Trust Me, It's a Booster Shot

It was exactly the right day to spend with the men in my life.

Because today is my Dad's 87th birthday, I'd offered to motor to the Northern Neck and bring lunch, but only after asking what he wanted for his celebratory meal. To my surprise, the request was for a Cobb salad.

Unlikely as it sounds, can do.

The drive out was easy enough and once there, I set about making my Dad's idea of a birthday cake: lemon meringue pie. It should probably be noted that it's been a couple decades since I last made one. But I jumped in, baking the crust, stirring and boiling the filling and whipping the egg whites to make a generous meringue to be browned in the oven.

All the while my Mom is trying to convince me that, like her other five daughters, I'm a wonderful cook who has simply opted out of cooking lately.

I let her keep her delusions.

In between steps, I chat up Dad about his thoughts on the Rams, an innocuous question that led me down a rabbit hole involving Sean McVay, Jon Gruden and the ignorance of Dan Snyder. So, in other words, just another family sports discussion.

And let's not forget that I have zero interest in sports to start and was merely making conversation.

Then there's my Mom who has zero interest in cooking or new foods. As we were eating the salad, she forked up a bit of avocado and commented innocently, "This is the first time I've ever had avocado." Not at all surprised (she refused to serve us butter beans or beets during our childhood because she hated them), I asked what she thought of it. "Doesn't taste like much and that color is so unappealing," she said.

It's amazing that I sprung from her boring culinary loins.

Fortunately, my Dad's love of oysters, soft shell crabs and anchovies was enough to motivate my palate and keep the fire alive even as she attempted to raise another bland eater like herself.

We even had a little Prosecco with lunch, the better to toast Dad's longevity - "To the first two major women in your adult life!" was the best I could do - and continued good humor, despite a complete disgust with the current state of U.S. affairs. I am comforted knowing he intends to outlive the current leader of the free world solely so that he can see how the history books treat him.

I've got to give him credit for even bothering to care after all these years.

It was the oddest weather today because when I left Mom and Dad's, it was ridiculously warmer than when I'd arrived and forecast to be warmer still by this evening. I know my science knowledge is sketchy at best, but I still I can't quite figure out how it was 9 degrees on Monday and 60 degrees today.

I'm not complaining, either.

Once I was back in J-Ward, my evening was given over to Mr. Wright after he'd asked me on a last minute dinner date. Although our intention had been to get through a very busy week for both of us before reconvening post-vacation, he'd decided he needed a little company to tide him over until the weekend.

Amazing the effects it has on a person when they breathe the same air while at the oceanfront.

The night felt soft and warm when we strolled over to Bar Solita to catch up on each other's adjustment back to reality. Once we had a bottle of Laurent Miguel Grenache Blanc on the table, it began to feel like vacation again, minus the ocean flats and shorts.

Despite the absence of salty breezes, we ate like were were still beach hungry, downing a basil pesto pizza, orzo salad and grilled asparagus like we'd been out soaking up sun all afternoon instead of working hard at our desks.

Because apparently old beach appetites die hard.

Behind our booth, a familiar face popped up, although it took me a hot second to recognize the handsome server who'd shorn his shoulder length mane to a dashing short cut that made him just this side of unrecognizable. Still, it was great to see his smiling face and learn that he's roosted at my neighborhood joint.

We were looking at the rain on the streets outside the window when our server stopped by to check on our interest in dessert. In what can only be attributed to lingering vacation mode, Mr. Wright requested some Oreo gelato with absolutely no suggestion from me.

On the other hand, if a 50 degree January night isn't as good a reason as any to be eating ice cream with your vacation partner, I don't know what is.

But you can be sure I'd find a way to justify anything to extend this vacation hangover. To quote Miss Diana Ross, "If there's a cure for this, I don't want it. If there's a remedy, I'll run from it."

Besides, if I can drive to the river, bake a pie and still find time to bask in the recent past, there's no cure in order. Just allow me to wallow in it a bit longer.

Spoken as only the daughter of a very satisfied 87-year old man can.

Just Bring Me the Skate Wing

I had my biggest couple date ever tonight (five of them plus me) and I drove further for it than I usually do to share a meal with the mated.

But an occasion was involved (my father's birthday) and all the couples were related to me somehow (including my favorite sister as well as my least favorite sister; the other three didn't attend) and I never mind a relaxing road trip up Route 301 to Fredericksburg.

We met at the Kenmore Inn for cocktails because several of the attendees were staying the night there. It's a quaint old house and a great place for wine and cheese in front of the fireplace.

Naturally, we lingered longer than we should have to make our reservation on a timely basis, despite the fact that it was a mere two-block walk away.

My Dad had chosen La Petite Auberge, a mainstay in Fredericksburg since the chef/owner left La Nicoise in DC to open LPA in 1981 and give the locals traditional French cuisine in a very old-school-looking dining room.

The only fly in the ointment was that it was the dreaded Restaurant Week, a virtual guarantee of crowded restaurants and slow service.

Luckily, we were in no hurry; even better they put us in a smaller room just off the main dining room and assigned us two servers, one for drinks (Tippy) and one for food (Jody), no doubt a strategy to contain us in the room.

In addition to the regular menu, there is always an extensive list of daily specials and tonight there was also the Restaurant Week menu, making for an infinite number of choices, or so it seemed with our large group.

My choices were narrowed down immediately because one of the specials was skate wing with capers and black butter.

What followed was a table-wide discussion of how nobody had ever seen skate on a menu before (one guest wouldn't consider eating it because she "likes" skates; must be their winning personalities). This is the point where I start looking for strength to deal with my family.

It took a while for Tippy just to get all the wine and drinks to the table, an unenviable job considering how well lubricated this crowd already was.

And now I have to mention the music because a) it was so unexpected given the restaurant and its clientele and b) it plucked on my last nerve for the four hours I was forced to endure it.

Classic rock. In a French restaurant.

I spent the evening listening to Bob Seger, Steely Dan, Led Zeppelin, the Eagles and worse. Every time the guy next to me recognized a song but couldn't remember the artist, he turned to me for the answer.

In quick succession, I satisfied his curiosity: Argent, Cream, The Band. I know the pain was written all over my face.

Luckily the food was a good distraction. My mesclun with shaved Manchego, dried cranberries and pine nuts was a nice little combination before an entree I knew would be obscenely rich.

And was it ever. A generous portion of skate wing sat in a pool of black butter with capers scattered about and snow peas on the side so that my arteries wouldn't close immediately; the potatoes Lyonaise I never touched. I love the sweetness of skate; it reminds me of scallops without as much texture.

Around me, others got rockfish (the fish my family grew up eating at least every other Friday for my entire childhood), stuffed flounder, salmon, mussels, crabmeat, steak; two of my favorite people at the table couldn't resist the calf's liver special, endearing them further to me.

After all the disdain for my skate order, two people requested a bite of mine and one came back for seconds.

Both proclaimed it delicious, but the others remained highly skeptical. Sometimes I wonder how this family produced me. Make that often.

But extended family conversations are great fun because everyone has different memories of the same event. It was hysterical hearing different people's versions of long-forgotten vacations, conversations and escapades; I shared nothing for fear of being trampled underfoot. Who hit whom with a broom that summer in Maine?

And because we are a family raised on the principle that dessert is an inalienable right (we had a different dessert every single night growing up), all kinds of sweeties showed up after the meal.

There was chocolate mousse, key lime pie (in a chocolate cookie crust and drizzled with chocolate sauce), poached pears, creme brulee and chocolate ganache cake, which was my choice.

After-dinner drinks and coffee abounded, but not a drop of cream or a hint of sugar were to be found anywhere on the table. I come from a long line of people who consider it a personality flaw to drink coffee any way but black. It doesn't affect me, because I don't drink it at all.

By the time everyone was pleasantly replete, we were just about the last customers in the restaurant.

We bundled up, said our goodbyes to each other (some of these people I only see once a year at this dinner) and made our way out to the frigid street.

It was a beautiful and bright drive home thanks to the magnificent moon that followed me down 301. For long stretches, I was the only car on the road, which made it all the easier to relax into my thoughts and my music.

Without naming names, you can be sure I didn't play anything remotely resembling classic rock.

Okay, Decemberists followed by Lissie. I felt infinitely better before I even hit Bowling Green.