchen chores to participate in.
More than willing to earn my keep, I am soon skewering shrimp, making rice pilaf, steaming lobster tails and melting butter.
I am nothing, if not adaptable.
We debate whether to eat inside or out, the 75-degree weather calling us to eat al fresco, but the mosquitoes challenging the one with the sweet meat among us.
Eventually, we settled for a three-wick citronella candle and a view of the pale blue sky.
Holmes' special sauce for the shrimp is made while we set the table, fluff the rice and make foil packets for the vegetables and tomatoes with Parmesan.
We are like a well-oiled machine, except without the oil.
The result is great hilarity, with multiple bottles of wine being opened and consumed, and endless courses of food prepared and put out on the deck tables.
His beloved is as big an art geek as I am, so we take a tangent about Tom Wesselamann and the art of the '60s.
Holmes tolerates our tangent before bringing us back to the matter at hand: food and wine.
He gives us a lecture on the benefits of charcoal over a gas grill while the beloved and I steal light and creamy La Marca Prosecco from the refrigerator and begin the bubbly portion of the evening.
The food is fabulous and Holmes keeps reminding us what a steal of a deal it all was.
He says the lobster tails were dirt cheap, the crab legs were being "given away," the wine was $6 a bottle and before long we are convinced that he has spent almost no money entertaining us tonight.
But given the black outlines against the blue sky, we decide it's not about the cost, but about the company.
When Holmes starts up the music, it's Ian Matthews and Fairport Convention and neither his beloved nor I have any familiarity with either.
That said, Matthews' voice is stellar, his songwriting compelling and the music so well done that I can't believe I've never heard of this person or group.
Holmes tells us how important Fairport Convention were, practically the most significant English folk rock band.
This is a big part of the appeal of Holmes' dinner parties, because I always hear good music and inevitably lean more about music than I knew when I arrived.
And that's after eating huge amounts of good food and indulging in multiple terrific wines along the way.
And while we didn't get far enough to make the bananas foster as we'd intended, the congenial conversation, abundance of eats and non-stop wine eventually give way to me taking my leave before the clock strikes twelve.
And that's a good thing.
Mom doesn't need to see me wilted after a typical night with Holmes and Co.
Better she think I spent the evening preparing for my luncheon with her.
You can fool your Mom some of the time, but you can't fool your Mom all of the time.
I'll settle for tomorrow and call it a draw.
So when Holmes invited me to join him and his beloved for a dinner party on the deck, I enthusiastically say yes.
After all, on an 88-degree day, there can be no better place than on someone's deck when they're grilling out.
When I arrive, things are already lively with a Languedoc to drink and various kitchen chores to participate in.
More than willing to earn my keep, I am soon skewering shrimp, making rice pilaf, steaming lobster tails and melting butter.
I am nothing, if not adaptable.
We debate whether to eat inside or out, the 75-degree weather calling us to eat al fresco, but the mosquitoes challenging the one with the sweet meat among us.
Eventually, we settled for a three-wick citronella candle and a view of the pale blue sky.
Holmes' special sauce for the shrimp is made while we set the table, fluff the rice and make foil packets for the vegetables and tomatoes with Parmesan.
We are like a well-oiled machine, except without the oil.
The result is great hilarity, with multiple bottles of wine being opened and consumed, and endless courses of food prepared and put out on the deck tables.
His beloved is as big an art geek as I am, so we take a tangent about Tom Wesselamann and the art of the '60s.
Holmes tolerates our tangent before bringing us back to the matter at hand: food and wine.
He gives us a lecture on the benefits of charcoal over a gas grill while the beloved and I steal light and creamy La Marca Prosecco from the refrigerator and begin the bubbly portion of the evening.
The food is fabulous and Holmes keeps reminding us what a steal of a deal it all was.
He says the lobster tails were dirt cheap, the crab legs were being "given away," the wine was $6 a bottle and before long we are convinced that he has spent almost no money entertaining us tonight.
But given the black outlines against the blue sky, we decide it's not about the cost, but about the company.
When Holmes starts up the music, it's Ian Matthews and Fairport Convention and neither his beloved nor I have any familiarity with either.
That said, Matthews' voice is stellar, his songwriting compelling and the music so well done that I can't believe I've never heard of this person or group.
Holmes tells us how important Fairport Convention were, practically the most significant English folk rock band.
This is a big part of the appeal of Holmes' dinner parties, because I always hear good music and inevitably lean more about music than I knew when I arrived.
And that's after eating huge amounts of good food and indulging in multiple terrific wines along the way.
And while we didn't get far enough to make the bananas foster as we'd intended, the congenial conversation, abundance of eats and non-stop wine eventually give way to me taking my leave before the clock strikes twelve.
And that's a good thing.
Mom doesn't need to see me wilted after a typical night with Holmes and Co.
Better she think I spent the evening preparing for my luncheon with her.
You can fool your Mom some of the time, but you can't fool your Mom all of the time.
I'll settle for tomorrow and call it a draw.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
A Foggy Night in R-Town
On second thought, I guess I didn't seem so bad.
A phone call to Holmes to see what he and the little woman were up to told me they were making dinner at home together tonight.
No problem, I said, we'll get together next week.
A minute later the phone rang.
"Come over and have dinner with us," Holmes suggested.
Wouldn't I be interrupting an intimate evening for the two of them?
Apparently not.
I arrived during the prep stage, with much chopping and measuring going on.
Holmes had gone to Book People and picked up a copy of "Betty Crocker's Cooking with Wine," a slender 1974 volume that no doubt capitalized on the then-growing American interest in wine.
Even better, the moment I walked in, the TV was changed from football to PBS for, wait for it, "The Lawrence Welk Show."
And although I'd heard the jokes, I'd never actually seen the show.
Or the bubbles.
But for the two of them, both of their parents had made a ritual of watching the Welk show every Saturday night, so I was participating in a long-standing tradition.
I don't know what was funnier, the cheesy sets (you could see the pieces propping up the set fronts), the bad teeth (clearly cosmetic dentistry had not yet become mainstream, even for TV) and hideous costumes (blue chiffon meets hippie maxi dresses).
It was hysterical and, mercifully, brief.
Beaujolais nouveau, a Holmes favorite, was immediately poured for me and we munched on pot stickers with Holmes' secret sauce while I took charge as chief meal coordinator.
Or, as Holmes put it, I played referee so he and his beloved didn't kill each other during the process.
We actually made a hell of a team.
As the oldest of six (which didn't compare to one of the Welk singers who was described as "a father of ten"), bossiness runs in my veins, so I did my share of telling my hosts when to measure, when to thicken and when to stir constantly.
For the beef stroganoff we were making, we used a bottle of the homemade wine provided by Holmes' brother (who's also been known to make banana wine and tomato wine), which turned out to be much better than you'd expect.
The music was outstanding, first blaring the soundtrack to 1967's "Casino Royale" followed by "Live at the BBC (The Beatles Album)," classics both.
You can never go wrong with Burt Bacharach, Dusty Springfield or the lads from Liverpool before they hit big.
My hosts gave me all kinds of props during dinner, praising my assistance with the food and from keeping things from ending badly, both the meal and their relationship.
"This is the best stroganoff we've ever made. Next time we make this, you have to come back and help," my hostess insisted.
Will work for wine.
Holmes made a lame joke about going to Sweet Frogs afterwards, but one look from his beloved and he changed it to Amour.
So once we'd done a cursory job of cleaning up the kitchen, we headed out to walk there.
The fog had rolled in since I'd arrived, making alleys look picaresque, cars appear out of nowhere and photo ops abound at every corner.
We found a small crowd at Amour, but the two bar sitters moved so we could sit together.
Django Reinhardt was playing and the view of Cary Court shrouded in fog was framed in the big front window.
Since we'd come for dessert, we began with Lucien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace Rose and a look at the evening's dessert specials.
Raspberry hazelnut panna cotta, chocolate caramel sea salt creme brulee and a trio of sorbets (kiwi, clementine and pear) comprising our game of musical desserts as we passed each around to the others.
I'd never had the pear sorbet before and maybe it's because I've been reveling in the little Seckle pears lately, but the flavor was a thing of beauty, delicate and deep at the same time.
A nearby map of France took us on a tangent to the connection between Nimes and RVA (duh, TJ and the Maison Carree) and Holmes' childhood trip to Europe.
"I wanted to get to Paris to play pinball," he stated about his family's whirlwind tour, surely the first time those words have ever been uttered.
We thought we'd be the last customers of the evening when two women arrived, taking a bar table behind us.
Soon they were enjoying Kir Royales and owner Paul brought out a bowl of sorbet with a lit candle in it.
One of the women began singing "Joyeux Anniversaire" to her friend before abandoning French and finishing with, "Happy birthday to you."
It was an unexpectedly charming moment.
By the time we finished our dessert smorgasbord, we were all but in a food coma and it seemed best to begin the walk back to the Holmes homestead.
If anything, the fog was denser and I led the way back under my flowered umbrella as the happy couple followed arm in arm.
People don't mind a fifth wheel as long as she knows her place.
A phone call to Holmes to see what he and the little woman were up to told me they were making dinner at home together tonight.
No problem, I said, we'll get together next week.
A minute later the phone rang.
"Come over and have dinner with us," Holmes suggested.
Wouldn't I be interrupting an intimate evening for the two of them?
Apparently not.
I arrived during the prep stage, with much chopping and measuring going on.
Holmes had gone to Book People and picked up a copy of "Betty Crocker's Cooking with Wine," a slender 1974 volume that no doubt capitalized on the then-growing American interest in wine.
Even better, the moment I walked in, the TV was changed from football to PBS for, wait for it, "The Lawrence Welk Show."
And although I'd heard the jokes, I'd never actually seen the show.
Or the bubbles.
But for the two of them, both of their parents had made a ritual of watching the Welk show every Saturday night, so I was participating in a long-standing tradition.
I don't know what was funnier, the cheesy sets (you could see the pieces propping up the set fronts), the bad teeth (clearly cosmetic dentistry had not yet become mainstream, even for TV) and hideous costumes (blue chiffon meets hippie maxi dresses).
It was hysterical and, mercifully, brief.
Beaujolais nouveau, a Holmes favorite, was immediately poured for me and we munched on pot stickers with Holmes' secret sauce while I took charge as chief meal coordinator.
Or, as Holmes put it, I played referee so he and his beloved didn't kill each other during the process.
We actually made a hell of a team.
As the oldest of six (which didn't compare to one of the Welk singers who was described as "a father of ten"), bossiness runs in my veins, so I did my share of telling my hosts when to measure, when to thicken and when to stir constantly.
For the beef stroganoff we were making, we used a bottle of the homemade wine provided by Holmes' brother (who's also been known to make banana wine and tomato wine), which turned out to be much better than you'd expect.
The music was outstanding, first blaring the soundtrack to 1967's "Casino Royale" followed by "Live at the BBC (The Beatles Album)," classics both.
You can never go wrong with Burt Bacharach, Dusty Springfield or the lads from Liverpool before they hit big.
My hosts gave me all kinds of props during dinner, praising my assistance with the food and from keeping things from ending badly, both the meal and their relationship.
"This is the best stroganoff we've ever made. Next time we make this, you have to come back and help," my hostess insisted.
Will work for wine.
Holmes made a lame joke about going to Sweet Frogs afterwards, but one look from his beloved and he changed it to Amour.
So once we'd done a cursory job of cleaning up the kitchen, we headed out to walk there.
The fog had rolled in since I'd arrived, making alleys look picaresque, cars appear out of nowhere and photo ops abound at every corner.
We found a small crowd at Amour, but the two bar sitters moved so we could sit together.
Django Reinhardt was playing and the view of Cary Court shrouded in fog was framed in the big front window.
Since we'd come for dessert, we began with Lucien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace Rose and a look at the evening's dessert specials.
Raspberry hazelnut panna cotta, chocolate caramel sea salt creme brulee and a trio of sorbets (kiwi, clementine and pear) comprising our game of musical desserts as we passed each around to the others.
I'd never had the pear sorbet before and maybe it's because I've been reveling in the little Seckle pears lately, but the flavor was a thing of beauty, delicate and deep at the same time.
A nearby map of France took us on a tangent to the connection between Nimes and RVA (duh, TJ and the Maison Carree) and Holmes' childhood trip to Europe.
"I wanted to get to Paris to play pinball," he stated about his family's whirlwind tour, surely the first time those words have ever been uttered.
We thought we'd be the last customers of the evening when two women arrived, taking a bar table behind us.
Soon they were enjoying Kir Royales and owner Paul brought out a bowl of sorbet with a lit candle in it.
One of the women began singing "Joyeux Anniversaire" to her friend before abandoning French and finishing with, "Happy birthday to you."
It was an unexpectedly charming moment.
By the time we finished our dessert smorgasbord, we were all but in a food coma and it seemed best to begin the walk back to the Holmes homestead.
If anything, the fog was denser and I led the way back under my flowered umbrella as the happy couple followed arm in arm.
People don't mind a fifth wheel as long as she knows her place.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Forever: Double or Nothing
I slept until 11:50 this morning.
To my knowledge, I have never in my life slept that late.
Even when I went to bed at 6 a.m., something I've done a couple of times in the past few months, I didn't sleep that late.
By the time I awoke, I was two hours past the time I had promised to meet a friend for brunch. Epic fail and major apology.
Needless to say, when you eat breakfast at noonish, there is no lunch, which worked out fine because I'd been invited to a dinner party tonight.
The question was, given my mood of late, was I going to be up to being an asset to the group.
Things got off to a fine start with white sangria and shrimp cocktail on the patio while everyone said hello and started catching up.
The subject of cooking shrimp came up and my Maryland roots showed because I was raised on shrimp steamed, not boiled, with (what else?) Old Bay.
A couple of guests expressed distaste for Old Bay, something I had never considered not using when steaming shrimp.
"I like shrimp to taste like shrimp," one woman said, as if it were the final word.
I like shrimp to taste like the stuff I lick off my fingers when I eat crabs, but to each her own.
At the other end of the patio, we settled in for Gruyere fondue and bubbles while we discussed forever stamps.
"But are they really good forever?" more than one person asked. Well, forever or until the Post Office goes under, whichever comes first.
One woman says she usually uses two forever stamps to ensure her mail gets where it's going.
I think there's an existential issue there because how can you possibly double forever?
As we prepared to move inside for dinner, a friend got a call from her long-distance boyfriend, settling in an outdoor chair while we all went inside for more bubbles.
I offered to help the hostess and was put to work sauteing spinach, causing one amazed friend to ask, "You can cook? I figured you always ate out because you couldn't!"
Oh, ha ha.
The music was an interesting choice, the soundtrack from a movie I'd never heard of called "No Reservations" featuring lots of operatic arias as well as Liz Phair, Philip Glass and Michael Buble.
If the movie's as scattered as the soundtrack, I probably don't need to see it.
Over a nice, light prime rib dinner, we got to talking about the hostess' upcoming one year relationship anniversary.
She was remembering how low she'd been last year at this time and contrasting it to how happy she is now, even if her beloved hasn't said the "L" word yet.
"Well, you don't think he'd put up with your shit if he weren't in love with you, do you?" said a forthright male guest and longtime friend of hers.
Naturally that led to a discussion of my non-existent love life along with opinions for and against online dating, platitudes about the difficulties of finding the right one and nonsense about being able to have any man I wanted.
Blah, blah, blah.
As if the well-intentioned advice weren't more than I could handle, the music had changed to Michael Buble doing cover songs.
When he launched into "Me and Mrs. Jones," an R & B jukebox classic, a friend looked at me and we burst out laughing at the same moment.
There are just some songs that white boys should never cover (see: anything by Marvin Gaye) and we both acknowledged it simultaneously without a word.
As the wine flowed and the repartee got faster, more personal and more pointed, a friend commented, "Boy, I've never seen you like this. You are on it tonight!"
I may not be in my happy place, but with ten hours of sleep, I can apparently do a pretty good approximation.
To my knowledge, I have never in my life slept that late.
Even when I went to bed at 6 a.m., something I've done a couple of times in the past few months, I didn't sleep that late.
By the time I awoke, I was two hours past the time I had promised to meet a friend for brunch. Epic fail and major apology.
Needless to say, when you eat breakfast at noonish, there is no lunch, which worked out fine because I'd been invited to a dinner party tonight.
The question was, given my mood of late, was I going to be up to being an asset to the group.
Things got off to a fine start with white sangria and shrimp cocktail on the patio while everyone said hello and started catching up.
The subject of cooking shrimp came up and my Maryland roots showed because I was raised on shrimp steamed, not boiled, with (what else?) Old Bay.
A couple of guests expressed distaste for Old Bay, something I had never considered not using when steaming shrimp.
"I like shrimp to taste like shrimp," one woman said, as if it were the final word.
I like shrimp to taste like the stuff I lick off my fingers when I eat crabs, but to each her own.
At the other end of the patio, we settled in for Gruyere fondue and bubbles while we discussed forever stamps.
"But are they really good forever?" more than one person asked. Well, forever or until the Post Office goes under, whichever comes first.
One woman says she usually uses two forever stamps to ensure her mail gets where it's going.
I think there's an existential issue there because how can you possibly double forever?
As we prepared to move inside for dinner, a friend got a call from her long-distance boyfriend, settling in an outdoor chair while we all went inside for more bubbles.
I offered to help the hostess and was put to work sauteing spinach, causing one amazed friend to ask, "You can cook? I figured you always ate out because you couldn't!"
Oh, ha ha.
The music was an interesting choice, the soundtrack from a movie I'd never heard of called "No Reservations" featuring lots of operatic arias as well as Liz Phair, Philip Glass and Michael Buble.
If the movie's as scattered as the soundtrack, I probably don't need to see it.
Over a nice, light prime rib dinner, we got to talking about the hostess' upcoming one year relationship anniversary.
She was remembering how low she'd been last year at this time and contrasting it to how happy she is now, even if her beloved hasn't said the "L" word yet.
"Well, you don't think he'd put up with your shit if he weren't in love with you, do you?" said a forthright male guest and longtime friend of hers.
Naturally that led to a discussion of my non-existent love life along with opinions for and against online dating, platitudes about the difficulties of finding the right one and nonsense about being able to have any man I wanted.
Blah, blah, blah.
As if the well-intentioned advice weren't more than I could handle, the music had changed to Michael Buble doing cover songs.
When he launched into "Me and Mrs. Jones," an R & B jukebox classic, a friend looked at me and we burst out laughing at the same moment.
There are just some songs that white boys should never cover (see: anything by Marvin Gaye) and we both acknowledged it simultaneously without a word.
As the wine flowed and the repartee got faster, more personal and more pointed, a friend commented, "Boy, I've never seen you like this. You are on it tonight!"
I may not be in my happy place, but with ten hours of sleep, I can apparently do a pretty good approximation.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Does My Fig Look Big in This?
No question, everyone was in full pre-hurricane mode tonight.
The general attitude was, "Party tonight, for tomorrow we may be trapped inside our powerless homes" or some such thing.
And while I never let a little something like a hurricane or a major snow keep me at home (why do you think I live where I live, for goodness' sake?), I joined right in.
First rule of a busy night: start at your most distant destination.
For me, that was a party on Southside comprised of theater women, my second such gathering this week, but at this one I knew a lot of the people before I got there.
It was one of those times when I was pretty sure everyone there was way more talented than I am, but when you start talking former lovers, speeding tickets and drunk cooking shows, the field is pretty much leveled.
And I can be dramatic when I want to be.
Through multiple courses of wine and food (including a divine chicken thigh dish with prunes, olives and enough garlic for our hostess to promise that no one would want to kiss us), we shared stories of love and lust, past and present.
My favorite thing about this group of females is that just when I think my personal life is/has been abnormally fill-in-the-blank (colorful, bohemian, busy, juicy, odd), I am reassured by one of their tales that I am not alone in that.
Oh, the book I could write!
But after four satisfying hours, I knew it was time to move the party back to the city and closer to home for me.
I stopped at a farewell party a friend was giving, where I had the pleasure of meeting his parents, who knew so much about me that I was surprised every time they opened their mouths.
It's flattering to know that your friends talk about you and it's a tad unnerving to meet people who already know what you do. And what you don't have.
Somehow, I continue to be praised for the things I do without. No one else wants to do it, but damn if they don't admire me for it.
My friend's brother I had met on multiple occasions before because he's a musician and, well, I go to a lot of shows (although this week was an all-time low).
He even gave me his band's new song to listen to. I love when that happens.
Last up for the evening was yet another farewell party, this one for mixologist extraordinaire Bobby at Mint.
Walking in to a packed Julep, I found friends scattered throughout the lively and somewhat loopy crowd.
It required some work just to make it to the bar to get a cocktail, or in my case some spirits, but when I did, I arrived just as a bar stool was being vacated.
That gave me a prime viewing space for the frenzied drink making that was going on behind the bar.
There must have been four different people endlessly giving their arms a workout with a cocktail shaker to supply one of the evening's creative drink specials.
My front row seat to a cocktail cabaret did afford me some mini-drinks, an unexpected bonus.
Bobby's classic Jack Skellington with a toasted marshmallow and the cool-as-a-cucumber Wimbledon were amuse-bouches to my inevitable choice.
In fact, as soon as Bobby saw me, he turned in mid-shake and said to one of his assistants, "She'll have a Cazadores on ice," with the resigned grin he always gives me for my lack of additives.
I ran into a couple of fellow bloggers at the bar and enjoyed some conversation (and a sip of a spicy Employees Only) with them before half of a favorite couple came up behind me and asked, "What the f**k are you doing over here?"
Somehow I'd missed the engraved invitation to join them at their table, so he'd come to summon me. Pronto.
Over at his table were some transplants looking for brunch ideas (Amour Wine Bistro is high on my list these days), a very handsome man spouting generalizations about women ("Women can be so sensitive!") and Julep's new chef.
For the second time this week, a chef wanted to hear my thoughts on some of the new restaurants and no one loves hearing their opinion of a place validated more than a chef.
And no one can resist showing off more than a chef but this was to our advantage.
He brought out some of the cheeses he's been making and the aged goat cheese with fennel was the kind of taste that made your eyes close.
Swoon-worthy says it best.
He then brought out a spoon of salt and laid it on the table like a prize.
My friend got out a dollar bill, rolled it up and pretended to snort it. Instead, we all tasted grains of it, savoring its purity of flavor.
During a discussion of needlessly complicated cooking, the chef disappeared into the kitchen, returning with two plates.
On one was a sliced up Sun Gold tomato and on the other, chunks of fresh fig.
"That's the two best things I could serve you right now. Nothing I could cook would taste better than that!" he said with a flourish.
With a light sprinkle of the crack salt, the tomatoes confirmed his words.
The figs had been picked that morning on his parents' farm in Goochland and as one who has spent the past month in a fig-induced euphoria, I knew what I was in for.
But surprisingly, there were people at the table who don't usually like figs (she liked these) or had never had them. Tragic.
Once the complete madness died down, Bobby joined us at our table to talk about his mixology future.
The guy who first showed RVA that gin and tequila could peacefully co-exist in the same glass clearly has a lot of options and a huge following no matter where he chooses to land.
And lots of places want him right now.
We didn't realize how late it was getting until we began to notice the hordes of scantily-clad girls spilling out into 18th Street.
Honey, does your mother know that you're out in a bra and a pair of shorts that look like a twist-tie and calling that an outfit? I doubt it.
But, hey, that's the street theater of Shockoe Bottom and since my evening had started with theater people, why not end up seeing some performance art?
Because a 250-pound woman in short shorts and a tube top walking in six inch heels is a performance you're not going to see just anywhere.
And while all of us gaped a little (or a lot), maybe she was just in pre-hurricane mode too.
A girl's got to wear it while she can.
How else will she have stories to share with her friends at a dinner party when she's older and wiser?
The general attitude was, "Party tonight, for tomorrow we may be trapped inside our powerless homes" or some such thing.
And while I never let a little something like a hurricane or a major snow keep me at home (why do you think I live where I live, for goodness' sake?), I joined right in.
First rule of a busy night: start at your most distant destination.
For me, that was a party on Southside comprised of theater women, my second such gathering this week, but at this one I knew a lot of the people before I got there.
It was one of those times when I was pretty sure everyone there was way more talented than I am, but when you start talking former lovers, speeding tickets and drunk cooking shows, the field is pretty much leveled.
And I can be dramatic when I want to be.
Through multiple courses of wine and food (including a divine chicken thigh dish with prunes, olives and enough garlic for our hostess to promise that no one would want to kiss us), we shared stories of love and lust, past and present.
My favorite thing about this group of females is that just when I think my personal life is/has been abnormally fill-in-the-blank (colorful, bohemian, busy, juicy, odd), I am reassured by one of their tales that I am not alone in that.
Oh, the book I could write!
But after four satisfying hours, I knew it was time to move the party back to the city and closer to home for me.
I stopped at a farewell party a friend was giving, where I had the pleasure of meeting his parents, who knew so much about me that I was surprised every time they opened their mouths.
It's flattering to know that your friends talk about you and it's a tad unnerving to meet people who already know what you do. And what you don't have.
Somehow, I continue to be praised for the things I do without. No one else wants to do it, but damn if they don't admire me for it.
My friend's brother I had met on multiple occasions before because he's a musician and, well, I go to a lot of shows (although this week was an all-time low).
He even gave me his band's new song to listen to. I love when that happens.
Last up for the evening was yet another farewell party, this one for mixologist extraordinaire Bobby at Mint.
Walking in to a packed Julep, I found friends scattered throughout the lively and somewhat loopy crowd.
It required some work just to make it to the bar to get a cocktail, or in my case some spirits, but when I did, I arrived just as a bar stool was being vacated.
That gave me a prime viewing space for the frenzied drink making that was going on behind the bar.
There must have been four different people endlessly giving their arms a workout with a cocktail shaker to supply one of the evening's creative drink specials.
My front row seat to a cocktail cabaret did afford me some mini-drinks, an unexpected bonus.
Bobby's classic Jack Skellington with a toasted marshmallow and the cool-as-a-cucumber Wimbledon were amuse-bouches to my inevitable choice.
In fact, as soon as Bobby saw me, he turned in mid-shake and said to one of his assistants, "She'll have a Cazadores on ice," with the resigned grin he always gives me for my lack of additives.
I ran into a couple of fellow bloggers at the bar and enjoyed some conversation (and a sip of a spicy Employees Only) with them before half of a favorite couple came up behind me and asked, "What the f**k are you doing over here?"
Somehow I'd missed the engraved invitation to join them at their table, so he'd come to summon me. Pronto.
Over at his table were some transplants looking for brunch ideas (Amour Wine Bistro is high on my list these days), a very handsome man spouting generalizations about women ("Women can be so sensitive!") and Julep's new chef.
For the second time this week, a chef wanted to hear my thoughts on some of the new restaurants and no one loves hearing their opinion of a place validated more than a chef.
And no one can resist showing off more than a chef but this was to our advantage.
He brought out some of the cheeses he's been making and the aged goat cheese with fennel was the kind of taste that made your eyes close.
Swoon-worthy says it best.
He then brought out a spoon of salt and laid it on the table like a prize.
My friend got out a dollar bill, rolled it up and pretended to snort it. Instead, we all tasted grains of it, savoring its purity of flavor.
During a discussion of needlessly complicated cooking, the chef disappeared into the kitchen, returning with two plates.
On one was a sliced up Sun Gold tomato and on the other, chunks of fresh fig.
"That's the two best things I could serve you right now. Nothing I could cook would taste better than that!" he said with a flourish.
With a light sprinkle of the
The figs had been picked that morning on his parents' farm in Goochland and as one who has spent the past month in a fig-induced euphoria, I knew what I was in for.
But surprisingly, there were people at the table who don't usually like figs (she liked these) or had never had them. Tragic.
Once the complete madness died down, Bobby joined us at our table to talk about his mixology future.
The guy who first showed RVA that gin and tequila could peacefully co-exist in the same glass clearly has a lot of options and a huge following no matter where he chooses to land.
And lots of places want him right now.
We didn't realize how late it was getting until we began to notice the hordes of scantily-clad girls spilling out into 18th Street.
Honey, does your mother know that you're out in a bra and a pair of shorts that look like a twist-tie and calling that an outfit? I doubt it.
But, hey, that's the street theater of Shockoe Bottom and since my evening had started with theater people, why not end up seeing some performance art?
Because a 250-pound woman in short shorts and a tube top walking in six inch heels is a performance you're not going to see just anywhere.
And while all of us gaped a little (or a lot), maybe she was just in pre-hurricane mode too.
A girl's got to wear it while she can.
How else will she have stories to share with her friends at a dinner party when she's older and wiser?
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Modern Romance
It was a small, intimate post-Christmas dinner party with an unexpected focus on sex toys and new relationship memories. I have to say, it was really kind of sweet.
The dinner had originally been scheduled for Sunday night, then shifted to Monday night because of the snow and finally agreed upon for tonight. I was the first to arrive, only to find the hostess in full Suzy Homemaker mode, not her norm by any stretch.
The prime rib was about to come out of the oven, the water was boiling for potatoes, bread was being sliced and veggies were being prepared. She poured us both a glass of wine and I shared my tale of wrist woe. Moments later, the other guests came in and the party started in earnest.
I loved her music selection for the evening; it was all obscure vintage holiday stuff from before my time, stuff like Johnny Hartman, Steve and Edie, Joe Williams, Billy Eckstein, Doris Day, the Lennon Sisters.
A few voices I recognized from my parents' old record collection, but we also had an aficionado of that era's music in the group and she was lightening fast at telling us whom we were hearing (her boyfriend said she was born 60 years too late). Really, Jim Nabors aka Gomer Pyle?
It was the kind of gathering that required a fire, so one was started while we enjoyed cocktails in the living room. A discussion of real versus gas fires ensued, but with the scent of well-seasoned wood burning in our nostrils, it was difficult at best to buy into the gas log argument.
Then the hostess disappeared, we heard the whirring of an electric knife and dinner was served. She had bought an enormous 5 1/2-pound piece of meat, despite the butcher warning her that she was overbuying for the size of her group, but meat's her thing.
She'd done a salt crust and barely cooked the meat to rareness and the butter for the bread required a sharper knife than the meat did. Though she claims she's not much of a cook, you'd never know it by her meat.
There was much moaning about the meat and in the midst of it, the cook casually mentioned that she'd been shopping at Priscilla's ("Where Fun and Fantasy Meet") today using her Frequent Customer Card. I thought I knew this woman, but apparently not.
She's a few months into a new relationship and they're doing a getaway New Year's Eve weekend and she thought she'd pick up a few treats. (Wait, Priscilla's has a Frequent Customer Card?) She offered to show us her stash after dinner.
Since I'm the curious type and I've never been in a Priscilla's (or any kind of fun and fantasy-type store), I wasn't willing to wait to learn more. This group was having third and fourth helpings of meat and there was no telling when they might be finished satisfying their blood lust.
Maybe she could start by telling us about some of the purchases she'd made, if only for discussion purposes? But words were clearly inadequate, so she fetched the pink plastic bag and I was designated the show and teller.
First came the Whisper Micro Bullet, which I'm still a bit unclear about, but the woman on the package looked very happy. It was followed by a silicon ring for a certain body part, no doubt a gift for her beloved. Surely also for his pleasure was the, um, cut-out outfit and stockings.
Then came the vibrating tongue ring (lasts up to 40 minutes!) causing a male guest to say, "Well, your tongue does get tired," with a slightly embarrassed laugh. Our hostess quickly corrected him, however; the product is designed to be used by a woman for a man's pleasure.
A collective "Ohhhh" came up from the table. Every single one of us had made the incorrect assumption about who would be using it on whom. Not that Priscilla's can check on proper usage or anything.
And on that note, we moved back into the living room to enjoy the warmth of the fire, yet another bottle of wine and some slightly more classically romantic conversation.
A guest told us about the memoir she had written about the beginnings of her relationship. It was sort of a memory book about their first four or five dates, complete with reminisces, restaurant and festival logos, even her unshared-at-the-time feelings about the burgeoning relationship.
She had begun it as an exercise for herself and become so caught up in remembering that she'd elaborated on it and decided to have it bound and present it to him as a New Year's gift.
The idea seemed romantic to me (well, given the absence of my own love life status, it would), so I asked the female half of another couple if she could pinpoint the top four days from their relationship's first six months.
With some thought, she came up with her own list: the day trip to the swimming hole when the car got stuck on the low road, her birthday weekend away with the endless Prosecco, an early-on meal at a local restaurant while snow came down outside and he wooed her inside.
Her S.O. made a few suggestions, but, as I pointed out, I was looking for her fondest memories at the moment, not his.
After all the sex toy talk, I was really just interested in hearing about some classic romance and with so many of my friends currently in relatively new relationships, they're full of the sort of stories worthy of a good true romance comic. You know the kind.
Her: (hand on forehead woefully) "Gosh, why hasn't he called yet?"
Him: "Golly, I'd really like to talk to her, but my tongue's exhausted!"
I feel quite sure they'll live happily ever after.
The dinner had originally been scheduled for Sunday night, then shifted to Monday night because of the snow and finally agreed upon for tonight. I was the first to arrive, only to find the hostess in full Suzy Homemaker mode, not her norm by any stretch.
The prime rib was about to come out of the oven, the water was boiling for potatoes, bread was being sliced and veggies were being prepared. She poured us both a glass of wine and I shared my tale of wrist woe. Moments later, the other guests came in and the party started in earnest.
I loved her music selection for the evening; it was all obscure vintage holiday stuff from before my time, stuff like Johnny Hartman, Steve and Edie, Joe Williams, Billy Eckstein, Doris Day, the Lennon Sisters.
A few voices I recognized from my parents' old record collection, but we also had an aficionado of that era's music in the group and she was lightening fast at telling us whom we were hearing (her boyfriend said she was born 60 years too late). Really, Jim Nabors aka Gomer Pyle?
It was the kind of gathering that required a fire, so one was started while we enjoyed cocktails in the living room. A discussion of real versus gas fires ensued, but with the scent of well-seasoned wood burning in our nostrils, it was difficult at best to buy into the gas log argument.
Then the hostess disappeared, we heard the whirring of an electric knife and dinner was served. She had bought an enormous 5 1/2-pound piece of meat, despite the butcher warning her that she was overbuying for the size of her group, but meat's her thing.
She'd done a salt crust and barely cooked the meat to rareness and the butter for the bread required a sharper knife than the meat did. Though she claims she's not much of a cook, you'd never know it by her meat.
There was much moaning about the meat and in the midst of it, the cook casually mentioned that she'd been shopping at Priscilla's ("Where Fun and Fantasy Meet") today using her Frequent Customer Card. I thought I knew this woman, but apparently not.
She's a few months into a new relationship and they're doing a getaway New Year's Eve weekend and she thought she'd pick up a few treats. (Wait, Priscilla's has a Frequent Customer Card?) She offered to show us her stash after dinner.
Since I'm the curious type and I've never been in a Priscilla's (or any kind of fun and fantasy-type store), I wasn't willing to wait to learn more. This group was having third and fourth helpings of meat and there was no telling when they might be finished satisfying their blood lust.
Maybe she could start by telling us about some of the purchases she'd made, if only for discussion purposes? But words were clearly inadequate, so she fetched the pink plastic bag and I was designated the show and teller.
First came the Whisper Micro Bullet, which I'm still a bit unclear about, but the woman on the package looked very happy. It was followed by a silicon ring for a certain body part, no doubt a gift for her beloved. Surely also for his pleasure was the, um, cut-out outfit and stockings.
Then came the vibrating tongue ring (lasts up to 40 minutes!) causing a male guest to say, "Well, your tongue does get tired," with a slightly embarrassed laugh. Our hostess quickly corrected him, however; the product is designed to be used by a woman for a man's pleasure.
A collective "Ohhhh" came up from the table. Every single one of us had made the incorrect assumption about who would be using it on whom. Not that Priscilla's can check on proper usage or anything.
And on that note, we moved back into the living room to enjoy the warmth of the fire, yet another bottle of wine and some slightly more classically romantic conversation.
A guest told us about the memoir she had written about the beginnings of her relationship. It was sort of a memory book about their first four or five dates, complete with reminisces, restaurant and festival logos, even her unshared-at-the-time feelings about the burgeoning relationship.
She had begun it as an exercise for herself and become so caught up in remembering that she'd elaborated on it and decided to have it bound and present it to him as a New Year's gift.
The idea seemed romantic to me (well, given the absence of my own love life status, it would), so I asked the female half of another couple if she could pinpoint the top four days from their relationship's first six months.
With some thought, she came up with her own list: the day trip to the swimming hole when the car got stuck on the low road, her birthday weekend away with the endless Prosecco, an early-on meal at a local restaurant while snow came down outside and he wooed her inside.
Her S.O. made a few suggestions, but, as I pointed out, I was looking for her fondest memories at the moment, not his.
After all the sex toy talk, I was really just interested in hearing about some classic romance and with so many of my friends currently in relatively new relationships, they're full of the sort of stories worthy of a good true romance comic. You know the kind.
Her: (hand on forehead woefully) "Gosh, why hasn't he called yet?"
Him: "Golly, I'd really like to talk to her, but my tongue's exhausted!"
I feel quite sure they'll live happily ever after.
Friday, February 26, 2010
I'm One of the Un-Inked
If you get eleven women together for a dinner party, how many of them will have tattoos?
Five.
How many of them will have at least three tattoos? Three.
How many of them will have parents who still don't know about their tattoo? One.
How many of them will have left their home state (S.C.) because tattooing was illegal and gone to a neighboring state (GA) to be tattooed? One.
When we weren't discussing ink or displaying body parts, this group was opening endless bottles of wine and eating a fabulous repast prepared by both tattooed and ink-free women.
Our meal began with a multi-cheese course, hummus, and a lentil salsa that dazzled everyone with its flavor and texture.
Then we adjourned to the dining room for Chicken Marbella (chicken quarters with prunes, garlic, olive oil, capers, olives, wine and brown sugar), superbly seasoned roasted veggies (red pepper, onion, eggplant, potato and probably something else I'm forgetting), Hungarian sweet and sour braised cabbage and bread.
Dinner talk centered around wedding vows, crying at such ceremonies, the use of "till death do us part" and the difference in dating younger men and men with some life experience behind them (the latter were the clear favorite).
We also touched on how to try on wedding dresses in front of your mother without revealing your tattoo (see above).
As you would expect in a room with nothing but X chromosomes, most of the guests chose to try both desserts, one a delicate but creamy rich citrus cheesecake and the other an obscenely rich multi-layered chocolate torte.
Between the two offerings, close to a dozen eggs and a pound of butter were sacrificed, not that anyone was keeping track, except to justify coming back for seconds.
With the exception of me and one other woman, everyone else at tonight's soiree works in the theater world.
So they're stylish, project well and tell great stories, but our evening was completely drama-free.
Maybe it was just the huge amounts of food and wine we consumed while dishing on girly subjects that kept everyone placated.
Maybe it was the thickness of the estrogen in the air. Maybe Cyndi Lauper was right.
Something must explain why the hostess' boyfriend was afraid to come home while we were all still there.
Smart men know their limitations.
Five.
How many of them will have at least three tattoos? Three.
How many of them will have parents who still don't know about their tattoo? One.
How many of them will have left their home state (S.C.) because tattooing was illegal and gone to a neighboring state (GA) to be tattooed? One.
When we weren't discussing ink or displaying body parts, this group was opening endless bottles of wine and eating a fabulous repast prepared by both tattooed and ink-free women.
Our meal began with a multi-cheese course, hummus, and a lentil salsa that dazzled everyone with its flavor and texture.
Then we adjourned to the dining room for Chicken Marbella (chicken quarters with prunes, garlic, olive oil, capers, olives, wine and brown sugar), superbly seasoned roasted veggies (red pepper, onion, eggplant, potato and probably something else I'm forgetting), Hungarian sweet and sour braised cabbage and bread.
Dinner talk centered around wedding vows, crying at such ceremonies, the use of "till death do us part" and the difference in dating younger men and men with some life experience behind them (the latter were the clear favorite).
We also touched on how to try on wedding dresses in front of your mother without revealing your tattoo (see above).
As you would expect in a room with nothing but X chromosomes, most of the guests chose to try both desserts, one a delicate but creamy rich citrus cheesecake and the other an obscenely rich multi-layered chocolate torte.
Between the two offerings, close to a dozen eggs and a pound of butter were sacrificed, not that anyone was keeping track, except to justify coming back for seconds.
With the exception of me and one other woman, everyone else at tonight's soiree works in the theater world.
So they're stylish, project well and tell great stories, but our evening was completely drama-free.
Maybe it was just the huge amounts of food and wine we consumed while dishing on girly subjects that kept everyone placated.
Maybe it was the thickness of the estrogen in the air. Maybe Cyndi Lauper was right.
Something must explain why the hostess' boyfriend was afraid to come home while we were all still there.
Smart men know their limitations.
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