In the past, if I did not blog, something was wrong.
I may have been nursing a recent hurt or upset about something or even, for those months last winter, too low to rouse myself only to depress my readers. Not blogging could be seen as a statement of mindset.
It still can, but for wildly different reasons.
"I'd like to say first that any day you don't have a blog post, I smile. No post means you're enjoying yourself, likely in the company of someone very close to you. I have tried a couple of times to post a comment, but I get caught in a loop and it won't take. Then I would draft an email in my head and not send it because it really should be shared with your readers."
~ Leo, "Intel" email, July 25
Like a faceless priest absolving me of my childhood sins in the confessional (in my pre-heathen days), hearing one of my oldest friends was gratified when I didn't post exonerated me.
"But something has happened to the woman with the notebook. I have come home and sunk into my enjoyment of him as into a warm summer day. The journal is secondary. Everything is secondary...This is strange. Before, as soon as I came home from all kinds of places, I would sit down and write in my journal. Now I want to write to him, talk to him...To have a summer day like today and a night with him, I ask nothing more."
~Anais Nin, "Henry and June," my beach read
Of all the books to choose to reread while ensconced in Kitty Hawk oceanside earlier this week - and soley because I'd read a biography of Henry Miller at the beach in May - what could have better suited my mood than the unexpurgated diary of a writer and journalist completely enthralled?
I have not given up on this blog, but it's reassuring to know there is a literary precedent for my lack of attention to it. Even better, those who know me best applaud my absence.
As summer days and nights go - the air, the smells, the sun and moon, the company - these are mine alone. Blogging time is scarce these days.
Lucky me.
Showing posts with label friend. Show all posts
Showing posts with label friend. Show all posts
Friday, August 3, 2018
Tuesday, November 28, 2017
With Filter Clogged
A restaurant-owning friend once told me that the best part of his place being closed on Mondays was that Dutch & Co. was open.
I'm inclined to agree and I'm only a lowly freelance writer. But the last few days - because of course I had to work every day of the long holiday weekend - involved some mind-expanding interviews that, while enriching, left me with lots to ponder.
There was the couples counselor who broke down the stages of a relationship, what happens in each one and, more importantly, why they happen and what you can do to address them. I shouldn't be surprised at how much you can learn about yourself and your relationships simply by talking to an expert.
Then there was the historian and author who explained the Virginia roots of today's radical right to demonstrate how the country got itself into the worst political crisis in living memory. She'd done a fascinating research job linking up all the balls that have been in play since the mid-1950s to lead us to this unenviable place we find ourselves in 2017.
And by "lots to ponder," I also mean "in need of bubbles and conversation."
I found both when the Lady G scooped me up and I directed her to Dutch & Co. - a place she'd somehow never been - past all kinds of traffic jams, police cars with lights on and fender benders. Holy cow, did everyone forget how to drive over the long weekend?
If the stretch between Jackson Ward and Church Hill is any indication, they sure did.
The restaurant was an oasis of calm with a sole bar sitter our only competition for the bartender's attention. He had no problem talking Lady G into the cocktail of the evening, an appealing reddish concoction called Your Pal and starring Rye and Campari among other things. Sitting next to my Cava on the bar, the two drinks made a festive holiday tableau.
Because it had been seven weeks since we'd last met up, we were both bursting with trials, tribulations and totally trivial anecdotes, so we just alternated opening our mouths to debrief the other. We both have out-of-town sisters and had seen them, so that's a reliably rich vein to mine. Thanksgiving tales were inevitable, but so was fine-tuning our road trip plans.
It was only because we both paused to catch our breath that the bartender had a moment to inquire after our appetites. Given how much more we had to cover, it seemed easiest just to order everything on the bar menu, two glasses of Cava and get back to it.
What finally shut us up was the arrival of food. We slathered pork fat biscuits - so rich they felt heavy - with butter and applebutter. Panko-crusted fried cauliflower got the spicy Chinese treatment with chile sauce, scallions, cucumbers and basil, causing Lady G to note, "I could eat this all night long."
We wrapped smoked salmon rillette in salmon skin blinis and topped them with chive yogurt. And to satisfy our love of brine and off-season longing for the beach, we slurped Ruby Salt oysters from the Eastern Shore with abandon.
Once we'd achieved an elegant sufficiency, we went back to swapping stories. She won the evening hands down with a crazy story about a psychic sending her a message from her dead husband about his favorite Honda lawnmower requiring attention.
Don't you know Lady G immediately informed her current husband that the mower had needs?
"And this is what I love about him," she shared, laughing hilariously. "He went right out to the garage to check on it." Turns out the mower was in such desperate need of a new air filter that he was amazed it was still running, so he replaced that, changed the oil and sharpened the blades.
When she reported this back to the friend who knows the psychic, she learned that there was an additional message for her from her first love, this one presumably about something other than power tools, but Lady G has yet to reach her to find out.
The bartender had no trouble interesting us in dessert, although we eschewed a menu and just asked for whatever was chocolate. We're simple women, really. That resulted in salt-dusted chocolate semi-freddo showing up, adorned with plum slices that had been stirred with aged balsamic, all of it over a puddle of extra virgin olive oil.
It was a perfectly lovely marriage of sweet and savory and only derailed our back and forth briefly.
Since I'm not in a relationship, all the conversation about dealing with a man came from her. Since I get out far more than she does, I was the one telling her about the plays and cabarets I'd recently seen, although not one but two friends had invited her to join them for "Legally Blond" and she'd declined both offers.
I got that. We're not the legally blond types, if you know what I mean.
And speaking of, I couldn't help but notice the black pom-pom earrings set against a blond up-do on a favorite stylish waitress. Complimenting her on them, she said, "You know I love to thrift," and I did from past conversations (we're like-minded in that respect). Seems she'd bought a black sweater with small pom-poms around the neck and had removed two, glued them to earring backs and voila! Instant DIY earrings.
"They sell pom-poms in all colors, so you could do the same with a lighter color that would show up on a brunette," she suggested. A fine idea if I wore earrings (I don't) or had pierced ears (nope) or was crafty (please!).
Meanwhile, the bartender complimented our style, telling us we'd done it right, leisurely sampling around the menu to give the newbie a sense of the kitchen and the vibe. Safe to say it's not my first rodeo.
By the time the last of the bubbles was finished, the dining room was well over half full, including several restaurant people enjoying their evening off.
"We should come back here next time," Lady G announced, although next time's location won't get decided until next time. "This place is perfect."
Not news to me or my restaurant friend. Hell, her psychic probably already knew that.
I'm inclined to agree and I'm only a lowly freelance writer. But the last few days - because of course I had to work every day of the long holiday weekend - involved some mind-expanding interviews that, while enriching, left me with lots to ponder.
There was the couples counselor who broke down the stages of a relationship, what happens in each one and, more importantly, why they happen and what you can do to address them. I shouldn't be surprised at how much you can learn about yourself and your relationships simply by talking to an expert.
Then there was the historian and author who explained the Virginia roots of today's radical right to demonstrate how the country got itself into the worst political crisis in living memory. She'd done a fascinating research job linking up all the balls that have been in play since the mid-1950s to lead us to this unenviable place we find ourselves in 2017.
And by "lots to ponder," I also mean "in need of bubbles and conversation."
I found both when the Lady G scooped me up and I directed her to Dutch & Co. - a place she'd somehow never been - past all kinds of traffic jams, police cars with lights on and fender benders. Holy cow, did everyone forget how to drive over the long weekend?
If the stretch between Jackson Ward and Church Hill is any indication, they sure did.
The restaurant was an oasis of calm with a sole bar sitter our only competition for the bartender's attention. He had no problem talking Lady G into the cocktail of the evening, an appealing reddish concoction called Your Pal and starring Rye and Campari among other things. Sitting next to my Cava on the bar, the two drinks made a festive holiday tableau.
Because it had been seven weeks since we'd last met up, we were both bursting with trials, tribulations and totally trivial anecdotes, so we just alternated opening our mouths to debrief the other. We both have out-of-town sisters and had seen them, so that's a reliably rich vein to mine. Thanksgiving tales were inevitable, but so was fine-tuning our road trip plans.
It was only because we both paused to catch our breath that the bartender had a moment to inquire after our appetites. Given how much more we had to cover, it seemed easiest just to order everything on the bar menu, two glasses of Cava and get back to it.
What finally shut us up was the arrival of food. We slathered pork fat biscuits - so rich they felt heavy - with butter and applebutter. Panko-crusted fried cauliflower got the spicy Chinese treatment with chile sauce, scallions, cucumbers and basil, causing Lady G to note, "I could eat this all night long."
We wrapped smoked salmon rillette in salmon skin blinis and topped them with chive yogurt. And to satisfy our love of brine and off-season longing for the beach, we slurped Ruby Salt oysters from the Eastern Shore with abandon.
Once we'd achieved an elegant sufficiency, we went back to swapping stories. She won the evening hands down with a crazy story about a psychic sending her a message from her dead husband about his favorite Honda lawnmower requiring attention.
Don't you know Lady G immediately informed her current husband that the mower had needs?
"And this is what I love about him," she shared, laughing hilariously. "He went right out to the garage to check on it." Turns out the mower was in such desperate need of a new air filter that he was amazed it was still running, so he replaced that, changed the oil and sharpened the blades.
When she reported this back to the friend who knows the psychic, she learned that there was an additional message for her from her first love, this one presumably about something other than power tools, but Lady G has yet to reach her to find out.
The bartender had no trouble interesting us in dessert, although we eschewed a menu and just asked for whatever was chocolate. We're simple women, really. That resulted in salt-dusted chocolate semi-freddo showing up, adorned with plum slices that had been stirred with aged balsamic, all of it over a puddle of extra virgin olive oil.
It was a perfectly lovely marriage of sweet and savory and only derailed our back and forth briefly.
Since I'm not in a relationship, all the conversation about dealing with a man came from her. Since I get out far more than she does, I was the one telling her about the plays and cabarets I'd recently seen, although not one but two friends had invited her to join them for "Legally Blond" and she'd declined both offers.
I got that. We're not the legally blond types, if you know what I mean.
And speaking of, I couldn't help but notice the black pom-pom earrings set against a blond up-do on a favorite stylish waitress. Complimenting her on them, she said, "You know I love to thrift," and I did from past conversations (we're like-minded in that respect). Seems she'd bought a black sweater with small pom-poms around the neck and had removed two, glued them to earring backs and voila! Instant DIY earrings.
"They sell pom-poms in all colors, so you could do the same with a lighter color that would show up on a brunette," she suggested. A fine idea if I wore earrings (I don't) or had pierced ears (nope) or was crafty (please!).
Meanwhile, the bartender complimented our style, telling us we'd done it right, leisurely sampling around the menu to give the newbie a sense of the kitchen and the vibe. Safe to say it's not my first rodeo.
By the time the last of the bubbles was finished, the dining room was well over half full, including several restaurant people enjoying their evening off.
"We should come back here next time," Lady G announced, although next time's location won't get decided until next time. "This place is perfect."
Not news to me or my restaurant friend. Hell, her psychic probably already knew that.
Friday, March 10, 2017
Feed Your Head, Warm Your Hands
It requires a friend of at least 7 years to know my hot buttons.
Perhaps that's how long it takes to know which compliments are going to resonate most with me. Refer to my lifestyle as bohemian? Thank you for noticing. Speak well of long, graceful fingers? I'm gobsmacked. Mention the dimples? Bonus points.
But walk into my living room - not for the first time - and declare that it looks like a salon, well, now I'm eating out of your hand. The fact that he's part of a group holding salon-like events only adds to my pleasure in the comment.
Among stacks of books written by and about women that I've pulled out for rearranging, he points to a copy of "Truevine," asking how I liked it and making a case for how it might have been better accomplished as a work of fiction (agreed).
Seems he went to school with the author back when neither was certain they'd write the books they wanted to. Now they both know better.
Because it was such a beautiful evening, we began with a walk over to 821 Cafe for the sole purpose of introducing him to my favorite black bean nachos and catching up after nearly a month. With the students away for spring break, it was like walking through a ghost town and even 821 seemed like a shadow of its normal state with so few tables and stools occupied.
An ideal place, in other words, to linger over a platter of well-layered nachos and talk about the novelty of simple food, community building through restaurants and the really big news that there's been interest in his book.
Rapid and enthusiastic interest, possibly the best kind.
Stuffed and in need of a walk, we made it as far as Saison Market's patio, understandably hopping with today's warmth tempered by Sunday's forecast of snow, where I amused my visitor with stories of dumb things his people have said to me.
It was somewhere after a story about the western hemisphere that he decided what we needed was some steps to sit on, the better to enjoy the Richmond air and notable citywide quiet.
Conveniently, my house has some and we took up residence there, first on the wide wooden steps of the house and then on the narrower brick steps leading to my door. Every time even a hint of breeze would lift a stem of the rose bush, the scent of hyacinths wafted up to perfume the air.
It's for that reason alone that I plant them.
People walked down the sidewalk a few feet away without even noticing us sitting in the shadows. Mainly, it was only my laughter that gave us away (my grandmother used to remind me that people could hear me a mile away) and got us a wave or two.
The shame was that he had to drive back tonight - the bohemian was not able to convince the smart mouth to stay for an LSD experience - so we called it quits after five hours of constant conversation, comparing memories and all around fast processing, just the way we like it.
With no one to talk to, I need something to talk about, so I made my way to the Bijou for the late screening of "Sunshine Makers," a documentary about two chemists making 750 million doses of "orange sunshine" LSD in the '60s as part of their plan to turn the world on with acid and raise everyone's consciousness.
Turn on, tune in and drop out, preferably rapidly and enthusiastically.
No one could say they didn't have lofty goals trying to change the world through psychedelics. Check that, Ronald Reagan was shown circa the late '60s excoriating LSD makers and users, but what else is new?
What was even more surprising was that these guys had an established distribution network in the form of a commune-turned-hippie-mafia called the Brotherhood of Eternal Love. The footage shown looked like every happy, hippie commune I've ever seen, full of long hairs, granny dresses and barely-clad children. Not a bra in sight.
Equally fascinating were the interviews with the women who not only dropped acid with them but assisted with their drug-making operations. To a person, they rhapsodized about the mind-expanding qualities of the LSD experience and the noble goals of trying to make LSD therapy available to the masses.
Now in old age, one of the women is again the girlfriend of one of the sunshine makers, although she makes it clear that, "We're partners and lovers, but not under the same roof."
Proof positive that LSD doesn't fry your brain. Speaking of, seems to met a little space doesn't hurt a good friendship much at all.
Perhaps that's how long it takes to know which compliments are going to resonate most with me. Refer to my lifestyle as bohemian? Thank you for noticing. Speak well of long, graceful fingers? I'm gobsmacked. Mention the dimples? Bonus points.
But walk into my living room - not for the first time - and declare that it looks like a salon, well, now I'm eating out of your hand. The fact that he's part of a group holding salon-like events only adds to my pleasure in the comment.
Among stacks of books written by and about women that I've pulled out for rearranging, he points to a copy of "Truevine," asking how I liked it and making a case for how it might have been better accomplished as a work of fiction (agreed).
Seems he went to school with the author back when neither was certain they'd write the books they wanted to. Now they both know better.
Because it was such a beautiful evening, we began with a walk over to 821 Cafe for the sole purpose of introducing him to my favorite black bean nachos and catching up after nearly a month. With the students away for spring break, it was like walking through a ghost town and even 821 seemed like a shadow of its normal state with so few tables and stools occupied.
An ideal place, in other words, to linger over a platter of well-layered nachos and talk about the novelty of simple food, community building through restaurants and the really big news that there's been interest in his book.
Rapid and enthusiastic interest, possibly the best kind.
Stuffed and in need of a walk, we made it as far as Saison Market's patio, understandably hopping with today's warmth tempered by Sunday's forecast of snow, where I amused my visitor with stories of dumb things his people have said to me.
It was somewhere after a story about the western hemisphere that he decided what we needed was some steps to sit on, the better to enjoy the Richmond air and notable citywide quiet.
Conveniently, my house has some and we took up residence there, first on the wide wooden steps of the house and then on the narrower brick steps leading to my door. Every time even a hint of breeze would lift a stem of the rose bush, the scent of hyacinths wafted up to perfume the air.
It's for that reason alone that I plant them.
People walked down the sidewalk a few feet away without even noticing us sitting in the shadows. Mainly, it was only my laughter that gave us away (my grandmother used to remind me that people could hear me a mile away) and got us a wave or two.
The shame was that he had to drive back tonight - the bohemian was not able to convince the smart mouth to stay for an LSD experience - so we called it quits after five hours of constant conversation, comparing memories and all around fast processing, just the way we like it.
With no one to talk to, I need something to talk about, so I made my way to the Bijou for the late screening of "Sunshine Makers," a documentary about two chemists making 750 million doses of "orange sunshine" LSD in the '60s as part of their plan to turn the world on with acid and raise everyone's consciousness.
Turn on, tune in and drop out, preferably rapidly and enthusiastically.
No one could say they didn't have lofty goals trying to change the world through psychedelics. Check that, Ronald Reagan was shown circa the late '60s excoriating LSD makers and users, but what else is new?
What was even more surprising was that these guys had an established distribution network in the form of a commune-turned-hippie-mafia called the Brotherhood of Eternal Love. The footage shown looked like every happy, hippie commune I've ever seen, full of long hairs, granny dresses and barely-clad children. Not a bra in sight.
Equally fascinating were the interviews with the women who not only dropped acid with them but assisted with their drug-making operations. To a person, they rhapsodized about the mind-expanding qualities of the LSD experience and the noble goals of trying to make LSD therapy available to the masses.
Now in old age, one of the women is again the girlfriend of one of the sunshine makers, although she makes it clear that, "We're partners and lovers, but not under the same roof."
Proof positive that LSD doesn't fry your brain. Speaking of, seems to met a little space doesn't hurt a good friendship much at all.
Tuesday, March 7, 2017
You're Different
Your old person name is Pearl. You are full of bliss and you welcome the future with happiness. Joy runs deep through you and your warm spirit can cheer anyone up.
~the Facebook oracle
Funny, I'd have thought my old person name would be Karen, but if it does turn out to be Pearl, it will be a nod to my great-aunt Pearl, whom I never met but heard about from my Richmond grandmother, Bessie (which is probably the most old-fashioned old person name on this or any planet).
As for my bliss, joy and warm spirit, well, I'm inclined to think that they qualify me for friends who not only appreciate those qualities, but also know who I am well enough not to underestimate me.
Ahem.
Tonight was all about staying on the Black Restaurant Week train, so I made plans to meet a friend at Croaker's Spot, but before he even arrived, I met a guy from Boston sitting at the bar. Truly, I was amazed to hear that the Hilton across from Philip Morris had suggested he come into the city and try Croaker's Spot.
All I can say is, go team Hilton.
Once my friend showed up, we headed to one of a very few available tables and tucked ourselves against the wall to stay out of the fray. Only one menu was free, so we shared.
It wasn't long before I overheard a server tell a table that they hadn't anticipated how busy Monday night would be (to be fair, it is the first Black Restaurant Week in Richmond) and later, when a server got busy rearranging small tables to form a table suitable for 12, we asked if a big party was in route.
"There's always a big party coming," she said smiling but rolling her eyes.
Our server had such a distinctive accent that after she left, my friend wanted my best guess on her origins. The first thing that came to mind was that she sounded like she had come from a British colony and I wasn't even sure what I'd heard that made me say that.
Naturally, when she returned, I asked. "Australia," she said, explaining that it was by way of the Philippines and Texas and her mother was Irish, so her accent was probably compromised Australian after 17 years and 4 children in this country.
She also insisted her ancestors had not been prisoners before taking our orders.
Friend opted for shrimp and grits while I'd known going in that my heart was set on seafood chili, the first dish I ever had at Croaker's, back when they were still in Jackson Ward. Luckily for me, he was gracious enough to share his brick o' sweet cornbread (we'd have called that cake in my family) with me.
Graceless
Is there a power to erase this?
Is it dissolvable and tasteless?
You can't imagine how I hate this
Graceless
Along with cornbread crumbs, on the table tonight were two of the key components of a long-lived friendship - an apology and an explanation - followed by more words than usual (up for debate was whether or not they'd been offered on a "soon" basis) for the simple reason that successful friendships - any relationships, really - are dependent on honesty and two-way communication.
Sure, I know not everyone needs as many words as I do, but in addition to being born a mover, I was also born a talker, so silent slugs need not apply.
When I look at the relationships I enjoy most, they're inevitably the ones with people who react to me as who I am and not as a stand-in for stereotypical expectations of gender, relationship uncertainties or preconceived notions.
Just recently, a new friend reminded me that I should stop expecting others to be as forthright (that's a polite way of saying direct) and forthcoming as I am because most people are unused to, not to mention uncomfortable, being candid. "You're authentic and most people aren't," he claimed.
Oh, you wouldn't want an angel watching over
Surprise, surprise, they wouldn't want to watch
Another un-innocent, elegant fall
Into the un-magnificent lives of adults
Pearl's adult life, I feel certain, would be a magnificent one. Difference is a virtue.
~the Facebook oracle
Funny, I'd have thought my old person name would be Karen, but if it does turn out to be Pearl, it will be a nod to my great-aunt Pearl, whom I never met but heard about from my Richmond grandmother, Bessie (which is probably the most old-fashioned old person name on this or any planet).
As for my bliss, joy and warm spirit, well, I'm inclined to think that they qualify me for friends who not only appreciate those qualities, but also know who I am well enough not to underestimate me.
Ahem.
Tonight was all about staying on the Black Restaurant Week train, so I made plans to meet a friend at Croaker's Spot, but before he even arrived, I met a guy from Boston sitting at the bar. Truly, I was amazed to hear that the Hilton across from Philip Morris had suggested he come into the city and try Croaker's Spot.
All I can say is, go team Hilton.
Once my friend showed up, we headed to one of a very few available tables and tucked ourselves against the wall to stay out of the fray. Only one menu was free, so we shared.
It wasn't long before I overheard a server tell a table that they hadn't anticipated how busy Monday night would be (to be fair, it is the first Black Restaurant Week in Richmond) and later, when a server got busy rearranging small tables to form a table suitable for 12, we asked if a big party was in route.
"There's always a big party coming," she said smiling but rolling her eyes.
Our server had such a distinctive accent that after she left, my friend wanted my best guess on her origins. The first thing that came to mind was that she sounded like she had come from a British colony and I wasn't even sure what I'd heard that made me say that.
Naturally, when she returned, I asked. "Australia," she said, explaining that it was by way of the Philippines and Texas and her mother was Irish, so her accent was probably compromised Australian after 17 years and 4 children in this country.
She also insisted her ancestors had not been prisoners before taking our orders.
Friend opted for shrimp and grits while I'd known going in that my heart was set on seafood chili, the first dish I ever had at Croaker's, back when they were still in Jackson Ward. Luckily for me, he was gracious enough to share his brick o' sweet cornbread (we'd have called that cake in my family) with me.
Graceless
Is there a power to erase this?
Is it dissolvable and tasteless?
You can't imagine how I hate this
Graceless
Along with cornbread crumbs, on the table tonight were two of the key components of a long-lived friendship - an apology and an explanation - followed by more words than usual (up for debate was whether or not they'd been offered on a "soon" basis) for the simple reason that successful friendships - any relationships, really - are dependent on honesty and two-way communication.
Sure, I know not everyone needs as many words as I do, but in addition to being born a mover, I was also born a talker, so silent slugs need not apply.
When I look at the relationships I enjoy most, they're inevitably the ones with people who react to me as who I am and not as a stand-in for stereotypical expectations of gender, relationship uncertainties or preconceived notions.
Just recently, a new friend reminded me that I should stop expecting others to be as forthright (that's a polite way of saying direct) and forthcoming as I am because most people are unused to, not to mention uncomfortable, being candid. "You're authentic and most people aren't," he claimed.
Oh, you wouldn't want an angel watching over
Surprise, surprise, they wouldn't want to watch
Another un-innocent, elegant fall
Into the un-magnificent lives of adults
Pearl's adult life, I feel certain, would be a magnificent one. Difference is a virtue.
Tuesday, February 28, 2017
Always Vice Versa
Gemini: Stay on top of a parent's or a higher-up's request. A fog seems to permeate through your creative and dynamic ideas. You feel good and have less of an expectation of others right now and vice versa.
Mom's only request was whether I was coming to visit this week, stated in the typical I-don't-want-to-be-a-bother maternal manner: "I think we were talking about Friday but don't worry if that doesn't work."
Right.
The fog that's been permeating through all of me - not just the creative and dynamic sides - of late is a bad case of early seasonal allergies with a healthy dose of dog hair exposure at Sunday's party.
It was so dire, I washed down Benadryl with the final sips of my champagne last night.
But I did wake up feeling good, so good it must have shown in my walk because it was one of those days when everyone smiled and had something to say to me.
Walking across the street in front of my apartment, I passed a guy who must have recognized me because his first question was how many miles I planned to walk today. He gave me a thumbs up when I said six. "There's nothing old about you, there's nothing young about you. You're just right!" he said, continuing down the street.
As the first person to speak to me today, he delivered the goods.
A woman with short white hair and manicured pink nails standing in front of St. Paul's smiled and pointed a pink finger at my shorts. "Seems kind of optimistic to me," she said about bare legs on a 60 degree day, clearly unaware I was already sweating from climbing to the Capital from the river.
Two men walking toward me on Broad Street, one cis-gendered and the other clad in blue spandex pants and a hot pink turban with a bow in the front, parted like the Red Sea, their arms extended for me to pass through.
"Love the hat, honey!" the turban said. "Work it!" Already am.
Work involved finishing a restaurant review and interviewing a curator before I got to check out the Historical Society's enormous new exhibition, "Toys of the '50s, '60s and '70s."
Using period living rooms to evoke the decades when the toys and games were popular, the sheer number of items included was enough to dredge up long-forgotten memories, while informative signs told you things about them that you'd never have known as a kid.
Probably because your parents wouldn't have wanted you to.
I don't know about you, but I had no idea that Twister had been reviled as a sex game when it came out. Seems that using human bodies as playing pieces was considered taboo in the mid-sixties.
Nor had I been aware that when Mr. Potato Head was originally released in the '50s, you had to supply your own potato for the head, which necessarily follows that imaginative tots could have fashioned a Mr. Onion Head or Mr. Eggplant Head, assuming an Eisenhower-era Mom would have allowed such a thing.
There was crazy stuff like Alka-Seltzer-fueled rockets with fail safes for kids who couldn't resist using extra tablets. A '70s-era environmental test kit with tests strips that clearly read, "Contains lead." A chemistry set with radio-active materials involved. Lawn darts called Jarts which were eventually recalled when one pierced a little girl's skull and killed her.
And don't get me started on Baby Brother Tender Love from the '70s, the first anatomically correct baby doll. On the progressive side, it was available in a Black as well as Caucasian version, although there was no word on whether the anatomy size changed with the skin color.
I'm here to tell you it wasn't all sweetness and light at the toy exhibit, but it was a lot of fun.
Each of the period living rooms had a TV and with a push of a button, toy commercials from that era would play, providing a glimpse of cringe-worthy mid-century advertising targeted at America's gullible youth.
With less of an expectation of others right now, a last-minute invitation to a friend's house for wine and conversation provided just the right way to wile away an unplanned evening since he wasn't admitting to expecting anything of me, either.
Which is not to say, all things considered, that a game of Twister wouldn't have been a whole lot of fun. After all, I read somewhere that it was a day for feeling good.
Mom's only request was whether I was coming to visit this week, stated in the typical I-don't-want-to-be-a-bother maternal manner: "I think we were talking about Friday but don't worry if that doesn't work."
Right.
The fog that's been permeating through all of me - not just the creative and dynamic sides - of late is a bad case of early seasonal allergies with a healthy dose of dog hair exposure at Sunday's party.
It was so dire, I washed down Benadryl with the final sips of my champagne last night.
But I did wake up feeling good, so good it must have shown in my walk because it was one of those days when everyone smiled and had something to say to me.
Walking across the street in front of my apartment, I passed a guy who must have recognized me because his first question was how many miles I planned to walk today. He gave me a thumbs up when I said six. "There's nothing old about you, there's nothing young about you. You're just right!" he said, continuing down the street.
As the first person to speak to me today, he delivered the goods.
A woman with short white hair and manicured pink nails standing in front of St. Paul's smiled and pointed a pink finger at my shorts. "Seems kind of optimistic to me," she said about bare legs on a 60 degree day, clearly unaware I was already sweating from climbing to the Capital from the river.
Two men walking toward me on Broad Street, one cis-gendered and the other clad in blue spandex pants and a hot pink turban with a bow in the front, parted like the Red Sea, their arms extended for me to pass through.
"Love the hat, honey!" the turban said. "Work it!" Already am.
Work involved finishing a restaurant review and interviewing a curator before I got to check out the Historical Society's enormous new exhibition, "Toys of the '50s, '60s and '70s."
Using period living rooms to evoke the decades when the toys and games were popular, the sheer number of items included was enough to dredge up long-forgotten memories, while informative signs told you things about them that you'd never have known as a kid.
Probably because your parents wouldn't have wanted you to.
I don't know about you, but I had no idea that Twister had been reviled as a sex game when it came out. Seems that using human bodies as playing pieces was considered taboo in the mid-sixties.
Nor had I been aware that when Mr. Potato Head was originally released in the '50s, you had to supply your own potato for the head, which necessarily follows that imaginative tots could have fashioned a Mr. Onion Head or Mr. Eggplant Head, assuming an Eisenhower-era Mom would have allowed such a thing.
There was crazy stuff like Alka-Seltzer-fueled rockets with fail safes for kids who couldn't resist using extra tablets. A '70s-era environmental test kit with tests strips that clearly read, "Contains lead." A chemistry set with radio-active materials involved. Lawn darts called Jarts which were eventually recalled when one pierced a little girl's skull and killed her.
And don't get me started on Baby Brother Tender Love from the '70s, the first anatomically correct baby doll. On the progressive side, it was available in a Black as well as Caucasian version, although there was no word on whether the anatomy size changed with the skin color.
I'm here to tell you it wasn't all sweetness and light at the toy exhibit, but it was a lot of fun.
Each of the period living rooms had a TV and with a push of a button, toy commercials from that era would play, providing a glimpse of cringe-worthy mid-century advertising targeted at America's gullible youth.
With less of an expectation of others right now, a last-minute invitation to a friend's house for wine and conversation provided just the right way to wile away an unplanned evening since he wasn't admitting to expecting anything of me, either.
Which is not to say, all things considered, that a game of Twister wouldn't have been a whole lot of fun. After all, I read somewhere that it was a day for feeling good.
Wednesday, February 22, 2017
Go On, I Dare You
Do I chase the night or does the night chase me?
On a night when I meet a friend at Laura Lee's - a mere 48 hours after the Elbys - staff and a few customers are still talking about their hangovers the day before. Some would say that's the sign of a good party.
While we necessarily spend some time covering the Elbys and aftermath, our primary purpose is a tad more self-involved since we haven't talked in a couple of weeks. Every friendship has its own frequency level and figuring out where that is provides part of the pleasure of making new acquaintances.
With a mix unexpectedly heavy on Fleetwood Mac, we devour mussels and sausage, salads and Syrah as parents with a screaming child try to eat in the dining room and cyclists arrive with lights so bright a bar sitter signals them to make it stop.
It all feels very southside neighborly.
And, for us, friendly. Tales are swapped about out-of-town excursions, costuming assistance is requested and the handsomest beard in the room and I delve deep into why everyone should see "Moonlight," which he watched while in full blown hangover mode.
But the best conversations come later - melody or lyrics, which reigns supreme? - over wine and set to a dash of the Grateful Dead by way of the National to start things off, and then followed by the Decemberists and St. Paul and the Broken Bones.
What better soundtrack to consider the elephant in the room and whether it's a Sri Lankan or Borneo variety? Inquiring minds want to know.
There is nothing better than a friend, except a friend who tells you what they're thinking. Way up in the sky, I can see that you want to.
Never underestimate the value of a well-placed lyric.
Let's just say I rarely have any problem sharing what's on my mind and leave it at that.
On a night when I meet a friend at Laura Lee's - a mere 48 hours after the Elbys - staff and a few customers are still talking about their hangovers the day before. Some would say that's the sign of a good party.
While we necessarily spend some time covering the Elbys and aftermath, our primary purpose is a tad more self-involved since we haven't talked in a couple of weeks. Every friendship has its own frequency level and figuring out where that is provides part of the pleasure of making new acquaintances.
With a mix unexpectedly heavy on Fleetwood Mac, we devour mussels and sausage, salads and Syrah as parents with a screaming child try to eat in the dining room and cyclists arrive with lights so bright a bar sitter signals them to make it stop.
It all feels very southside neighborly.
And, for us, friendly. Tales are swapped about out-of-town excursions, costuming assistance is requested and the handsomest beard in the room and I delve deep into why everyone should see "Moonlight," which he watched while in full blown hangover mode.
But the best conversations come later - melody or lyrics, which reigns supreme? - over wine and set to a dash of the Grateful Dead by way of the National to start things off, and then followed by the Decemberists and St. Paul and the Broken Bones.
What better soundtrack to consider the elephant in the room and whether it's a Sri Lankan or Borneo variety? Inquiring minds want to know.
There is nothing better than a friend, except a friend who tells you what they're thinking. Way up in the sky, I can see that you want to.
Never underestimate the value of a well-placed lyric.
Let's just say I rarely have any problem sharing what's on my mind and leave it at that.
Wednesday, July 13, 2016
I'd Rather Leave When I'm in Love
After being away so much the past few weeks, it was time to buckle down and we know what that means.
Massive intakes of food and theater.
My partner in crime was the lovely Mac, who'd cheated on me while I was away by walking with a 5'9" co-worker who complained about her fast pace.
Eager to be clear, Mac explained that she and I usually go even faster on our walks. "You must be running," her co-worker presumed. Nope, despite my diminutive 5'5" and Mac's even shorter stature, that's just our pace.
Keep up if you can.
Once we'd done the plenty tasty work of my hired mouth, we directed our attention to Richmond Triangle Players' production of "The Boy from Oz," a musical about Australian songwriter and performer (not to mention Oscar winner for the theme from "Arthur"), Peter Allen.
I won't claim to have known lots about the man beyond him being a songwriter ("I Honestly Love You," "I Go to Rio") and Liza Minnelli's first husband, but, please, doesn't that alone qualify him for dissection under the musical theater microscope?
Richmond Triangle Players has brilliantly cast Chris Hester as Allen, thus ensuring the audience will be dazzled by his myriad skill sets from a spot-on Australian accent to effortless-looking and impressive singing and dancing chops.
Looking fine in a t-shirt doesn't hurt, either, as any man or woman in the audience could have attested.
His performance alone could have carried the show, but the uncanny likeness of Grey Garrett as a '60s Judy Garland and Anna Grey Hogan as a budding "Liza with a Z" - both in looks, movement and singing - ensured that a play many of us had never heard of would be completely memorable.
Personally, I'm partial to plays where characters sing an ode to my people, the snappy "Only an Older Woman," in this case, acknowledging the wealth of life experience Judy can bring to up and coming performers.
You need an older woman to teach you
One who is barely reaching her prime
Who thinks you're fun, not someone to preach to
What do you say? Let's have a good time
Cause with an older woman
Nothing you do is a crime
Almost as good were costumes that evoked Garland's '60s style, Liza's budding "look" and Allen's trademark flashiness (think Hawaiian shirts and shiny silver loafers), but I'd also credit the fabulous falls the women in the ensemble wore (so very mod London-era) for nailing the little details.
Not only did we both have nothing but raves for the play afterwards (duh, the play's run wasn't extended for nothing), it also had had the best possible effect on us. Now we're both dying to read a biography of Peter Allen's oh-so interesting life, followed by a Liza bio so we can see where the stories overlap.
Mac even wants to read Garland's story, but I've read a couple versions so I already know it's pretty tragic.
But isn't that what well-executed theater does to its audience? Entertains but also engages to the point of informing, maybe even inspiring some post-show learning?
You know, like in school, except with glitter and jazz hands and no pesky grades at the end.
And even if there were, older women grade on a curve.
Only one who's been round the block
Can give you the ride that you need...
Massive intakes of food and theater.
My partner in crime was the lovely Mac, who'd cheated on me while I was away by walking with a 5'9" co-worker who complained about her fast pace.
Eager to be clear, Mac explained that she and I usually go even faster on our walks. "You must be running," her co-worker presumed. Nope, despite my diminutive 5'5" and Mac's even shorter stature, that's just our pace.
Keep up if you can.
Once we'd done the plenty tasty work of my hired mouth, we directed our attention to Richmond Triangle Players' production of "The Boy from Oz," a musical about Australian songwriter and performer (not to mention Oscar winner for the theme from "Arthur"), Peter Allen.
I won't claim to have known lots about the man beyond him being a songwriter ("I Honestly Love You," "I Go to Rio") and Liza Minnelli's first husband, but, please, doesn't that alone qualify him for dissection under the musical theater microscope?
Richmond Triangle Players has brilliantly cast Chris Hester as Allen, thus ensuring the audience will be dazzled by his myriad skill sets from a spot-on Australian accent to effortless-looking and impressive singing and dancing chops.
Looking fine in a t-shirt doesn't hurt, either, as any man or woman in the audience could have attested.
His performance alone could have carried the show, but the uncanny likeness of Grey Garrett as a '60s Judy Garland and Anna Grey Hogan as a budding "Liza with a Z" - both in looks, movement and singing - ensured that a play many of us had never heard of would be completely memorable.
Personally, I'm partial to plays where characters sing an ode to my people, the snappy "Only an Older Woman," in this case, acknowledging the wealth of life experience Judy can bring to up and coming performers.
You need an older woman to teach you
One who is barely reaching her prime
Who thinks you're fun, not someone to preach to
What do you say? Let's have a good time
Cause with an older woman
Nothing you do is a crime
Almost as good were costumes that evoked Garland's '60s style, Liza's budding "look" and Allen's trademark flashiness (think Hawaiian shirts and shiny silver loafers), but I'd also credit the fabulous falls the women in the ensemble wore (so very mod London-era) for nailing the little details.
Not only did we both have nothing but raves for the play afterwards (duh, the play's run wasn't extended for nothing), it also had had the best possible effect on us. Now we're both dying to read a biography of Peter Allen's oh-so interesting life, followed by a Liza bio so we can see where the stories overlap.
Mac even wants to read Garland's story, but I've read a couple versions so I already know it's pretty tragic.
But isn't that what well-executed theater does to its audience? Entertains but also engages to the point of informing, maybe even inspiring some post-show learning?
You know, like in school, except with glitter and jazz hands and no pesky grades at the end.
And even if there were, older women grade on a curve.
Only one who's been round the block
Can give you the ride that you need...
Tuesday, June 7, 2016
The Circle is Unbroken
A woman needs situational friends, the kind whom you only see on specific occasions, say a Banner Lecture at the Virginia Historical Society.
I have sat next to the same older woman with twinkling eyes on at least half a dozen occasions and we always find so much to talk about, whether our respective neighborhoods, her years volunteering at the VMFA or changing women's roles.
For today's "Rightful Heritage: FDR and the Land of America" lecture, which had attracted me for its focus on the Civilian Conservation Corps' monumental effort to build national parks, parkways and nature refuges, she had a sentimental reason for coming.
"I remember Franklin Roosevelt being President," she said of the man who, as we were soon to learn, was as avid a conservationist as his fifth cousin, ex-President "Uncle Teddy," espousing the progressive philosophy, "Conservation is the basis for permanent peace" and envisioning national parks as dispensers of our heritage.
Pretty rad for the time.
Most surprising fact gleaned from Douglas Brinkley's effortlessly delivered lecture: FDR ran a tree plantation and whenever required to fill out his occupation on a form, always wrote "tree farmer." Pretty far-removed from his image of Hyde Park, cigarette holders and a monocle, eh?
A woman needs gay friends because who else would write something such as, "I saw you on Sunday at the food event on Broad Street with your "baby doll" dress on, but I was too far away to yell so I thought I'd do it here."
Nope, never comes out of the mouth of a straight man (because they would have no clue what a baby doll style dress is), so it's flattering to know someone notices, even from a distance.
A woman needs married friends because they're so accommodating, if not always as well-trained as one might expect.
We used to meet up regularly with the blessing of his wife (a far less adventurous eater), at least until he took a three-year position that resulted in a daily work schedule and our get-togethers petered out. When I bumped into him at a booze panel last winter, he set the ball in motion by instructing me to call him.
It only took half a year to make it happen tonight at Castanea, a place he'd never been. Naturally, he began by detailing his parking difficulties and concerns with the neighborhood, as he is inclined to do being a white suburbanite out of his comfort zone, although for food, he'll venture most anywhere.
Recently that had been Mama J's Kitchen where he and his wife had been made to feel like regulars, had enjoyed a terrific dinner of soul food ("those greens...that cake!") and generally fallen for the irresistible combo of good food, welcoming atmosphere and agreeable prices (albeit where they were the only white people, which, we agreed, is exactly the situation more white people need to place themselves in).
A Southside resident and regular at Southbound's bar ("It's so close!") he regaled me with tales of the wonder that is the new Wegman's, having joined the 24,000 other people who'd visited it on opening day, although he'd purposely ignored the carts and only looked.
The rest of the story is that they've been back three times since, spent lots of money and the two of them are besotted with the place. He went so far as to suggest that Whole Foods and Fresh Market just go ahead and close up shop since they're now superfluous.
"They've got mushrooms I've only seen on television!" he said with obvious fungus lust.
Much of his praise was for the seafood section and the impressive whole fish displays from which fillets are cut on demand and myriad oysters for roasting abound, but he was also drooling about the cured meat and cheese offerings, which so tempted them that he said they made dinner of bread, meat and cheese three times last week.
"You'll have to go check it out," he tells me. Will I really? Having an embarrassment of fresh produce is really only meaningful if the market's in your neighborhood and south of the river, west of Huguenot is nothing close to mine.
Since we'd last gotten together, he'd become a devotee of sour beers and a decision maker at work, resulting in his insistence that I pick and choose what we'd eat tonight. For me, being bossy is like breathing, so when I'm actually asked to call the shots, I don't even pretend to demur.
After choosing monkfish, a mezze of sauteed zucchini and a smoked pancetta pizza, we settled back with a bowl of olives which led to a discussion of the Olivator, a tool for inserting bleu cheese (or, I suppose, anything sort of soft) into an olive. I'm not kidding, the subject got him so worked up that he pulled out his phone to show me the single-function device, which, it seemed to me, operated pretty much identically to a syringe.
Not a good visual, I know.
"Let's check the 'don'ts,'" he insisted, confusing me at first. "Still no cell phone? No TV? No air conditioning?" No, no and I've always had central air, I just choose not to use it.
He admitted he could only give me so much crap about my lack of phone because his wife still has a flip phone and can't text. "And I'm not allowed to bring it out for any reason when we're out. It has to stay in my pocket, no matter how badly I need to check something."
First, brilliant woman. Second, how civilized. Can we make this official policy?
The first dish out was the monkfish with Victory Farm pac choi sauteed with hot pepper and a salty tapendae on the side, a strong start because the pac choi was every bit as stellar as the rich fish. A huge party at a nearby table must have slowed down receipt of our next course, so I casually mentioned to our overwhelmed barkeep that I was hoping the pizza showed up soon and it did.
As delicious as it was tardy, the pizza hit the spot nicely.
The zucchini, however, never found its way to us, so we punted by ordering double chocolate gelato, declining an offer from a nearby writer who's leaving Richmond (at least for the time being, since they always come back) to buy us drinks and then by offering her our last two slices of pizza, for which she was giddily grateful and promised to stalk me on Facebook so she could buy me that drink another time.
A woman may not need a stranger owing her a drink, but it's not necessarily a bad thing, either.
I have sat next to the same older woman with twinkling eyes on at least half a dozen occasions and we always find so much to talk about, whether our respective neighborhoods, her years volunteering at the VMFA or changing women's roles.
For today's "Rightful Heritage: FDR and the Land of America" lecture, which had attracted me for its focus on the Civilian Conservation Corps' monumental effort to build national parks, parkways and nature refuges, she had a sentimental reason for coming.
"I remember Franklin Roosevelt being President," she said of the man who, as we were soon to learn, was as avid a conservationist as his fifth cousin, ex-President "Uncle Teddy," espousing the progressive philosophy, "Conservation is the basis for permanent peace" and envisioning national parks as dispensers of our heritage.
Pretty rad for the time.
Most surprising fact gleaned from Douglas Brinkley's effortlessly delivered lecture: FDR ran a tree plantation and whenever required to fill out his occupation on a form, always wrote "tree farmer." Pretty far-removed from his image of Hyde Park, cigarette holders and a monocle, eh?
A woman needs gay friends because who else would write something such as, "I saw you on Sunday at the food event on Broad Street with your "baby doll" dress on, but I was too far away to yell so I thought I'd do it here."
Nope, never comes out of the mouth of a straight man (because they would have no clue what a baby doll style dress is), so it's flattering to know someone notices, even from a distance.
A woman needs married friends because they're so accommodating, if not always as well-trained as one might expect.
We used to meet up regularly with the blessing of his wife (a far less adventurous eater), at least until he took a three-year position that resulted in a daily work schedule and our get-togethers petered out. When I bumped into him at a booze panel last winter, he set the ball in motion by instructing me to call him.
It only took half a year to make it happen tonight at Castanea, a place he'd never been. Naturally, he began by detailing his parking difficulties and concerns with the neighborhood, as he is inclined to do being a white suburbanite out of his comfort zone, although for food, he'll venture most anywhere.
Recently that had been Mama J's Kitchen where he and his wife had been made to feel like regulars, had enjoyed a terrific dinner of soul food ("those greens...that cake!") and generally fallen for the irresistible combo of good food, welcoming atmosphere and agreeable prices (albeit where they were the only white people, which, we agreed, is exactly the situation more white people need to place themselves in).
A Southside resident and regular at Southbound's bar ("It's so close!") he regaled me with tales of the wonder that is the new Wegman's, having joined the 24,000 other people who'd visited it on opening day, although he'd purposely ignored the carts and only looked.
The rest of the story is that they've been back three times since, spent lots of money and the two of them are besotted with the place. He went so far as to suggest that Whole Foods and Fresh Market just go ahead and close up shop since they're now superfluous.
"They've got mushrooms I've only seen on television!" he said with obvious fungus lust.
Much of his praise was for the seafood section and the impressive whole fish displays from which fillets are cut on demand and myriad oysters for roasting abound, but he was also drooling about the cured meat and cheese offerings, which so tempted them that he said they made dinner of bread, meat and cheese three times last week.
"You'll have to go check it out," he tells me. Will I really? Having an embarrassment of fresh produce is really only meaningful if the market's in your neighborhood and south of the river, west of Huguenot is nothing close to mine.
Since we'd last gotten together, he'd become a devotee of sour beers and a decision maker at work, resulting in his insistence that I pick and choose what we'd eat tonight. For me, being bossy is like breathing, so when I'm actually asked to call the shots, I don't even pretend to demur.
After choosing monkfish, a mezze of sauteed zucchini and a smoked pancetta pizza, we settled back with a bowl of olives which led to a discussion of the Olivator, a tool for inserting bleu cheese (or, I suppose, anything sort of soft) into an olive. I'm not kidding, the subject got him so worked up that he pulled out his phone to show me the single-function device, which, it seemed to me, operated pretty much identically to a syringe.
Not a good visual, I know.
"Let's check the 'don'ts,'" he insisted, confusing me at first. "Still no cell phone? No TV? No air conditioning?" No, no and I've always had central air, I just choose not to use it.
He admitted he could only give me so much crap about my lack of phone because his wife still has a flip phone and can't text. "And I'm not allowed to bring it out for any reason when we're out. It has to stay in my pocket, no matter how badly I need to check something."
First, brilliant woman. Second, how civilized. Can we make this official policy?
The first dish out was the monkfish with Victory Farm pac choi sauteed with hot pepper and a salty tapendae on the side, a strong start because the pac choi was every bit as stellar as the rich fish. A huge party at a nearby table must have slowed down receipt of our next course, so I casually mentioned to our overwhelmed barkeep that I was hoping the pizza showed up soon and it did.
As delicious as it was tardy, the pizza hit the spot nicely.
The zucchini, however, never found its way to us, so we punted by ordering double chocolate gelato, declining an offer from a nearby writer who's leaving Richmond (at least for the time being, since they always come back) to buy us drinks and then by offering her our last two slices of pizza, for which she was giddily grateful and promised to stalk me on Facebook so she could buy me that drink another time.
A woman may not need a stranger owing her a drink, but it's not necessarily a bad thing, either.
Monday, February 15, 2016
All Eyes on Cool Beans
Valentine's Day in the rear view mirror (with apologies for my tardiness):
It was a bittersweet walk to Dixie Donuts for their last day but since theirs are my favorite Richmond doughnuts by far, it was non-negotiable.
The cases looked a little depleted, but right in the center was a tray of pink and white Valentine's doughnuts with conversation heart wisdom written on them in icing - "Will you be mine?" and "XXOO" - so I ordered one sporting "You are cool beans" and looked in vain for my fave.
About to settle for something else, I lucked out with my timing and a tray of chocolate chocolate doughnuts came out moments later, the chocolate icing still dripping off them. I ate it standing up at the window looking out on Carytown.
The owner made sure her staff knew that I'd walked all the way over from Jackson Ward - a 5 1/2 mile round trip - and they acted impressed, but what's a little walk for a fresh, oozing doughnut?
Walking back past the Lowe's on Broad Street, a man stopped me to ask why the flags were at half-mast. Clicking my brain into gear - or maybe just smacking it out of its sugar rush - I explained that a Supreme Court Justice had died yesterday and refrained from sharing my opinion of the deceased.
Probably too soon, but I already have a favorite death joke: Antonin Scalia requested cremation in his will, but millions of women will meet tomorrow to discuss if that's really best for his body.
Sorry, it made me laugh.
My favorite Valentine came in the mail from Holmes and Beloved. Addressed "To Karen aka "ff" (Holmes refers to me as Femme Fatale), it read, "You're a charmer, Valentine" and was surrounded by figures from "Toy Story."
It wouldn't be Valentine's Day without Holmes' annual miniature missive reminding me of the February swaps back in elementary school. And unlike back then, no one told him he had to give me one.
Mid-afternoon, I called a friend to see what he was doing and while he claimed to be "chilling," he sounded a little down, so I insisted he come pick me up for lunch and some chatter.
We wound up having a blast, meeting a group of 20 or so strangers who'd driven up from Virginia Beach for a group lunch and welcomed us into their party, for which we became the official photographers.
Let's just say when he dropped me off, he was in a far sunnier mood than the one he'd arrived in, no surprise since he once told me, "You act just like a drug on my mood" and fortunately, he wasn't referring to heroin.
And because everyone wants her friends to think of her as some kind of drug.
Over the course of two restaurants - Camden's and Lucy's - I met two couples celebrating not just Valentine's Day but also their anniversary. The ones who'd been married 31 years were the cutest because he admitted without hesitation, "We like to be together all the time" while she nodded and smiled ear to ear.
Not sure I could do the "all the time" part, but I am in awe of long-time, still-happy couples (like my parents) and wonder what they had that I didn't. It's not just luck, is it?
The other couple had gotten married last year at Lucy's, so tonight's Valentine's dinner was particularly evocative of last year's festivities, albeit with more strangers than friends. They were adorable, too, dressed to impress (each other, no doubt), one in a red sweater and blue tie and the other in a blue sweater and red tie.
It began snowing while we were eating duck breast and goat cheese polenta at Lucy's and listening to the Lord Huron Pandora station which focused on earnest-sounding male songwriters. For my money, any station that works in St. Lucia's "All Eyes on You" on such a determinedly romantic day is fine by me.
Cause I hope
We will never have to take back
What we said in the night
I hope that I will always have
All eyes on you
Sounds romantic to me, but what do I know?
It was a bittersweet walk to Dixie Donuts for their last day but since theirs are my favorite Richmond doughnuts by far, it was non-negotiable.
The cases looked a little depleted, but right in the center was a tray of pink and white Valentine's doughnuts with conversation heart wisdom written on them in icing - "Will you be mine?" and "XXOO" - so I ordered one sporting "You are cool beans" and looked in vain for my fave.
About to settle for something else, I lucked out with my timing and a tray of chocolate chocolate doughnuts came out moments later, the chocolate icing still dripping off them. I ate it standing up at the window looking out on Carytown.
The owner made sure her staff knew that I'd walked all the way over from Jackson Ward - a 5 1/2 mile round trip - and they acted impressed, but what's a little walk for a fresh, oozing doughnut?
Walking back past the Lowe's on Broad Street, a man stopped me to ask why the flags were at half-mast. Clicking my brain into gear - or maybe just smacking it out of its sugar rush - I explained that a Supreme Court Justice had died yesterday and refrained from sharing my opinion of the deceased.
Probably too soon, but I already have a favorite death joke: Antonin Scalia requested cremation in his will, but millions of women will meet tomorrow to discuss if that's really best for his body.
Sorry, it made me laugh.
My favorite Valentine came in the mail from Holmes and Beloved. Addressed "To Karen aka "ff" (Holmes refers to me as Femme Fatale), it read, "You're a charmer, Valentine" and was surrounded by figures from "Toy Story."
It wouldn't be Valentine's Day without Holmes' annual miniature missive reminding me of the February swaps back in elementary school. And unlike back then, no one told him he had to give me one.
Mid-afternoon, I called a friend to see what he was doing and while he claimed to be "chilling," he sounded a little down, so I insisted he come pick me up for lunch and some chatter.
We wound up having a blast, meeting a group of 20 or so strangers who'd driven up from Virginia Beach for a group lunch and welcomed us into their party, for which we became the official photographers.
Let's just say when he dropped me off, he was in a far sunnier mood than the one he'd arrived in, no surprise since he once told me, "You act just like a drug on my mood" and fortunately, he wasn't referring to heroin.
And because everyone wants her friends to think of her as some kind of drug.
Over the course of two restaurants - Camden's and Lucy's - I met two couples celebrating not just Valentine's Day but also their anniversary. The ones who'd been married 31 years were the cutest because he admitted without hesitation, "We like to be together all the time" while she nodded and smiled ear to ear.
Not sure I could do the "all the time" part, but I am in awe of long-time, still-happy couples (like my parents) and wonder what they had that I didn't. It's not just luck, is it?
The other couple had gotten married last year at Lucy's, so tonight's Valentine's dinner was particularly evocative of last year's festivities, albeit with more strangers than friends. They were adorable, too, dressed to impress (each other, no doubt), one in a red sweater and blue tie and the other in a blue sweater and red tie.
It began snowing while we were eating duck breast and goat cheese polenta at Lucy's and listening to the Lord Huron Pandora station which focused on earnest-sounding male songwriters. For my money, any station that works in St. Lucia's "All Eyes on You" on such a determinedly romantic day is fine by me.
Cause I hope
We will never have to take back
What we said in the night
I hope that I will always have
All eyes on you
Sounds romantic to me, but what do I know?
Wednesday, July 22, 2015
Some Kind of Wonderful
All the criteria of a brief road trip were met.
We got started later than we intended to and brought duplicate supplies.
We took the new car - complete with smell - with its handy directional mirror (NE, SW), although we still managed to miss our exit, easily enough corrected with a detour, U-turn and only a slight swerve.
We used driving time to crack each other up sharing love stories from our pasts - the old, the young and the crazy. Most oft-repeated question: "What exactly was the attraction?"
We listened to local Top 40 radio, meaning Grand Funk Railroad, the Pointer Sisters and Tommy Tu-Tone. So yes, unbelievably, for the second time in four days, I heard "867-5309/Jenny," a fate I wouldn't wish on anyone but Tommy.
We discovered a mutual youthful fondness for Danskins, although, to be clear, I never lost mine to a rogue wave in Ocean City on my honeymoon. Come to think of it, I did wear one in Rehobeth Beach to see "Aliens" (one of the very few films I ever walked out on) and in Aruba to dance away the night in a club. Photographic proof of both these ensembles exists.
We discussed where we want our ashes scattered and how there's no such thing as "a bit of a rescue." You might as well say it's a bit of a pregnancy.
There was laughter pretty much start to finish, something not achievable with every travel date.
Driving back under an epic cloud and a shroud of humidity, we made mental notes about how we'll do our next road trip bigger, better, longer, most of which we're bound to forget before it happens, which is sooner rather than later.
Book it, Dano. This is the summer of reinvention.
We got started later than we intended to and brought duplicate supplies.
We took the new car - complete with smell - with its handy directional mirror (NE, SW), although we still managed to miss our exit, easily enough corrected with a detour, U-turn and only a slight swerve.
We used driving time to crack each other up sharing love stories from our pasts - the old, the young and the crazy. Most oft-repeated question: "What exactly was the attraction?"
We listened to local Top 40 radio, meaning Grand Funk Railroad, the Pointer Sisters and Tommy Tu-Tone. So yes, unbelievably, for the second time in four days, I heard "867-5309/Jenny," a fate I wouldn't wish on anyone but Tommy.
We discovered a mutual youthful fondness for Danskins, although, to be clear, I never lost mine to a rogue wave in Ocean City on my honeymoon. Come to think of it, I did wear one in Rehobeth Beach to see "Aliens" (one of the very few films I ever walked out on) and in Aruba to dance away the night in a club. Photographic proof of both these ensembles exists.
We discussed where we want our ashes scattered and how there's no such thing as "a bit of a rescue." You might as well say it's a bit of a pregnancy.
There was laughter pretty much start to finish, something not achievable with every travel date.
Driving back under an epic cloud and a shroud of humidity, we made mental notes about how we'll do our next road trip bigger, better, longer, most of which we're bound to forget before it happens, which is sooner rather than later.
Book it, Dano. This is the summer of reinvention.
Sunday, June 21, 2015
Jive Talkin'
Maybe it's the looming splendor of tomorrow's summer solstice, but I've been extraordinarily popular with my subjects lately.
Obviously since I'm not a blue blood royal with loyal subjects, I'm talking about people I've interviewed. For the second time in three weeks, I was invited to dinner by someone who'd earned me money by answering my questions. I'm sensing a pattern here.
On the outside chance you have no special plans this evening, please come and help me eat some fresh oysters tonight. I shuck. I am a big shucker, but not much of a jiver. Dress in something you don't mind getting shucky in. No beer for you!
If you come at say 5:30, we can kayak on the river until the sun begins to set. If you're not much for kayaking, come at 7. I will likely be coming back in from the river then. Then oysters and fire pit!
It's been a few years since I've been kayaking, but I'd have been game to try it again except I had too much to do to make it anywhere by 5:30. The beer comment was his way of letting me know he remembered that I don't drink beer, so there'd be other sippers available for me.
All in all, it was a timely invitation since I had zero plans tonight (not that I wouldn't have found something to do) and no better offer than to eat oysters, even if it was south of the river.
Although I'm far from an attire expert, my guess was that clothing suited to getting shucky in was similar to clothing to pick crabs in (wash and wear, in other words) and I've got crab options.
My Saturday night was laid out for me.
Clouds gathering and directions in hand, I headed across the river on the Huguenot Bridge (the wide new bridge not half as charming as the smaller, old one), listening to a blues version of an old song on the radio.
I hate it when she goes
but I love to see her walk away
Despite my lack of county knowledge, the house was easy to find so I arrived right on time but it was immediately obvious he wasn't home yet. Some host. I stationed myself on the wide front porch in a rocking chair and propped my feet up.
There were tall, old trees all around the house so the view was limited but I could hear the sounds of traffic on nearby roads and once, the sound of kids laughing. I don't think county kids actually play outside, so maybe they were on their way to or from the car.
Eventually my host arrived, all apologies, and began carting boxes and coolers from his truck to the deck and kitchen. As a guest, my only job was moving from the front porch to the back deck and talking to him as he passed by. I then got the nickel tour of the yard, particularly impressed with his miniature orchard of six trees: persimmon, plum, three types of apples and a cherry tree on which five kinds of cherries had been grafted on to one root stock.
Shrugging, he said, "I don't know why they did that, but the picture of it looked pretty cool." And there's the reason why they did it.
We chatted on the deck for a bit as he watered various herbs and recent plantings, everything faltering in the glare of the recent heat. He looked pretty sweaty himself and excused himself to go shower while I got comfortable on the deck.
No question it was hot out there, but all of a sudden it was sauna-like and I felt myself break out in an immediate sweat. Just as quickly, the humidity fell and the temperature dropped 15 degrees. Within three seconds, raindrops fell.
I moved so fast into the house I barely got wet, a miracle considering how it went from 0 to 60 in mere moments. The door I'd taken refuge in led to a sun porch with windows making up three entire walls. Color me thrilled because it was a fabulous place to watch the storm from although with no air flow, a tad stifling.
Absent the showering homeowner, I took charge of the situation by beginning to open the windows and sliding glass doors that made up three walls. Soon cooler air was wafting in as it continued to downpour outside.
I pulled a chair over to an especially breezy spot, admiring how different the backyard now looked, all the trunks stained dark with rain and the leaves a much darker green shade. The entire effect of the landscape was far more closed in than it had been before.
When he did join me, he wasn't any too pleased to see what the storm had wrought. Two event tents in his backyard had been blown over, their metal supports bent in the process ("That's gonna cost me"). Chairs were scattered upside down and small pots had blown over.
But with rain still coming down like crazy, all he could do was hurry out to the deck to fetch the enormous cooler of oysters left out there before the storm, returning from eight feet away with his shirt half soaked.
Even so, like a good host, he sliced lemons, made mignonette and poured French Sauvignon Blanc before he began the work of shucking (gloveless, I might add, which I consider foolish for a non-pro shucker) as promised.
There were two types of oysters, one from Connecticut and the other from Chincoteague, but all were wild, not farmed so much bigger than standard farm-raised oysters. Connecticut's were mildly briny while the Virginia were like a mouthful of ocean, so my favorite of the two.
He asked if I'd written a book yet and if I had a plan for what it would be about (no and yes). He's an inveterate traveler, so he had to know about any travels I'd done that he hadn't heard about. After sharing one of my better stories from Italy, his response was laughter. "That story has to go in the book!"
Rain continued to fall outside all the open windows as he brought out leftover crabs to accompany the oysters. Since I'd already downed over a dozen bivalves ("I just wanted to make sure you could hang"), I happily moved on to my favorite crustacean while he kept eating oysters.
That's when I got a front row seat to see what someone looks like when they eat a completely rotten oyster. I saw him slurp it, but then his eyes bugged out, his skin colored and the lock of revulsion on his face made him bolt from the table making a "gack" sound that seemed to indicate bad news.
Shortly back with a large bottle of Sauza Tequila, he took a long, hard pull on the bottle and settled back in with me to eat. I give him credit, he didn't let one rancid oyster stop him from shucking and eating. He could hang, too, it seemed. He assured me he'd be fine tonight because if the oyster was going to kill him, that would probably happen tomorrow.
When I asked if I was going to have to provide any answers to the authorities tomorrow, he seemed to think I would. I determined to pay more attention to what was going on.
After I turned the tables and asked about his travel plans, he told me about an upcoming trip to Costa Rica, one week in the jungle and one week on the coast. We agreed that the coast week would be the more relaxing one since the jungle adventure involves zip lines and ATVs. Just send me to the coast for the whole two weeks, thanks.
Once the rain stopped, it was clear there'd be no fire pit tonight, so we moved back out to the deck where the sound of rain had been replaced by the sound of trees dripping all around us, but not on us.
When I thanked him profusely for the invitation to eat oysters, he shrugged it off, saying that the oysters were leftovers from a party he'd just had (hence the event tents). So I'd been used to help him finish off his leftovers, his soon-to-be garbage, nothing more.
"Yes, but you were my first choice to help me finish up my garbage," he insisted, making it sound more sincere than he had to.
All I can say is, I must do a hell of an interview.
Obviously since I'm not a blue blood royal with loyal subjects, I'm talking about people I've interviewed. For the second time in three weeks, I was invited to dinner by someone who'd earned me money by answering my questions. I'm sensing a pattern here.
On the outside chance you have no special plans this evening, please come and help me eat some fresh oysters tonight. I shuck. I am a big shucker, but not much of a jiver. Dress in something you don't mind getting shucky in. No beer for you!
If you come at say 5:30, we can kayak on the river until the sun begins to set. If you're not much for kayaking, come at 7. I will likely be coming back in from the river then. Then oysters and fire pit!
It's been a few years since I've been kayaking, but I'd have been game to try it again except I had too much to do to make it anywhere by 5:30. The beer comment was his way of letting me know he remembered that I don't drink beer, so there'd be other sippers available for me.
All in all, it was a timely invitation since I had zero plans tonight (not that I wouldn't have found something to do) and no better offer than to eat oysters, even if it was south of the river.
Although I'm far from an attire expert, my guess was that clothing suited to getting shucky in was similar to clothing to pick crabs in (wash and wear, in other words) and I've got crab options.
My Saturday night was laid out for me.
Clouds gathering and directions in hand, I headed across the river on the Huguenot Bridge (the wide new bridge not half as charming as the smaller, old one), listening to a blues version of an old song on the radio.
I hate it when she goes
but I love to see her walk away
Despite my lack of county knowledge, the house was easy to find so I arrived right on time but it was immediately obvious he wasn't home yet. Some host. I stationed myself on the wide front porch in a rocking chair and propped my feet up.
There were tall, old trees all around the house so the view was limited but I could hear the sounds of traffic on nearby roads and once, the sound of kids laughing. I don't think county kids actually play outside, so maybe they were on their way to or from the car.
Eventually my host arrived, all apologies, and began carting boxes and coolers from his truck to the deck and kitchen. As a guest, my only job was moving from the front porch to the back deck and talking to him as he passed by. I then got the nickel tour of the yard, particularly impressed with his miniature orchard of six trees: persimmon, plum, three types of apples and a cherry tree on which five kinds of cherries had been grafted on to one root stock.
Shrugging, he said, "I don't know why they did that, but the picture of it looked pretty cool." And there's the reason why they did it.
We chatted on the deck for a bit as he watered various herbs and recent plantings, everything faltering in the glare of the recent heat. He looked pretty sweaty himself and excused himself to go shower while I got comfortable on the deck.
No question it was hot out there, but all of a sudden it was sauna-like and I felt myself break out in an immediate sweat. Just as quickly, the humidity fell and the temperature dropped 15 degrees. Within three seconds, raindrops fell.
I moved so fast into the house I barely got wet, a miracle considering how it went from 0 to 60 in mere moments. The door I'd taken refuge in led to a sun porch with windows making up three entire walls. Color me thrilled because it was a fabulous place to watch the storm from although with no air flow, a tad stifling.
Absent the showering homeowner, I took charge of the situation by beginning to open the windows and sliding glass doors that made up three walls. Soon cooler air was wafting in as it continued to downpour outside.
I pulled a chair over to an especially breezy spot, admiring how different the backyard now looked, all the trunks stained dark with rain and the leaves a much darker green shade. The entire effect of the landscape was far more closed in than it had been before.
When he did join me, he wasn't any too pleased to see what the storm had wrought. Two event tents in his backyard had been blown over, their metal supports bent in the process ("That's gonna cost me"). Chairs were scattered upside down and small pots had blown over.
But with rain still coming down like crazy, all he could do was hurry out to the deck to fetch the enormous cooler of oysters left out there before the storm, returning from eight feet away with his shirt half soaked.
Even so, like a good host, he sliced lemons, made mignonette and poured French Sauvignon Blanc before he began the work of shucking (gloveless, I might add, which I consider foolish for a non-pro shucker) as promised.
There were two types of oysters, one from Connecticut and the other from Chincoteague, but all were wild, not farmed so much bigger than standard farm-raised oysters. Connecticut's were mildly briny while the Virginia were like a mouthful of ocean, so my favorite of the two.
He asked if I'd written a book yet and if I had a plan for what it would be about (no and yes). He's an inveterate traveler, so he had to know about any travels I'd done that he hadn't heard about. After sharing one of my better stories from Italy, his response was laughter. "That story has to go in the book!"
Rain continued to fall outside all the open windows as he brought out leftover crabs to accompany the oysters. Since I'd already downed over a dozen bivalves ("I just wanted to make sure you could hang"), I happily moved on to my favorite crustacean while he kept eating oysters.
That's when I got a front row seat to see what someone looks like when they eat a completely rotten oyster. I saw him slurp it, but then his eyes bugged out, his skin colored and the lock of revulsion on his face made him bolt from the table making a "gack" sound that seemed to indicate bad news.
Shortly back with a large bottle of Sauza Tequila, he took a long, hard pull on the bottle and settled back in with me to eat. I give him credit, he didn't let one rancid oyster stop him from shucking and eating. He could hang, too, it seemed. He assured me he'd be fine tonight because if the oyster was going to kill him, that would probably happen tomorrow.
When I asked if I was going to have to provide any answers to the authorities tomorrow, he seemed to think I would. I determined to pay more attention to what was going on.
After I turned the tables and asked about his travel plans, he told me about an upcoming trip to Costa Rica, one week in the jungle and one week on the coast. We agreed that the coast week would be the more relaxing one since the jungle adventure involves zip lines and ATVs. Just send me to the coast for the whole two weeks, thanks.
Once the rain stopped, it was clear there'd be no fire pit tonight, so we moved back out to the deck where the sound of rain had been replaced by the sound of trees dripping all around us, but not on us.
When I thanked him profusely for the invitation to eat oysters, he shrugged it off, saying that the oysters were leftovers from a party he'd just had (hence the event tents). So I'd been used to help him finish off his leftovers, his soon-to-be garbage, nothing more.
"Yes, but you were my first choice to help me finish up my garbage," he insisted, making it sound more sincere than he had to.
All I can say is, I must do a hell of an interview.
Tuesday, May 26, 2015
Heart Strings
The only luthier I know suggested we have dinner next time I was out seeing my parents,
We'd met when I'd written a piece about him a year or so ago and enjoyed some lively conversation over lunch at the Corner. When he e-mailed with the offer, it was easy to arrange since I already had plans to go to the Northern Neck.
Even better when he suggested Merroir and I agreed quickly and enthusiastically. Driving out to Topping, I passed a car with the bumper sticker, "Peace. Love. Oysters." Right on.
Couldn't have asked for a more ideal day to spend at the river, breezy under a Crayola-blue sky. I scored a table in the shade not long before the luthier arrived to join me, his shirt as pretty a blue as the water and sky.
It was an interesting dynamic because although I knew some very specific things - why he'd first become a musician, how he'd gotten started fixing and eventually crafting guitars- from interviewing him, I didn't really know him.
Fortunately, our server was easygoing and tolerant of delays in making decisions, eventually delivering Raza Vinho Verde and Old Salt oysters while he told me about the growth of fiberglass guitar bodies.
It was some time after we placed our order that he let slip that he'd had an eruption of a year since I'd seen him last, with his marriage of multiple decades unexpectedly ending.
Over grilled Cesar, skate wing piccata with capers and lemon (which he was sure he wouldn't like and loved) and scallops, we talked about what his life had been like for the past year. He admitted that a big part of what he'd done was grieve for the loss of a long-time relationship.
He'd also moved to a one-bedroom cottage on the Carotoman River, a place with a deck where he spots deer, reads and relaxes by the river.
After a concerted effort to pick himself up, dust himself off and start all over again, he was feeling pretty good about life now. He'd even begun doing some dating, an impressive feat given that he hadn't dated since he was 20 (!) but it didn't take him long to notce that a lot about dating has changed.
He regaled me with stories about how bold some women have been, how eage to share their phone number. I patiently explained to him that there's a dearth of middle-aged men worth dating. He's finding out that his stock is worth far more than it was last time he was on the dating scene. Sadly, he's already convinced that half the women only show their crazy side after months of seemingly normal behavior.
His best stories were about all the advice he's been given about life after divorce. Several women have insisted he have as much (protected) sex as he possibly can to make up for only having had two women in his entire life. He's been instructed to do a lot of dating.
But we didn't just talk about his upheaval. He had discovered my blog, saying it made him laugh, and was curious if I had plans to write a book and, if so, fiction or non-fiction? He told me about trading his beloved aqua blue '72 MGB for the sailboat he now owns, which led to an explanation about what he likes about sailing. As a former MGBGT owner, though, I could tell he still missed that car.
Turns out his birthday was the week before mine so I heard about his celebration. I told him I was counting tonight as still part of mine since I'd been on a roll the last four nights and he agreed to be part of it.
Being the gentlemanly type, he couldn't resist clarifying that he hadn't asked me to dinner for ulterior motives, but more because he was making an effort to reconnect and establish some friendships now that he's in a new place in his life.
For the second time in a week, I talked to a someone about a decided left turn in direction that their lives were taking and the endless possibilities that offered. How, now that he's acknowledged to himself that he wasn't very happy with how his life was before, he can craft whatever sort of path he chooses.
He's tentatively started down that path by dating. So far, he's been most impressed with a woman 12 years younger who is completely different than him. Says he relishes being with someone who surprises him. I like the sound of that.
My best surprise came as I passed the outdoor kitchen and Chef Pete called out, "You are killin' that yellow summer dress, hon!" Happily married men give the best compliments.
I have to say that driving out there, I had no idea nor expectations about the evening beyond a second conversation with a man I'd met once. Being asked about some of my own choices and aspirations came as a bit of a surprise, albeit in a good way. When he nonchalantly asked if I'd ever get married again, it led to a whole, big discussion about the evolution of relationships. Not every guy's conversational cup of tea.
One thing I'd noticed immediately was that he'd lost weight and he admitted as much, emphasizing what a healthy eater he was now. Not so healthy that he didn't happily share a s'mores doughnut oozing marshmallow and chocolate with me, but apparently I'm the bad influence.
When it comes to desserts maybe, but not when it comes to life. Then I'm just a big cheerleader for anyone brave enough to create the life they want.
Go for it. If not now, when?
We'd met when I'd written a piece about him a year or so ago and enjoyed some lively conversation over lunch at the Corner. When he e-mailed with the offer, it was easy to arrange since I already had plans to go to the Northern Neck.
Even better when he suggested Merroir and I agreed quickly and enthusiastically. Driving out to Topping, I passed a car with the bumper sticker, "Peace. Love. Oysters." Right on.
Couldn't have asked for a more ideal day to spend at the river, breezy under a Crayola-blue sky. I scored a table in the shade not long before the luthier arrived to join me, his shirt as pretty a blue as the water and sky.
It was an interesting dynamic because although I knew some very specific things - why he'd first become a musician, how he'd gotten started fixing and eventually crafting guitars- from interviewing him, I didn't really know him.
Fortunately, our server was easygoing and tolerant of delays in making decisions, eventually delivering Raza Vinho Verde and Old Salt oysters while he told me about the growth of fiberglass guitar bodies.
It was some time after we placed our order that he let slip that he'd had an eruption of a year since I'd seen him last, with his marriage of multiple decades unexpectedly ending.
Over grilled Cesar, skate wing piccata with capers and lemon (which he was sure he wouldn't like and loved) and scallops, we talked about what his life had been like for the past year. He admitted that a big part of what he'd done was grieve for the loss of a long-time relationship.
He'd also moved to a one-bedroom cottage on the Carotoman River, a place with a deck where he spots deer, reads and relaxes by the river.
After a concerted effort to pick himself up, dust himself off and start all over again, he was feeling pretty good about life now. He'd even begun doing some dating, an impressive feat given that he hadn't dated since he was 20 (!) but it didn't take him long to notce that a lot about dating has changed.
He regaled me with stories about how bold some women have been, how eage to share their phone number. I patiently explained to him that there's a dearth of middle-aged men worth dating. He's finding out that his stock is worth far more than it was last time he was on the dating scene. Sadly, he's already convinced that half the women only show their crazy side after months of seemingly normal behavior.
His best stories were about all the advice he's been given about life after divorce. Several women have insisted he have as much (protected) sex as he possibly can to make up for only having had two women in his entire life. He's been instructed to do a lot of dating.
But we didn't just talk about his upheaval. He had discovered my blog, saying it made him laugh, and was curious if I had plans to write a book and, if so, fiction or non-fiction? He told me about trading his beloved aqua blue '72 MGB for the sailboat he now owns, which led to an explanation about what he likes about sailing. As a former MGBGT owner, though, I could tell he still missed that car.
Turns out his birthday was the week before mine so I heard about his celebration. I told him I was counting tonight as still part of mine since I'd been on a roll the last four nights and he agreed to be part of it.
Being the gentlemanly type, he couldn't resist clarifying that he hadn't asked me to dinner for ulterior motives, but more because he was making an effort to reconnect and establish some friendships now that he's in a new place in his life.
For the second time in a week, I talked to a someone about a decided left turn in direction that their lives were taking and the endless possibilities that offered. How, now that he's acknowledged to himself that he wasn't very happy with how his life was before, he can craft whatever sort of path he chooses.
He's tentatively started down that path by dating. So far, he's been most impressed with a woman 12 years younger who is completely different than him. Says he relishes being with someone who surprises him. I like the sound of that.
My best surprise came as I passed the outdoor kitchen and Chef Pete called out, "You are killin' that yellow summer dress, hon!" Happily married men give the best compliments.
I have to say that driving out there, I had no idea nor expectations about the evening beyond a second conversation with a man I'd met once. Being asked about some of my own choices and aspirations came as a bit of a surprise, albeit in a good way. When he nonchalantly asked if I'd ever get married again, it led to a whole, big discussion about the evolution of relationships. Not every guy's conversational cup of tea.
One thing I'd noticed immediately was that he'd lost weight and he admitted as much, emphasizing what a healthy eater he was now. Not so healthy that he didn't happily share a s'mores doughnut oozing marshmallow and chocolate with me, but apparently I'm the bad influence.
When it comes to desserts maybe, but not when it comes to life. Then I'm just a big cheerleader for anyone brave enough to create the life they want.
Go for it. If not now, when?
Thursday, August 28, 2014
Three for Three
Triple booked tonight and it was worth every bit of the to and fro-ing.
First was the cocktail party at a friend's house.
The occasion? Her Mom is visiting from Mexico in anticipation of the two of them flying to Bermuda, where she lived for 11 years, next week.
Nice trip if you can get it.
Actually, I've been to Bermuda and had a fabulous time, but that doesn't stop me from envying my friend her upcoming time there.
Her Mom was delightful and droll, never more so than when she observed her two-year old granddaughter in a tutu and a cropped Ramones t-shirt and deadpanned, "I bet she's never even heard the Ramones."
She shared a news-making story from her days as a curator, raved about her 14-year old seat mate on the plane ride and was wearing fabulous jewelry she made herself.
An interesting mom altogether.
After far too much Rose, cheese and figs and deviled eggs, I said my goodbyes to make stop number two, joining two girlfriends at Balliceaux.
Tonight was their first time experiencing Hand to Hand Haiku and by the time I got there, they'd already nabbed a front row table and had beers in front of them.
It was an unusually small crowd tonight but there were still plenty of combatants to follow host Raven Mack's opening monologue about the 1300 sonnets he's writing.
He was kind enough to read us two of them.
Then it was on to round one between Ryan, who characterized his haiku writing as stupid and John, who called his straight bullshit.
I've seen Ryan compete before so I already knew the constant in his haikus is the use of the word "dude."
Dude, this neighborhood
suffers from a serious lack
of Blue Oyster Cult
Like that. Except John won. Like Raven, he's got a terrific voice and an interesting look, so he's one of my favorites to watch compete, even when he doesn't win the match.
Round two brought Paul who referred to his haikus as "Appalachian filth" and the defending champion Amy, who called hers "written a few minutes ago."
I have to say, the room about lost it when Paul read this one.
New Volvo driving
old white ladies with butt plugs,
pucker lips, hate me
Later, he told me he was writing about the women he sees at Ellwood Thompson who always make a point to scowl at him.
Amy was no slacker either.
Home girl burnt her lip
on the joint's hot spot.
Blunt force trauma.
As one of my friends put it, "I didn't expect haikus to be so funny."
Oh, but they can be.
There's always a death match that pits host Raven against a worthy challenger and tonight's was Rebecca, who read a haiku called "Skin."
Our greatest asset
gives us the ability
to touch and be felt
Just as good and all too relevant for my friend was one of Raven's.
By day, mild mannered
state administrator.
By night, depressed.
Eventually, Rebecca ran out of haikus so they went to free-styling, making up haikus on the spot for the judges (of whom I happened to be one), a mighty impressive thing to witness.
Raven won again, taking the pink game cock (yep, you read that right) trophy back home with him for the umpteenth time, but the man can write haiku about masturbating with peppermint soap and how tingly it feels, so he truly is the master.
Usually the death match is the end of the evening, but tonight John and Amy returned to fight it out until John ran out of haikus and conceded.
Luckily, he's talented and tenacious, so he frequently comes back.
After the match ended, we sat and chatted for a while, planning our next date and trying to convince one of our friends to go see "Boyhood," a film two of us had loved.
Somehow, we got on the subject of people who don't pay attention to music and how foreign and unpleasant a world that would be for us.
We sat there preaching to the choir before breaking camp so one could go home to bed, one to have another beer and wait for her boyfriend and me to go to a show.
Now there's a surprise.
As if a great bill on a Wednesday night wasn't lucky enough, I found a parking space directly in front of Strange Matter.
Inside, I found a clutch of WRIR folks, a music writer and a drummer, but all in all, far fewer people than I'd anticipated.
Playing first were hometown heroes White Laces, although playing as a trio tonight instead of a quartet, and doing lots of songs off their upcoming October release, "Trance."
Did I miss the keyboards? Yes, but that's not to say that their smart, guitar-driven sound wasn't fully satisfying to hear, as always.
From the lead single, "Skate of Die" to the album's final cut, "Strangulation Blues," their set was yet another reminder of how far this band has come since I first saw them at the courtyard during the artwalk four years ago.
Watching them, it feels like a big deal to have witnessed their steady ascent to where they are now.
During the break, I talked with a friend about the challenges of freelancing, glad to hear that her frustrations mirror mine and it's not just me.
Then the room began to fill with smoke as Sisu's smoke machine kicked into overdrive.
They also had video showing behind them and two perfect sets of bangs, courtesy of Sandy and Jules of the Dum Dum Girls.
It's Sandy's band and the music is psychedelic, full-bodied and dark with plenty of reverb.
Loud, too, but not as loud as it would have been if the drummer hadn't put his red plaid flannel shirt over his drum before playing it.
Being visual creatures, lots of guys seemed to be taking pictures of the lovely Sandy shredding her guitar.
At one point, I looked over at the door and all I could see was a solid haze of smoke and no door at all.
After their set ended, I talked to a friend about why more VCU kids weren't at the show and with the drummer of the Shangri-Lords about the stellar set of theirs I'd seen at the pool party the other night.
Turns out he and the bass player have been girl group fans for years and finally got to let their inner girls out via this band.
As the crowd began to filter back in, San Diego band Crocodiles took the stage and began an audio assault laden with echo, one of my favorite sounds.
It was music from a cave, full of guitar distortion tamed into something wonderfully energetic and danceable.
A drunk girl in front of me wrangled a guy to dance with her, producing hysterical results as they managed to dance off beat for the next five songs, stumbling into each other and everyone around them without ever moving in relation to the music being played.
But at least they were dancing, as was most of the room to Crocodiles' catchy, noisy psych-rock with the kind of guitar work that calls to mind all those post-punk bands of the mid-aughts that I loved.
Just another Wednesday in River City.
While some might lament the serious lack of Blue Oyster Cult, I'm calling it a damn fine evening.
First was the cocktail party at a friend's house.
The occasion? Her Mom is visiting from Mexico in anticipation of the two of them flying to Bermuda, where she lived for 11 years, next week.
Nice trip if you can get it.
Actually, I've been to Bermuda and had a fabulous time, but that doesn't stop me from envying my friend her upcoming time there.
Her Mom was delightful and droll, never more so than when she observed her two-year old granddaughter in a tutu and a cropped Ramones t-shirt and deadpanned, "I bet she's never even heard the Ramones."
She shared a news-making story from her days as a curator, raved about her 14-year old seat mate on the plane ride and was wearing fabulous jewelry she made herself.
An interesting mom altogether.
After far too much Rose, cheese and figs and deviled eggs, I said my goodbyes to make stop number two, joining two girlfriends at Balliceaux.
Tonight was their first time experiencing Hand to Hand Haiku and by the time I got there, they'd already nabbed a front row table and had beers in front of them.
It was an unusually small crowd tonight but there were still plenty of combatants to follow host Raven Mack's opening monologue about the 1300 sonnets he's writing.
He was kind enough to read us two of them.
Then it was on to round one between Ryan, who characterized his haiku writing as stupid and John, who called his straight bullshit.
I've seen Ryan compete before so I already knew the constant in his haikus is the use of the word "dude."
Dude, this neighborhood
suffers from a serious lack
of Blue Oyster Cult
Like that. Except John won. Like Raven, he's got a terrific voice and an interesting look, so he's one of my favorites to watch compete, even when he doesn't win the match.
Round two brought Paul who referred to his haikus as "Appalachian filth" and the defending champion Amy, who called hers "written a few minutes ago."
I have to say, the room about lost it when Paul read this one.
New Volvo driving
old white ladies with butt plugs,
pucker lips, hate me
Later, he told me he was writing about the women he sees at Ellwood Thompson who always make a point to scowl at him.
Amy was no slacker either.
Home girl burnt her lip
on the joint's hot spot.
Blunt force trauma.
As one of my friends put it, "I didn't expect haikus to be so funny."
Oh, but they can be.
There's always a death match that pits host Raven against a worthy challenger and tonight's was Rebecca, who read a haiku called "Skin."
Our greatest asset
gives us the ability
to touch and be felt
Just as good and all too relevant for my friend was one of Raven's.
By day, mild mannered
state administrator.
By night, depressed.
Eventually, Rebecca ran out of haikus so they went to free-styling, making up haikus on the spot for the judges (of whom I happened to be one), a mighty impressive thing to witness.
Raven won again, taking the pink game cock (yep, you read that right) trophy back home with him for the umpteenth time, but the man can write haiku about masturbating with peppermint soap and how tingly it feels, so he truly is the master.
Usually the death match is the end of the evening, but tonight John and Amy returned to fight it out until John ran out of haikus and conceded.
Luckily, he's talented and tenacious, so he frequently comes back.
After the match ended, we sat and chatted for a while, planning our next date and trying to convince one of our friends to go see "Boyhood," a film two of us had loved.
Somehow, we got on the subject of people who don't pay attention to music and how foreign and unpleasant a world that would be for us.
We sat there preaching to the choir before breaking camp so one could go home to bed, one to have another beer and wait for her boyfriend and me to go to a show.
Now there's a surprise.
As if a great bill on a Wednesday night wasn't lucky enough, I found a parking space directly in front of Strange Matter.
Inside, I found a clutch of WRIR folks, a music writer and a drummer, but all in all, far fewer people than I'd anticipated.
Playing first were hometown heroes White Laces, although playing as a trio tonight instead of a quartet, and doing lots of songs off their upcoming October release, "Trance."
Did I miss the keyboards? Yes, but that's not to say that their smart, guitar-driven sound wasn't fully satisfying to hear, as always.
From the lead single, "Skate of Die" to the album's final cut, "Strangulation Blues," their set was yet another reminder of how far this band has come since I first saw them at the courtyard during the artwalk four years ago.
Watching them, it feels like a big deal to have witnessed their steady ascent to where they are now.
During the break, I talked with a friend about the challenges of freelancing, glad to hear that her frustrations mirror mine and it's not just me.
Then the room began to fill with smoke as Sisu's smoke machine kicked into overdrive.
They also had video showing behind them and two perfect sets of bangs, courtesy of Sandy and Jules of the Dum Dum Girls.
It's Sandy's band and the music is psychedelic, full-bodied and dark with plenty of reverb.
Loud, too, but not as loud as it would have been if the drummer hadn't put his red plaid flannel shirt over his drum before playing it.
Being visual creatures, lots of guys seemed to be taking pictures of the lovely Sandy shredding her guitar.
At one point, I looked over at the door and all I could see was a solid haze of smoke and no door at all.
After their set ended, I talked to a friend about why more VCU kids weren't at the show and with the drummer of the Shangri-Lords about the stellar set of theirs I'd seen at the pool party the other night.
Turns out he and the bass player have been girl group fans for years and finally got to let their inner girls out via this band.
As the crowd began to filter back in, San Diego band Crocodiles took the stage and began an audio assault laden with echo, one of my favorite sounds.
It was music from a cave, full of guitar distortion tamed into something wonderfully energetic and danceable.
A drunk girl in front of me wrangled a guy to dance with her, producing hysterical results as they managed to dance off beat for the next five songs, stumbling into each other and everyone around them without ever moving in relation to the music being played.
But at least they were dancing, as was most of the room to Crocodiles' catchy, noisy psych-rock with the kind of guitar work that calls to mind all those post-punk bands of the mid-aughts that I loved.
Just another Wednesday in River City.
While some might lament the serious lack of Blue Oyster Cult, I'm calling it a damn fine evening.
Tuesday, August 26, 2014
Off the Chain
Took a new walk, tried a new dog.
While I've been doing lots of new to me walks lately - I did the floodwall west Friday, ending up in the SunTrust parking lot on southside, and Randolph and the cemeteries there Saturday (even heard gun shots followed by a bugle playing "Taps") - today's jaunt had two major things going for it.
The historic nature of the slave trail, heartbreaking as it is, and the practically perfect weather, sunny, breezy and absent humidity.
I walked all the way to the Manchester docks where I met three gentlemen fishing and shooting the breeze.
They suggested I join them but I politely declined.
Coming back, I decided to circumvent the last part of the walking trail and instead clambered up the rip rap to access the bridge and save myself quite a few steps in the process.
Despite not being the clambering type, the good news is I neither dropped my keys nor scraped up the moneymakers.
Back on terra firma, I took the pipeline walkway, did a leg soak and climbed the hills home, where I immediately picked up the phone and called a friend for lunch.
A six mile walk will give you an appetite no matter how much breakfast you ate.
Last time we'd gotten together for lunch, he'd been in the midst of a terrible, awful, no-good day but today's mood was considerably sunnier.
Making our way through gaggles of VCU students with not a clue how to navigate crosswalks, sidewalks and streets (one young twerp stood in the right lane of Broad Street to light her cigarette), we ducked off of Broad and into Unleashed Gourmet Hot Dogs, dodging cold drips from the air conditioner over the doorway in the process.
Inside, it was cool, empty and a laundry list of imported and housemade hot dogs greeted us. A server at Empire had turned me on to this place, raving about the quality of the dogs.
My only complaint? Not one was named after that noblest of breeds, the beagle, nor was a picture of a beagle among those hung on the walls for decoration.
I'd call that a gross oversight.
When I asked the owner what was so great about his dogs, he boasted of importing some and making others.
"They're the best," he said. 'Let me know after you try one."
Friend went straight for the English pointer, a smoked sausage with roasted pepper, sauteed onions and honey mustard while I selected the Mutt International, a crisp-skinned oversized wiener that snapped when I bit it, with beer-roasted barbecue pulled pork and cole slaw riding atop it.
Both of us were impressed with the non-traditional rolls, more a crusty, toothsome bread pocket than a typical bland hot dog roll.
Russian potato salad, bright red with beet juice and a nice tang, went down easily as we sat at the window counter and watched the colorful street theater of Harrison Street parade by.
"So?" the owner called to us from his perch behind the counter.
Mighty fine dogs, sir, we answered and he beamed. "I told you!"
Now just hang a picture of a beagle on the wall and this place'll be practically perfect.
And, I might add, only a short walk from home.
While I've been doing lots of new to me walks lately - I did the floodwall west Friday, ending up in the SunTrust parking lot on southside, and Randolph and the cemeteries there Saturday (even heard gun shots followed by a bugle playing "Taps") - today's jaunt had two major things going for it.
The historic nature of the slave trail, heartbreaking as it is, and the practically perfect weather, sunny, breezy and absent humidity.
I walked all the way to the Manchester docks where I met three gentlemen fishing and shooting the breeze.
They suggested I join them but I politely declined.
Coming back, I decided to circumvent the last part of the walking trail and instead clambered up the rip rap to access the bridge and save myself quite a few steps in the process.
Despite not being the clambering type, the good news is I neither dropped my keys nor scraped up the moneymakers.
Back on terra firma, I took the pipeline walkway, did a leg soak and climbed the hills home, where I immediately picked up the phone and called a friend for lunch.
A six mile walk will give you an appetite no matter how much breakfast you ate.
Last time we'd gotten together for lunch, he'd been in the midst of a terrible, awful, no-good day but today's mood was considerably sunnier.
Making our way through gaggles of VCU students with not a clue how to navigate crosswalks, sidewalks and streets (one young twerp stood in the right lane of Broad Street to light her cigarette), we ducked off of Broad and into Unleashed Gourmet Hot Dogs, dodging cold drips from the air conditioner over the doorway in the process.
Inside, it was cool, empty and a laundry list of imported and housemade hot dogs greeted us. A server at Empire had turned me on to this place, raving about the quality of the dogs.
My only complaint? Not one was named after that noblest of breeds, the beagle, nor was a picture of a beagle among those hung on the walls for decoration.
I'd call that a gross oversight.
When I asked the owner what was so great about his dogs, he boasted of importing some and making others.
"They're the best," he said. 'Let me know after you try one."
Friend went straight for the English pointer, a smoked sausage with roasted pepper, sauteed onions and honey mustard while I selected the Mutt International, a crisp-skinned oversized wiener that snapped when I bit it, with beer-roasted barbecue pulled pork and cole slaw riding atop it.
Both of us were impressed with the non-traditional rolls, more a crusty, toothsome bread pocket than a typical bland hot dog roll.
Russian potato salad, bright red with beet juice and a nice tang, went down easily as we sat at the window counter and watched the colorful street theater of Harrison Street parade by.
"So?" the owner called to us from his perch behind the counter.
Mighty fine dogs, sir, we answered and he beamed. "I told you!"
Now just hang a picture of a beagle on the wall and this place'll be practically perfect.
And, I might add, only a short walk from home.
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
I Know Which Day
At Saison Market watching a little soccer if you're in the 'hood!
That was the 17-syllable message that popped up minutes after I got home from a trip to an oyster hatchery on the Northern Neck's Coan River.
I cared less about seeing France play Ecuador than I did about seeing my friend, so I showered to remove my road trip funk and joined him at the market.
I might just point out with not a little pride that it was my second soccer game this week and I haven't watched two soccer games total in the last decade.
The big news is that he's bought a house, so I heard all the details as well as his plans to renovate it beginning with the kitchen (he's a good cook and already talking about his first party).
He's at that stage where he's dreaming big about every possible renovation he could make, fully realizing that he'll have to scale back to match his budget.
Yea, reality bites.
Once the scoreless game ended, I invited him to join me and my hired mouth for dinner, even taking a spin by his soon-to-be home on the way back from the restaurant.
It's a mighty handsome house and I only hope he follows through on his intention to turn the converted screened-in porch back into an outdoor room. If you ask me, it's a sin to enclose a perfectly good screened-in porch.
After our drive-by, I invited him to join me for Hand to Hand Haiku at Balliceaux, but he'd thrown out his back (which explained why he was sipping beer and not working during the afternoon game), so I dropped him at home.
The crowd for haiku was small tonight, no doubt because it's summer, but I also heard that they'd had a record crowd last month. Haiku ebbs and flows, you know.
Waiting for the crowd to grow, host Raven Mack came over and asked me if I'd be a judge.
Color me surprised because although tonight was my third Hand to Hand Haiku, I never expected to be asked to hold the flags and weigh in.
But why not? I've got an opinion on practically everything and how difficult could it be deciding which haiku I liked better?
Raven Mack began with a series of sonnets, each about a different direction, concluding with him placing a sheet with the direction - north, south, east and west- in the appropriate part of the room.
My favorite began with "Sonnet of the South, land of big, bouncing asses" and he finished with a sonnet to the center, placing the rock and paper just behind where I was sitting.
"So now we got our space set!" Raven proclaimed. He went on to hold aloft the pink gamecock trophy up for grabs tonight to the best haiku writer.
Lindsay and Rebecca faced off first, each well prepared with haikus to choose from, and tailoring their choices to what their competitor read.
At one of the back tables, a bunch of people applauded after each haiku, so Raven called them the clapping party.
Rebecca won the match with gems like this one:
Man on the drums, I bet
I can rock my hips faster
than you can play
Winning meant that now she went up against Chris, who'd stored her haikus in her phone, an unworthy place for poetry if ever there was one.
Raven reminded us, "If someone reads a haiku that they've read before, even if it was two months ago, boo the shit out of them!" Will do.
Chris kept it topical with one about workplace productivity falling due to the World Cup while Rebecca got more personal.
Late exploration
our first time, we kept it sexy
we kept it safe
That said, Chris won, in part because of haikus like this one.
You never know which
day separates your life
before and after
Isn't that the truth?
As a judge, there were many times where it was truly difficult to choose a winner, often because both were strong haikus, just very different. It's impossible to compare a deep, thoughtful haiku with a risque, cleverly worded one. It's apples and oranges.
Hand to Hand Haiku always ends the evening with a death match where some hapless soul takes on haiku king Raven Mack to try to de-throne him.
Tonight it was Ryan, the DJ also known as Revolt of the Apes, and while I'd heard him spin records, I had no idea all his tweets were done in haiku form, nor that most of them ended with the word "dude."
I"m guessing that means that many of the haikus we heard tonight had been born as Twitter feeds.
Some people may not believe
I met Nell Carter
at a Slayer show
Funny stuff, even more so when read by a deadpan man in sunglasses. But Raven is the master for a reason and he countered with:
White people talking
condescendingly of
white people is so white
Their death match ended with Raven prevailing 13-7 and saying, "I''d like to present this trophy to myself."
Just when we thought all the night's fun was over, Rebecca challenged Raven and a double death match was born on the spot.
It was a close match and Raven trailed for a while but ultimately won, saying, "I want to say thanks to Rebecca and I'll keep my damn trophy!"
And I'll keep my 17-syllable nights, both the public and private ones.
That was the 17-syllable message that popped up minutes after I got home from a trip to an oyster hatchery on the Northern Neck's Coan River.
I cared less about seeing France play Ecuador than I did about seeing my friend, so I showered to remove my road trip funk and joined him at the market.
I might just point out with not a little pride that it was my second soccer game this week and I haven't watched two soccer games total in the last decade.
The big news is that he's bought a house, so I heard all the details as well as his plans to renovate it beginning with the kitchen (he's a good cook and already talking about his first party).
He's at that stage where he's dreaming big about every possible renovation he could make, fully realizing that he'll have to scale back to match his budget.
Yea, reality bites.
Once the scoreless game ended, I invited him to join me and my hired mouth for dinner, even taking a spin by his soon-to-be home on the way back from the restaurant.
It's a mighty handsome house and I only hope he follows through on his intention to turn the converted screened-in porch back into an outdoor room. If you ask me, it's a sin to enclose a perfectly good screened-in porch.
After our drive-by, I invited him to join me for Hand to Hand Haiku at Balliceaux, but he'd thrown out his back (which explained why he was sipping beer and not working during the afternoon game), so I dropped him at home.
The crowd for haiku was small tonight, no doubt because it's summer, but I also heard that they'd had a record crowd last month. Haiku ebbs and flows, you know.
Waiting for the crowd to grow, host Raven Mack came over and asked me if I'd be a judge.
Color me surprised because although tonight was my third Hand to Hand Haiku, I never expected to be asked to hold the flags and weigh in.
But why not? I've got an opinion on practically everything and how difficult could it be deciding which haiku I liked better?
Raven Mack began with a series of sonnets, each about a different direction, concluding with him placing a sheet with the direction - north, south, east and west- in the appropriate part of the room.
My favorite began with "Sonnet of the South, land of big, bouncing asses" and he finished with a sonnet to the center, placing the rock and paper just behind where I was sitting.
"So now we got our space set!" Raven proclaimed. He went on to hold aloft the pink gamecock trophy up for grabs tonight to the best haiku writer.
Lindsay and Rebecca faced off first, each well prepared with haikus to choose from, and tailoring their choices to what their competitor read.
At one of the back tables, a bunch of people applauded after each haiku, so Raven called them the clapping party.
Rebecca won the match with gems like this one:
Man on the drums, I bet
I can rock my hips faster
than you can play
Winning meant that now she went up against Chris, who'd stored her haikus in her phone, an unworthy place for poetry if ever there was one.
Raven reminded us, "If someone reads a haiku that they've read before, even if it was two months ago, boo the shit out of them!" Will do.
Chris kept it topical with one about workplace productivity falling due to the World Cup while Rebecca got more personal.
Late exploration
our first time, we kept it sexy
we kept it safe
That said, Chris won, in part because of haikus like this one.
You never know which
day separates your life
before and after
Isn't that the truth?
As a judge, there were many times where it was truly difficult to choose a winner, often because both were strong haikus, just very different. It's impossible to compare a deep, thoughtful haiku with a risque, cleverly worded one. It's apples and oranges.
Hand to Hand Haiku always ends the evening with a death match where some hapless soul takes on haiku king Raven Mack to try to de-throne him.
Tonight it was Ryan, the DJ also known as Revolt of the Apes, and while I'd heard him spin records, I had no idea all his tweets were done in haiku form, nor that most of them ended with the word "dude."
I"m guessing that means that many of the haikus we heard tonight had been born as Twitter feeds.
Some people may not believe
I met Nell Carter
at a Slayer show
Funny stuff, even more so when read by a deadpan man in sunglasses. But Raven is the master for a reason and he countered with:
White people talking
condescendingly of
white people is so white
Their death match ended with Raven prevailing 13-7 and saying, "I''d like to present this trophy to myself."
Just when we thought all the night's fun was over, Rebecca challenged Raven and a double death match was born on the spot.
It was a close match and Raven trailed for a while but ultimately won, saying, "I want to say thanks to Rebecca and I'll keep my damn trophy!"
And I'll keep my 17-syllable nights, both the public and private ones.
Thursday, June 19, 2014
Mid-Afternoon Thrash
They pick up their conversation like it was the next day and not a full year since they last saw each other.
His drive down 95 from Washington lasts an excruciating three hours so lunch doesn't begin until 2:45, but fortuitously she has chosen Dinamo because they don't close between lunch and dinner.
The restaurant is cool with air conditioning, a welcome respite from her 90-degree apartment, and devoid of people except staff. Interestingly enough, the music is atypically thrash, not unwelcome but probably not what plays during dinner hour.
Eager to get busy talking, they scan the menu for cool, summery dishes to suit the sweltering day, deciding on the cold seafood salad (easily the best in Richmond), eggs in tuna sauce and after a heartfelt recommendation from the server, squash salad.
His pick for poison is a Negroni (still recalling with fondness the one Bobby K. made for him several summers ago here) while hers is a glass of Trebbiano and with chilled libations delivered, they dive into the conversational pool.
As the plates begin to arrive, he shares experiences -good, bad and ugly - from his recent trip to Africa as well as updates about the book he's currently writing and revising, an odyssey through art, family and choices.
The seafood salad, a wonder of olive oil, red onions and lemon juice over fresh seafood, is worthy of an Italian seaside cafe. The tuna sauce turns the soft-cooked eggs into something obscenely rich and sensuous. And ho-hum squash transforms into the essence of summer as the centerpiece of a cold dish with tomato sauce and onions. A memorable cold meal.
They use his phone to look at intense, expressionistic paintings by Oskar Kokoschka, an Austrian artist she's never heard of until now but plans to do some research on. He tells her she should be reading Lucky Peach, which he is sure Chop Suey carries, and she makes a mental note to look for it.
When he inquires about coffee, the server tells him it's the best in town, a fact he doubts because it's Illy, not usually a favorite of his, but orders it anyway and is pleasantly surprised at how good it is. A non-coffee drinker, she takes his word for it.
Generously, he tells her she looks younger than the last time he saw her and compliments her longer hair, even the cut of it. When he notices the server's hair is similar, he makes a joke about it being all the rage in Richmond.
Lunch ends (with him marveling at the tab, so different than lunch prices in D.C.) because he has dinner plans shortly and needs to pick up a bottle of wine with which to gift his hostess, a three-named southern woman.
She directs him back to her neighborhood to Saison market where a small group is watching the World Cup, sipping happy hour beer and munching on bread and cured meat.
The visitor winds up with not just wine for the hostess, but a large cube ice tray and a set of vintage Italian coasters he considers under-priced, fearful if he doesn't buy them he will regret it later. Or so he tells himself.
Leaving the market, they see that the sky has darkened to the point of a storm announcement but since they are mere blocks from her house, they make it back before the heavens explode.
People are sitting on the porch next door watching and commenting on the lightening show when he drops her home and minutes later, the rain is pelting down in sheets.
Before he goes, he reminds her that it's her turn to come to Washington for dinner and she agrees, always happy to have a reason to see her birthplace.
Whether that dinner happens sooner or later, it's likely they will continue the conversation where they left off. Mid-paragraph.
His drive down 95 from Washington lasts an excruciating three hours so lunch doesn't begin until 2:45, but fortuitously she has chosen Dinamo because they don't close between lunch and dinner.
The restaurant is cool with air conditioning, a welcome respite from her 90-degree apartment, and devoid of people except staff. Interestingly enough, the music is atypically thrash, not unwelcome but probably not what plays during dinner hour.
Eager to get busy talking, they scan the menu for cool, summery dishes to suit the sweltering day, deciding on the cold seafood salad (easily the best in Richmond), eggs in tuna sauce and after a heartfelt recommendation from the server, squash salad.
His pick for poison is a Negroni (still recalling with fondness the one Bobby K. made for him several summers ago here) while hers is a glass of Trebbiano and with chilled libations delivered, they dive into the conversational pool.
As the plates begin to arrive, he shares experiences -good, bad and ugly - from his recent trip to Africa as well as updates about the book he's currently writing and revising, an odyssey through art, family and choices.
The seafood salad, a wonder of olive oil, red onions and lemon juice over fresh seafood, is worthy of an Italian seaside cafe. The tuna sauce turns the soft-cooked eggs into something obscenely rich and sensuous. And ho-hum squash transforms into the essence of summer as the centerpiece of a cold dish with tomato sauce and onions. A memorable cold meal.
They use his phone to look at intense, expressionistic paintings by Oskar Kokoschka, an Austrian artist she's never heard of until now but plans to do some research on. He tells her she should be reading Lucky Peach, which he is sure Chop Suey carries, and she makes a mental note to look for it.
When he inquires about coffee, the server tells him it's the best in town, a fact he doubts because it's Illy, not usually a favorite of his, but orders it anyway and is pleasantly surprised at how good it is. A non-coffee drinker, she takes his word for it.
Generously, he tells her she looks younger than the last time he saw her and compliments her longer hair, even the cut of it. When he notices the server's hair is similar, he makes a joke about it being all the rage in Richmond.
Lunch ends (with him marveling at the tab, so different than lunch prices in D.C.) because he has dinner plans shortly and needs to pick up a bottle of wine with which to gift his hostess, a three-named southern woman.
She directs him back to her neighborhood to Saison market where a small group is watching the World Cup, sipping happy hour beer and munching on bread and cured meat.
The visitor winds up with not just wine for the hostess, but a large cube ice tray and a set of vintage Italian coasters he considers under-priced, fearful if he doesn't buy them he will regret it later. Or so he tells himself.
Leaving the market, they see that the sky has darkened to the point of a storm announcement but since they are mere blocks from her house, they make it back before the heavens explode.
People are sitting on the porch next door watching and commenting on the lightening show when he drops her home and minutes later, the rain is pelting down in sheets.
Before he goes, he reminds her that it's her turn to come to Washington for dinner and she agrees, always happy to have a reason to see her birthplace.
Whether that dinner happens sooner or later, it's likely they will continue the conversation where they left off. Mid-paragraph.
You Say It's Your Birthday
Can't say which was better, the first part of the evening or the last.
I started at Amour Wine Bistro with a crowded dining room and Holmes and his lady love and a bottle of Chateau de Valcombe Rose.
Over tales of their weekend away, we plotted our way through the happy hour menu. Candied beets and braised turnips in wine bechamel and puff pastry thrilled the beet lovers (that would be me) while beef/bleu cheese with caramelized onions and Fourme d'Ambert gougere was rich and flavorful, a crowd pleaser.
Grilled asparagus with soy orange vinaigrette sealed the deal with its layers of flavor before moving on from the happy hour menu to the regular offerings.
With a second bottle of Valcombe, we tried the salade d'ete (strawberries, watercress, toasted pine nuts, Comte and honey balsamic vinaigrette...yum), the always classic onion tart with Smithfield bacon and the half and half, a platter of meat and cheese that was perfect for nibbling while we sipped our Valcombe and discussed bigger issues.
Chicken liver mousse, Morbiere, Forme d'Ambert and Comte with Sausagecraft sausage of pork, beef and Gruyere, cured meats, dried fruit and gherkins rounded out the platter.
Dessert consisted of various housemade sorbets: the creamiest chocolate, plus vibrant blueberry, pineapple and grapefruit.
After Holmes and his honey bid me farewell, I stopped by the Viceroy to see what was happening with a friend's birthday celebration where DJ Michael Murphy was spinning vintage music.
She had originally planned to celebrate at Balliceaux until I'd heard Micheal would be spinning and suggested something different.
The party was in full swing when I arrived with lots of familiar faces: the shoegazer, the pop singer, the pianist, the handsome restaurateur. I hadn't expected to know so many of the celebrants.
Espolon in hand, I listened to the Commodores, Depeche Mode and Talking Heads before grabbing the birthday girl by the hand and establishing a dance floor with the birthday girl's very handsome date.
Someone had to do it.
Two guys at a nearby table were requisitioned and before long, they were our willing dance partners, nubile and eager to accommodate.
The birthday girl was ecstatic, finally able to cut loose on her celebratory night. Me, I was just the willing accomplice.
"You like to dance!" one of the guys observed, stating the obvious, as we tore it up to every song the DJ played, refusing to concede the floor.
Why not if the music's good (it was stellar) and I have a birthday girl eager to shake her groove thing with me?
To quote Sir Paul (because today also happens to be his birthday): We're gonna have a good time. I'm glad it's your birthday.
I started at Amour Wine Bistro with a crowded dining room and Holmes and his lady love and a bottle of Chateau de Valcombe Rose.
Over tales of their weekend away, we plotted our way through the happy hour menu. Candied beets and braised turnips in wine bechamel and puff pastry thrilled the beet lovers (that would be me) while beef/bleu cheese with caramelized onions and Fourme d'Ambert gougere was rich and flavorful, a crowd pleaser.
Grilled asparagus with soy orange vinaigrette sealed the deal with its layers of flavor before moving on from the happy hour menu to the regular offerings.
With a second bottle of Valcombe, we tried the salade d'ete (strawberries, watercress, toasted pine nuts, Comte and honey balsamic vinaigrette...yum), the always classic onion tart with Smithfield bacon and the half and half, a platter of meat and cheese that was perfect for nibbling while we sipped our Valcombe and discussed bigger issues.
Chicken liver mousse, Morbiere, Forme d'Ambert and Comte with Sausagecraft sausage of pork, beef and Gruyere, cured meats, dried fruit and gherkins rounded out the platter.
Dessert consisted of various housemade sorbets: the creamiest chocolate, plus vibrant blueberry, pineapple and grapefruit.
After Holmes and his honey bid me farewell, I stopped by the Viceroy to see what was happening with a friend's birthday celebration where DJ Michael Murphy was spinning vintage music.
She had originally planned to celebrate at Balliceaux until I'd heard Micheal would be spinning and suggested something different.
The party was in full swing when I arrived with lots of familiar faces: the shoegazer, the pop singer, the pianist, the handsome restaurateur. I hadn't expected to know so many of the celebrants.
Espolon in hand, I listened to the Commodores, Depeche Mode and Talking Heads before grabbing the birthday girl by the hand and establishing a dance floor with the birthday girl's very handsome date.
Someone had to do it.
Two guys at a nearby table were requisitioned and before long, they were our willing dance partners, nubile and eager to accommodate.
The birthday girl was ecstatic, finally able to cut loose on her celebratory night. Me, I was just the willing accomplice.
"You like to dance!" one of the guys observed, stating the obvious, as we tore it up to every song the DJ played, refusing to concede the floor.
Why not if the music's good (it was stellar) and I have a birthday girl eager to shake her groove thing with me?
To quote Sir Paul (because today also happens to be his birthday): We're gonna have a good time. I'm glad it's your birthday.
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
Speak to Me of My Passions
The birthday finale could not have been more wonderful.
After being collected by a friend (and former co-worker, stylish and witty, an artist, cook and gardener extraordinaire) of 18 years, we took a driving tour of J-Ward that ended at Lucy's for dinner.
I try never to miss a chance to show off the 'hood.
Positioning ourselves at the far end of the bar, we got the party started with floral-scented Le Petit Balthazar Rose and major debriefings on both our parts.
Make no mistake, we both had our frustrations to share but there were also laugh out loud stories (hello, cottage cheese) and art excursions to plan. Those paintings aren't going to look at themselves, you know.
I couldn't have ordered up a better soundtrack: Stevie Wonder, Jackson 5, Al Green, all classic stuff played loud enough to save others from having to listen to our blather and laughter.
With the early evening sunlight lighting up the restaurant through the big front window, we began our meal with herb cream cheese-stuffed roasted endive inside crispy house cured pork loin.
I know there are people who think they don't like endive and to them I say: wrap some pig around it, fools!
It was my friend's first time at Lucy's, so she took time to look around and enjoy all the little details that give it such charm - dog plates, wire heads, an entire row of Roses on the bar.
During a discussion of my upcoming beach trip, she insisted we stop and open presents, including a thoughtfully-chosen card ("Everything seems to speak to me of my passions..."), a Chop Suey gift certificate and Donna Tartt's Pulitzer prize-winning novel "The Goldfinch."
Having read and loved the book, she was adamant that it be part of this year's beach reading for me.
Done. I promised to bring it back with sand in the spine.
For dinner, she chose a killer special of crispy red snapper with lemon aioli, spaghetti squash, spinach and red peppers and generously shared a nice chunk of it with me while raving about the squash and how she wished hers was as good.
Meanwhile I got and shared a stellar dinner salad of bacon-infused chicken over mixed greens with hard-boiled egg, cukes, tomatoes and carrots.
It's rare I get jacked up about chicken but start infusing it with bacon and it's a different story.
While the conversation kept flowing about parents, porches and untimely strokes, the Balthazar flowed as well, its strawberry flavor perfectly attuned to a June night celebration of a May birth.
All around us, people came and went from booths and tables, even the bar, but we stayed focused on each other and the conversation since our evenings out are usually limited to less than two hours and tonight's knew no boundaries.
When I went to tell her about the massive firefly extravaganza I'd seen in the country my birthday weekend, she countered with a recent NPR story about fireflies this time of year. Only then did I learn that all those flickers of lights were about sex, tiny courtship dances to attract a mate.
And here I thought they were just to entertain me on my birthday weekend. It's a very good friend who not only gifts you, but takes you out to be wined and dined and teaches you something along the way.
Eventually, I find our server standing at the end of the bar beside me scanning the room like a good server does, so I turn to ask the only pertinent question at that point in a long Rose evening.
Is there chocolate?
"Yes, there is. Would you have it?" she responded with an economy of words.
This 11-day birthday marathon wasn't going to be able to end without chocolate, so I had to assume hers was a rhetorical question.
My taste buds read the flourless chocolate torte as almost mousse-like and with vanilla bean cream and blackberries, found the closure for my prolonged celebration.
While talking to a neighbor the other day about what I'd been up to lately, I'd mentioned my recent birthday. "You seem like a person who would stretch out a birthday as long as you could," she'd observed with a smile.
Is it that obvious?
After being collected by a friend (and former co-worker, stylish and witty, an artist, cook and gardener extraordinaire) of 18 years, we took a driving tour of J-Ward that ended at Lucy's for dinner.
I try never to miss a chance to show off the 'hood.
Positioning ourselves at the far end of the bar, we got the party started with floral-scented Le Petit Balthazar Rose and major debriefings on both our parts.
Make no mistake, we both had our frustrations to share but there were also laugh out loud stories (hello, cottage cheese) and art excursions to plan. Those paintings aren't going to look at themselves, you know.
I couldn't have ordered up a better soundtrack: Stevie Wonder, Jackson 5, Al Green, all classic stuff played loud enough to save others from having to listen to our blather and laughter.
With the early evening sunlight lighting up the restaurant through the big front window, we began our meal with herb cream cheese-stuffed roasted endive inside crispy house cured pork loin.
I know there are people who think they don't like endive and to them I say: wrap some pig around it, fools!
It was my friend's first time at Lucy's, so she took time to look around and enjoy all the little details that give it such charm - dog plates, wire heads, an entire row of Roses on the bar.
During a discussion of my upcoming beach trip, she insisted we stop and open presents, including a thoughtfully-chosen card ("Everything seems to speak to me of my passions..."), a Chop Suey gift certificate and Donna Tartt's Pulitzer prize-winning novel "The Goldfinch."
Having read and loved the book, she was adamant that it be part of this year's beach reading for me.
Done. I promised to bring it back with sand in the spine.
For dinner, she chose a killer special of crispy red snapper with lemon aioli, spaghetti squash, spinach and red peppers and generously shared a nice chunk of it with me while raving about the squash and how she wished hers was as good.
Meanwhile I got and shared a stellar dinner salad of bacon-infused chicken over mixed greens with hard-boiled egg, cukes, tomatoes and carrots.
It's rare I get jacked up about chicken but start infusing it with bacon and it's a different story.
While the conversation kept flowing about parents, porches and untimely strokes, the Balthazar flowed as well, its strawberry flavor perfectly attuned to a June night celebration of a May birth.
All around us, people came and went from booths and tables, even the bar, but we stayed focused on each other and the conversation since our evenings out are usually limited to less than two hours and tonight's knew no boundaries.
When I went to tell her about the massive firefly extravaganza I'd seen in the country my birthday weekend, she countered with a recent NPR story about fireflies this time of year. Only then did I learn that all those flickers of lights were about sex, tiny courtship dances to attract a mate.
And here I thought they were just to entertain me on my birthday weekend. It's a very good friend who not only gifts you, but takes you out to be wined and dined and teaches you something along the way.
Eventually, I find our server standing at the end of the bar beside me scanning the room like a good server does, so I turn to ask the only pertinent question at that point in a long Rose evening.
Is there chocolate?
"Yes, there is. Would you have it?" she responded with an economy of words.
This 11-day birthday marathon wasn't going to be able to end without chocolate, so I had to assume hers was a rhetorical question.
My taste buds read the flourless chocolate torte as almost mousse-like and with vanilla bean cream and blackberries, found the closure for my prolonged celebration.
While talking to a neighbor the other day about what I'd been up to lately, I'd mentioned my recent birthday. "You seem like a person who would stretch out a birthday as long as you could," she'd observed with a smile.
Is it that obvious?
Sunday, June 1, 2014
You Go, Girl
Life isn't fair.
Oh, I know everyone's parents tell them that and it's one of those lessons we all learn as we move through life - the bottom of my world fell out when I was 29- but it's a cliche for a reason. Life's not fair.
Walking home today, I passed by a neighbor's house, a younger woman I first met when I moved to this apartment five years ago. At the time, my beagle and I took a lot of walks and often ran into her and her aged dog, so we would talk as we walked.
Once I lost my dog, I didn't see her nearly as much despite her living half a block away, so our chats were less frequent. So when I saw her doing a small repair on her porch as I walked by, I stopped to chat, asking her how she was.
"Okay for someone fixing my house so my sister can sell it after I die from this brain tumor," she answered casually. It never for a moment sounded like a joke.
At a time like that, words, my stock in trade, become irrelevant. There are no appropriate words when someone tells you that nine weeks ago a large tumor was found on her brain after she began having trouble deciphering words on the printed page.
Pulling back her hair, she showed me the large scar where 80-90% of it was removed in surgery. She's been going through radiation every weekday since.
Once she finishes that, they can better assess her prospects, which they're now guessing range from a few months to two years.
We talked about the irony of it, how well she's always taken care of herself, how fit she looks and feels. At one point, she stood up and spread her arms above her head, posing. "Crazy, right?"
Crazy, cruel, horrible, completely unjust.
I was curious if she planned to keep working and she already is, having gone back to the office a few weeks after surgery because she was antsy working at home.
Surely she planned to travel or indulge herself somehow? " I had an affair with a sheik when I was 21 and in Europe, so I think I'm good with Europe," she said by way of explanation.
Maybe a month at the beach just kicking back? The radiation treatments mean she has to avoid the sun, she said.
But surely you're going to do something to celebrate yourself, I insisted.
She told me about a guy at her office who'd recently shown an interest in her, even cutting out some bad habits at her urging.
Now they've made plans to go away next weekend and she seems really happy about that or as happy as a person can be knowing how short term her future may be.
Her grace and equanimity given the circumstances is downright inspirational and a slap on the back of the head to me to never take anything for granted.
You just never know what life will deal you.
Oh, I know everyone's parents tell them that and it's one of those lessons we all learn as we move through life - the bottom of my world fell out when I was 29- but it's a cliche for a reason. Life's not fair.
Walking home today, I passed by a neighbor's house, a younger woman I first met when I moved to this apartment five years ago. At the time, my beagle and I took a lot of walks and often ran into her and her aged dog, so we would talk as we walked.
Once I lost my dog, I didn't see her nearly as much despite her living half a block away, so our chats were less frequent. So when I saw her doing a small repair on her porch as I walked by, I stopped to chat, asking her how she was.
"Okay for someone fixing my house so my sister can sell it after I die from this brain tumor," she answered casually. It never for a moment sounded like a joke.
At a time like that, words, my stock in trade, become irrelevant. There are no appropriate words when someone tells you that nine weeks ago a large tumor was found on her brain after she began having trouble deciphering words on the printed page.
Pulling back her hair, she showed me the large scar where 80-90% of it was removed in surgery. She's been going through radiation every weekday since.
Once she finishes that, they can better assess her prospects, which they're now guessing range from a few months to two years.
We talked about the irony of it, how well she's always taken care of herself, how fit she looks and feels. At one point, she stood up and spread her arms above her head, posing. "Crazy, right?"
Crazy, cruel, horrible, completely unjust.
I was curious if she planned to keep working and she already is, having gone back to the office a few weeks after surgery because she was antsy working at home.
Surely she planned to travel or indulge herself somehow? " I had an affair with a sheik when I was 21 and in Europe, so I think I'm good with Europe," she said by way of explanation.
Maybe a month at the beach just kicking back? The radiation treatments mean she has to avoid the sun, she said.
But surely you're going to do something to celebrate yourself, I insisted.
She told me about a guy at her office who'd recently shown an interest in her, even cutting out some bad habits at her urging.
Now they've made plans to go away next weekend and she seems really happy about that or as happy as a person can be knowing how short term her future may be.
Her grace and equanimity given the circumstances is downright inspirational and a slap on the back of the head to me to never take anything for granted.
You just never know what life will deal you.
Friday, March 21, 2014
Supremely Satisfying
You think you know where you can go for middle eastern trance music and it turns out you're wrong.
When a friend suggested we meet up for dinner tonight, I threw out three ideas of where to go. Of the trio, he chose Acacia, his long-time favorite and as solid as they come in Richmond.
Walking to meet him, I passed two women chatting on the sidewalk and one stopped mid-sentence, looked at me and pointed, saying, "They're magnificent!"
You'd think she'd never seen floral, fuchsia tights before. My friend tried to convince her that it was the legs, not the tights that mattered, but as a woman, she knew better. I thanked her and moved on.
He's an early eater, meaning we arrived at Acacia before all the people who now wait until the sun goes down to think about dining. Best of all, to a propped open door letting the rare March warmth inside.
So while the tables were slow to fill up, the bar wasn't and we soon had company on both sides, including a girl so young looking that the bartender carded her.
When he looked at her license, he handed it back saying, "Happy birthday!" You could start your legal drinking in far worse places than Acacia, honey.
Friend wanted to do the prix fixe menu, meaning I had to as well and as we considered the menu, I found myself getting lost in the music.
But, what ho! Since when am I hearing recognizable songs at Acacia? Um, that would be never. It's always fabulous middle eastern trance music, the kind of thing you'd hear in a club in NYC or overseas, all beats per minute.
Instead, I'm hearing Local Natives, Snow Patrol, Michael Kiwanuka. Hell, I'm hearing the Supremes! What the hell?
Seems the staff got fed up with the non-stop trance and now one of them makes mixes periodically so that BPM are not always the order of the night.
Although apparently trance still gets pulled out on Friday and Saturday nights when the room is full and energy in the room high.
So now I know.
Meanwhile, I'd decided to start my meal with pork country pate with pickled vegetables and toast, an earthy way to dive into the kitchen's skill set.
My friend took a more of a Virginia slant, choosing peanut soup with Surryano ham, creme fraiche and chives, a spoon-coating delight he shared with me.
This is where we got stubborn and dug in our heels, both of us ordering sauteed flounder on a bed of Surry sausage and leek potato puree, next to garlic-braised broccolini and the greenest basil butter.
Like any seafood that emerges from Acacia's kitchen, the flounder was sauteed to perfection and my friend mumbled something about wanting a vat of those potatoes. I tried explaining that it was the sausage's siren song that he was responding to, but he didn't care.
We took a break between courses to talk about the delivery of Edwards Ham barbecue he'd recently received, why he's willing to spend $6 on a loaf of really good rye bread and the cost of a plane ticket to Paris these days.
Unlike me, he keeps tabs on such things. I only wish I had a reason (or adequate purse) to do the same.
Eventually we got around to dessert and amazingly, lightening did not strike us when neither of us ordered chocolate.
Instead, we both gave in to the lure of puff pastry covered in figs and Great Hill blue cheese with pecan crumbles and balsamic caramel.
Admittedly, I can be as happy eating a cheese plate for dessert as a sweet, but this brilliantly conceived dessert delivered both.
Fig and blue cheese have always been a marriage made in gustatory heaven but the bonus of pecans and balsamic caramel sent everything soaring into soul mate territory.
It had been a superb meal start to finish, further reinforcing my friend's conviction that nobody does it better than Acacia.
By the time we left, the sun was way down and diners waiting for that cue had long since begun filling up the room.
He was on his way home and I was on my way to see an exhibit by Barcelona artist Joan Tarrago at Big Secret, a Jackson Ward business that uses the latest laser technology to make art and just about anything else.
Illustrator Tarrago is doing a one-week residency at Big Secret and tonight they were hosting a pop-up shop and exhibition, not to mention a soiree with Saison doing appropriate cocktails in the courtyard next door.
I've seen many a band in that courtyard over the years.
His east coast tour goes through NYC, Miami and, you got it, RVA. And not just anywhere in our fair city, but right in my neighborhood. How could I not go check it out?
The illustrated laser cut artwork was very cool and just in the time I was looking at the show, two pieces sold, meaning affordable, too.
Looking at the three-dimensional works, you could see details like the individual hairs of an animal's fur.
The art was firmly at the intersection of inspiration and technology and the crowd mingling around seemed to be - no surprise - mostly digital natives.
One trio was discussing where to go eat afterwards, a conversation I got pulled into when I tried to make my way past them to see a piece hanging high on the wall.
Two girls and a guy and he wanted a burger, so I recommended Postbellum's, particularly terrific for the mushrooms cooked in duck fat that adorn it.
"We're so going there," the guy decided, his eyes lighting up.
And, like a thief in the night, J-Ward girl took her leave of the group, secure in having steered strangers to a meal they will certainly enjoy.
Good thing they hadn't been looking for trance music. I wouldn't have had any idea where to send them on a Thursday night.
When a friend suggested we meet up for dinner tonight, I threw out three ideas of where to go. Of the trio, he chose Acacia, his long-time favorite and as solid as they come in Richmond.
Walking to meet him, I passed two women chatting on the sidewalk and one stopped mid-sentence, looked at me and pointed, saying, "They're magnificent!"
You'd think she'd never seen floral, fuchsia tights before. My friend tried to convince her that it was the legs, not the tights that mattered, but as a woman, she knew better. I thanked her and moved on.
He's an early eater, meaning we arrived at Acacia before all the people who now wait until the sun goes down to think about dining. Best of all, to a propped open door letting the rare March warmth inside.
So while the tables were slow to fill up, the bar wasn't and we soon had company on both sides, including a girl so young looking that the bartender carded her.
When he looked at her license, he handed it back saying, "Happy birthday!" You could start your legal drinking in far worse places than Acacia, honey.
Friend wanted to do the prix fixe menu, meaning I had to as well and as we considered the menu, I found myself getting lost in the music.
But, what ho! Since when am I hearing recognizable songs at Acacia? Um, that would be never. It's always fabulous middle eastern trance music, the kind of thing you'd hear in a club in NYC or overseas, all beats per minute.
Instead, I'm hearing Local Natives, Snow Patrol, Michael Kiwanuka. Hell, I'm hearing the Supremes! What the hell?
Seems the staff got fed up with the non-stop trance and now one of them makes mixes periodically so that BPM are not always the order of the night.
Although apparently trance still gets pulled out on Friday and Saturday nights when the room is full and energy in the room high.
So now I know.
Meanwhile, I'd decided to start my meal with pork country pate with pickled vegetables and toast, an earthy way to dive into the kitchen's skill set.
My friend took a more of a Virginia slant, choosing peanut soup with Surryano ham, creme fraiche and chives, a spoon-coating delight he shared with me.
This is where we got stubborn and dug in our heels, both of us ordering sauteed flounder on a bed of Surry sausage and leek potato puree, next to garlic-braised broccolini and the greenest basil butter.
Like any seafood that emerges from Acacia's kitchen, the flounder was sauteed to perfection and my friend mumbled something about wanting a vat of those potatoes. I tried explaining that it was the sausage's siren song that he was responding to, but he didn't care.
We took a break between courses to talk about the delivery of Edwards Ham barbecue he'd recently received, why he's willing to spend $6 on a loaf of really good rye bread and the cost of a plane ticket to Paris these days.
Unlike me, he keeps tabs on such things. I only wish I had a reason (or adequate purse) to do the same.
Eventually we got around to dessert and amazingly, lightening did not strike us when neither of us ordered chocolate.
Instead, we both gave in to the lure of puff pastry covered in figs and Great Hill blue cheese with pecan crumbles and balsamic caramel.
Admittedly, I can be as happy eating a cheese plate for dessert as a sweet, but this brilliantly conceived dessert delivered both.
Fig and blue cheese have always been a marriage made in gustatory heaven but the bonus of pecans and balsamic caramel sent everything soaring into soul mate territory.
It had been a superb meal start to finish, further reinforcing my friend's conviction that nobody does it better than Acacia.
By the time we left, the sun was way down and diners waiting for that cue had long since begun filling up the room.
He was on his way home and I was on my way to see an exhibit by Barcelona artist Joan Tarrago at Big Secret, a Jackson Ward business that uses the latest laser technology to make art and just about anything else.
Illustrator Tarrago is doing a one-week residency at Big Secret and tonight they were hosting a pop-up shop and exhibition, not to mention a soiree with Saison doing appropriate cocktails in the courtyard next door.
I've seen many a band in that courtyard over the years.
His east coast tour goes through NYC, Miami and, you got it, RVA. And not just anywhere in our fair city, but right in my neighborhood. How could I not go check it out?
The illustrated laser cut artwork was very cool and just in the time I was looking at the show, two pieces sold, meaning affordable, too.
Looking at the three-dimensional works, you could see details like the individual hairs of an animal's fur.
The art was firmly at the intersection of inspiration and technology and the crowd mingling around seemed to be - no surprise - mostly digital natives.
One trio was discussing where to go eat afterwards, a conversation I got pulled into when I tried to make my way past them to see a piece hanging high on the wall.
Two girls and a guy and he wanted a burger, so I recommended Postbellum's, particularly terrific for the mushrooms cooked in duck fat that adorn it.
"We're so going there," the guy decided, his eyes lighting up.
And, like a thief in the night, J-Ward girl took her leave of the group, secure in having steered strangers to a meal they will certainly enjoy.
Good thing they hadn't been looking for trance music. I wouldn't have had any idea where to send them on a Thursday night.
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