Sunday Morning Coming Down

I wouldn't want to brag about being a good daughter.

Okay, I wouldn't ordinarily, but who else but a very good daughter would go to dinner at a place that has Tr*mp wines on the wine list?

Not to mention that I'd just gone to the Northern Neck on Wednesday to make lunch for my Dad on the occasion of his actual 87th birthday, so it's not like I was looking to score points or anything.

Daughterly duties done, that lunch might have been enough for some offspring.

But while we were in Islamorada, I'd gotten an invitation to Dad's birthday dinner and the 26th of January seemed forever away and my brain was probably somewhat softened by all that sun and relaxing, so I'd casually mentioned it to Mr. Wright and he'd agreed.

It probably didn't hurt that he and my father have a mutual admiration thing going, but his brain may have been a tad vacation-compromised, too. An acceptance was sent.

So there we were, driving to the Northern Neck Saturday afternoon, allowing enough time to get ready and have a glass of wine in Irvington before setting out to meet an abbreviated version of the family (including the only sister and brother-in-law he'd yet to meet), meaning only eight people for dinner at the Kilmarnock Inn.

Although I've been to the Inn plenty of times, I'd never noticed the political slant of the menu before. I'm talking about a menu with the title "Filibusters at the Kilmarnock Inn," that then moves on to "Starters for the First Term" (and second term) and includes such entrees as the POTUS platter (filet mignon) and the Presidential Running Mate (NY strip).

Refusing to be part of that nonsense, I instead opted for seafood wontons followed by a salad of greens, craisins, Feta, olives and pecans, then flatbread with wilted arugula, marinated tomatoes, goat cheese and bacon.

Not a partisan opinion in sight.

But no self-respecting liberal wants to open up her wine list and see, not one, but two, Tr*mp Winery options staring back at her. Goodness knows, I remember all the yard signs in this neck of the woods back during the election cycle, so I knew I was a stranger in a strange land, but the decision to offer those bottles can't possibly sit well with every Inn visitor.

So I have to assume management are idiots.

Eager to share my disdain with the choice, I discretely pointed out the wines, first to Mr. Wright and then to Dad, both of whom made their opinion of the inclusion obvious in their return looks. My discretion was necessary because one sister and her husband are of a different political affiliation than my parents and me and I wasn't looking to start any discussion on that subject.

Instead, a lot of the evening's conversation involved travel. Seems the absent Sister #5 and her husband are about to take a river cruise through Europe, although no one seemed quite sure of where they were leaving from or going to. Sister #3 regaled us with a laundry list of Italian cities she and her husband have been to, while lamenting not having decided which one they want to retire to.

When talk turned to sports and the topic of ballparks, a mention of me - the least sports-inclined of my Dad's six daughters - having been to Wrigley Field caused Sister #4 to say to her husband that it would be a good one for them to visit.

Even an athletic failure like me knows that, as ballparks go, I got to see a game at one of the best.

In typical Sister #3 fashion, once she realized the depth of Mr. Wright's sports knowledge, she wasted no time in bluntly asking him what he was doing with me.

Ah, sisters. Can't live with 'em, can't kill 'em.

The second problem with the Kilmarnock Inn, after its wine-buying habits, is that it's located in Kilmarnock, where they roll up the sidewalks by 9:00 on a Saturday night. We'd barely finished our desserts when we were informed that they'd finished up everything they needed to do and were closing up for the night.

Translation: we needed to clear out.

Fortunately, two of the couples were staying at the inn, so we all adjourned to the gathering room, a euphemism for a good-sized room located near the inn's cottages with a TV, a pool table and leather library chairs for lounging. Bottles of red and white wine helped keep the party going once it was decided that shooting pool was in order.

Luckily, as the two least coordinated (but best read, I might add) sisters, Sister #4 and I immediately settled into chairs to chat while the ultra competitive Sister #3 teamed up with her husband and challenged Mr. Wright and Brother-in-law #4 to a game.

Little did she realize that you don't challenge Buffalo and Chicago natives to pick up a cue without expecting that they've spent some time in a few pool halls. Even after what Brother-in-law #4 referred to as "giving them a shellacking," Sister #3 continued to insist on additional games.

Meanwhile, Sister #4 and I, comfortably sipping Grillo on the sidelines, were also learning about hidden billiards talents in our partners. I can still use the excuse of newness, but they've been together for 30 years, so you'd think pool would have come up before now.

Eventually, the victors refused to shellac the losers even one more time and we left the inn to recover from family time those who were sleeping there.

We'd opted out of brunch with the clan so that we could have a leisurely Sunday, eventually landing at the library to hear Richmond Times Dispatch columnist Bill Lohmann talk about his book, "Doctor Copter" about the physician who'd made weekly treks to Tangier Island to provide medical care.

For us, it was a rare cultural activity on one of our Irvington weekends, but to locals, it was like the second coming. Attendees not only filled the large room where Bill spoke, but also another room downstairs where they'd decided to broadcast his talk to accommodate the overflow crowd.

I'm sure a big part of the appeal was the Northern Neck/Tangier connection - many of the original settlers in my parents' village came from Tangier - because the doctor flew out of Whitestone in the early years and later Topping. That said, Mr. Wright posited that it was a function of being held after church let out, being a free event and, probably most important of all, that local women make cookies which are then served to attendees after the lecture.

What more could a curious Northern Necker want on a Sunday afternoon?

I don't know about what else those people might have wanted, but we closed out the weekend at Merroir, sitting on the porch for a change because of the temperature. A couple and their dog were the sole occupants of the outdoor seating but even they eventually caved and put Rover in the car so they could dine in warmth.

Meanwhile, the porch provided everything we wanted: a view of the water, a bottle of Hugl Gruner Veltliner and a platter of Old Saltes to get the party started. After the Ruby Salts I'd had at Perch and the gigantic Apalachicola ones I'd slurped in Isalmorada, I needed a palate correction back to what a truly briny oyster should taste like and Old Saltes never disappoint.

But we'd come, not just to chow down, but to talk and Mr. Wright's rockfish under caramelized onions and my fishcake over mixed greens provided the fuel to do a post-vacation look back while considering next year's winter getaway possibilities.

He likes to say that there's an awful lot of thinking and talking that goes with this relationship, while I'm convinced it's really just a whole lot of planning and executing.

Not that I'm complaining.

Well, except when it comes to businesses foolish enough to serve wines labeled with the name of the man attempting to destroy the American democratic experiment.

Can't we just give him a shellacking and be done with it?

For Ace, Wherever You Are

Plans, it seems, are just suggestions and now I reek of a stranger.

Waking up after only seven hours of sleep this morning, I couldn't drift back off. I knew I had exactly three things planned for today, each one progressively more appealing: an interview on the Northern Neck, lobster dinner with my parents at the Inn at Montross and a show with my favorite music lover.

Returning from a walk where I'd investigated the eastern end of Brown's Island (finding it soggy, debris-strewn and still inaccessible to the pipeline walkway), I found a message from Dad: we would meet at the Kilmarnock Inn, not Montross.

This was actually more convenient for me (less driving) so I sign off on the change. The moment I hit the send button, I get an email from my editor asking if I can please cover an event tonight from 6-8.

Well, not if I'm eating dinner on the Northern Neck I can't.

Now I've got to check with Dad and see if we can meet before my interview for lunch instead of dinner. He agrees, but warns me he won't be freshly shaven if we do.

Shaving not required, I tell him.

The drive out is pleasant and only mildly unnerving when I get to the White Stone bridge which is being worked on. This means only one lane is open and a flagman is directing traffic, but it also means stopping at the pinnacle of the bridge for our turn to go and, let me tell you, it's an unsettlingly windy place to stop.

I console myself by looking at the portable toilet perched atop a trailer next to the construction equipment, feeling grateful that while I have to sit in my car at the height of this bridge, at least I don't have to relieve myself on high.

And as along as I was up there, I took a few photos out the window of the shimmering blue Rappahannock surrounding me, my arm hairs glinting in the sun.

The Inn is crowded and the table next to us is discussing impeachment, which would be a good thing except they're discussing Clinton. My parents live deep in conservative territory, so they're often in the minority when it comes to politics.

Dad and I have Crab Louie salads piled high with crabmeat and we all share housemade peach ice cream for dessert while Dad tells me how much relief he's getting from acupuncture and Mom ghoulishly describes watching the needles being inserted.

When I get to where my interview is scheduled, I learn that the interviewee is stuck on the bridge, which is how I wind up in an Adirondack chair on the front porch of a radio station reading the Washington Post waiting for the manager to escape the bridge line.

A woman who'd won a prize on the morning radio show drives up and asks if I work for the station. When I say no, she heads inside to claim her prize. I learn that today is also her birthday and I wish my fellow Gemini a happy one.

Because my subject was a half hour late, I get back to Richmond later than planned and I need to be at this event in half an hour. Fortunately, it's 3 blocks away and I walk quickly.

I have just long enough to glance at my inbox, where I'm surprised to see that a friend from Boston has emailed, but I don't bother opening it now when I have somewhere to be.

Once there, I begin talking to people for my story and all of a sudden a woman approaches, throws her arms around me and hangs on for dear life. I don't know her, but I hug her back so long and hard that she finally mumbles, "You're a really good hugger!" Even so, we hang on to each other even longer.

We move over to a bench to sit down and I get a whiff of her scent on me. It makes me feel very unlike myself since I don't wear perfume, but I unexpectedly enjoy knowing that I smell girly. She tells me I'm beautiful, raves about my dimples and runs her fingers through my hair, saying we should start a band because of our punk hair.

I have no idea what rabbit hole I've gone down.

After the tribute ends, people begin drifting over to Quirk for drinks (a somewhat ironic way to celebrate a man who died of alcoholism) and several ask if I'm coming. Because I have plans in an hour, I really can't, although it would be a beautiful evening to be on the rooftop at Quirk.

Turns out the friend from Boston is in town for the night only and wants to get a drink and chat after not seeing each other in years. I have exactly 58 minutes free before being picked up for music, but I'm game and ask where he is.

Before he responds, I hear from my favorite music lover, who is suffering from too little sleep (join the club, Tiger, I'm operating on a two-hour deficit myself and all because of anticipation about seeing you-know-who) and indigestion, so he's bowing out of music tonight.

As compensation, we spend a pleasurable hour volleying words back and forth as I put away the detritus from today's road trip, take off my going out clothes and settle myself contentedly on the balcony with a bowl of raspberry sherbet.

And, man, do I smell good. Too bad nobody will know.

To Dote or Not to Dote, That is the Question

Dote (verb): to bestow or express excessive love or fondness habitually

Only in my family could we spend a good chunk of a pre-Mother's Day luncheon discussing who dotes and who doesn't, not to mention what constitutes doting.

The subject arose because Sister #5 doesn't care for her daughter's beau, openly stating such despite the fact that he dotes on her.

When Dad tells us that we should all be so lucky as to have a man who dotes on us the way he dotes on Mom, it opens the door to doting discussion.

"So whose husband does dote?" Sister #2 asks of the table.

Sister #6 quickly clarifies that her husband does not and has never doted, despite a long and successful marriage. We all agree that Sister #3's husband dotes unabashedly, but even Sister #4 herself isn't entirely certain if her husband qualifies.

Someone cracks that neither Sister #2 nor Sister #5's husbands dote, but both take issue with this, bringing up meal-making and housecleaning as examples of doting.

Wait, aren't those just examples of shared responsibilities?

Discussion is tabled when housemade ice cream - limoncello, peach, chocolate - arrives, but then Sister #6 remembers a critical point.

"None of us has ever doted," she reminds us. It's true and whether that's a failing or not is up for debate, as is practically everything in this family.

Fortunately, the day ends with a friend who not only wants to hear all about the sister round table, but is willing to knead the family-inflicted tension out of my shoulders after I share it at 821 Cafe over black bean nachos.

I reward him with an evening at Firehouse Theatre seeing "Maple and Vine," a play about an overly stressed couple who abandon focaccia, cell phones and Google for life in a gated community that recreates life in 1955.

Women are pretty and persuasive but men wear the pants in the family, crab puffs and charades constitute a party with neighbors and wives attend Authenticity Committee meetings to ensure they are living properly buttoned up and politically incorrect Eisenhower-era lives.

Their lives are no longer information-saturated, over-scheduled or diverse, so they are more present in their own lives now, even if their roles in it are more strictly circumscribed. But are they happier?

What it comes down to, of course, is how each person defines happy.

Happy (adjective): feeling pleasure and enjoyment because of your life or situation

Now there's another concept ripe for discussion.

Lunch Friday?

It's a personal best: I went to the Northern Neck four out of the last five days.

Today's trip was twofold. After scheduling a late afternoon interview, I'd received an unexpected lunch invitation, with the qualifier, "Wherever you wish."

I was quick to remind  my lunch date that my mother taught me that when you're invited to lunch, you let the host choose the place. Almost immediately, I heard back, "Let's go to the Kilmarnock Inn. It will be quieter there and we can have a nice lunch."

Honestly, we could have had a nice lunch anywhere on the coastal plain today given what a drop-dead gorgeous day it was, the sky a brilliant blue and the breeze warm enough to have the car windows down as I blasted Ryan Adams' "1989" and Tim Buckley's greatest hits.

Sailing past the turnoff to Merroir - where I'd been just last night - I thought about how much I'd been out at the river this week, how I'd have crossed the Rappahannock six times and the Pamunkey four times by the time I got home tonight.

Looking down from the top of the White Stone Bridge, I saw a couple of boats out on the water, reminding me of the times my favorite cop took me under the bridge, once because we were chasing a pod of dolphins.

As beautiful a day as it was, I couldn't help but notice how different the light is in mid-March as compared to late summer.

All I can say is, bring on the bright light.

The restaurant at the inn was hopping but we were led to a table with two wing chairs, making for an enclosing-feeling space tucked in a corner. Housemade cheese biscuits to start the meal didn't hurt, either.

Despite the season, I ordered the Crab Louie salad, aware that I wouldn't be eating local crab, but craving lumps of crabmeat (and fried croutons) nonetheless.

Tasty as the salad was, the conversation was every bit as good, as we discovered all the things we had in common, from school memories of like eras to a fondness for email communication to dreaming up second acts.

Things got a little raucous more than once (I always hear my Richmond grandmother's voice in my head, saying, "Karen, no one wants to hear you making all that racket"), but because we outlasted most of the dining room, it wasn't our problem.

When our chipper server offered dessert, I said sure, my host jumped on the bandwagon and we managed to stretch out our conversation for close to another hour, all in the service of eating decadent slices of chocolate chocolate cake.

To our everlasting credit, we at least refrained from housemade ice cream on our cake.

By the end (or nearing the beginning of dinner for the staff), we both admitted that lunch had lasted a lot longer and been a whole lot more fun than we could have hoped for.

It was a damn good thing my work assignment was nearby.

I was interviewing a former first lady's secretary, not because of her former job but because of what she'd created out of the former slave quarters on her house's property: the most incredible outdoor dining room imaginable.

We're talking an early 19th century building completely restored and redone as the best party room a person could hope for. A giant wooden chandelier from Mexico hanging from original arched ceiling. A trap door in the diamond pattern-painted floor leading to a bricked root cellar. Doors that opened out with a view of the property, 125-year old sycamores and lush fields of a nearby farm.

Turns out the owners of Good Luck Cellars, a nearby winery I know well, were at their celebratory first shindig last Fall. We agreed about the convenience of starting at the winery and ending up here for dinner and conversation late into the night.

It was getting late in the afternoon, very late, but the convivial space had a hold on us and she kept showing me finds - numbered bricks unearthed from the old foundation, a liquor jug a former neighbor recalls seeing in the building as a child, pieces of cracked pottery from inside the walls.

As I was getting ready to hit the road, she told me I needed to come back for a dinner party.

My mother taught me that when you're invited to dinner at a charmingly-restored slave quarters, you say yes to the hostess immediately.

This second act is working out awfully well.

Island Time and WIne

Birthday week celebration kicked off with a field trip.

I got invited to Gwynn's Island and with a weather forecast of blues skies and 75 degrees, immediately said hell, yes.

And while I've heard of Gwynn's Island, I didn't know a single thing about it. With the music set to Pandora's Replacements station (traveling music, don't you think?), I can tell you we passed a lot of honeysuckle on the way down, thrilling me because that's a favorite summer smell.

If I'd had the sense to think about it, I'd have anticipated that there would be a bridge because, duh, it's an island, but I hadn't, meaning I was pleasantly surprised when we reached the light that would give us access to the bridge, which I assumed was a small drawbridge.

Once on the island, we met a boat builder who'd decided to build a B & B on the island and let him be our tour guide.

He began with how the island got named, one of those stories they don't teach you in 4th grade social studies.

Seems Pocahontas was swimming in the river and started to drown and a local man, Hugh Gwynn, saved her. Chief Powhatan was so grateful Hugh got the island as reward for his effort.

I was even more surprised to hear that it had been an important strategic point for the battle of Yorktown and even saw some action during the Civil War.

Out of nowhere came a honking noise to warn us that a boat was coming under the bridge and the second oldest swing bridge in the state began slowly swinging to the side to open and let the boat through.

Can't say I'd seen a swing bridge in action before.

Nor can I say I know any boat builders until yesterday, but this guy was a pro, as evidenced by the sleek lines of the polished wood kayak he'd made and had sitting on the grass in the late morning sunshine.

And he doesn't just make them, he hosts classes where people come down and he helps them make themselves a boat in just under a week.

Besides kayaks, he makes cocktail class runabout boats, 8' plywood boats originally designed in the '30s that look a little like the shape of a rowboat cut in half (but use an engine) and are enjoying a renaissance.

What I'd like to know is how they got their name. Cocktails and boats aren't supposed to mix, right?

He pointed out the far end of the island, far being a relative term since it's only 3 1/2 miles away, bragging a little that when standing over there, you could see the Eastern Shore.

Then he suggested a walk over to the marina, made all the more pleasant by the sweet smells of the mock orange in bloom.

Showing us his boat, he shared how he'd ridden out Hurricane Sandy there despite warnings that the water might rise so high his boat roof would crash into the marina ceiling. Another time, he started out with his boat and it stalled but kept going forward and, fearful it would crash into another boat, decided the wisest thing to do was put his body between the two boats to prevent that.

He was a colorful character all right.

When we left him to his adventures, it was to drive around the flat, little island to see the far reaches of it.

It was obvious that at some point, houses had been allowed to be built on any and all irregularly shaped tracts of land a person could find. A plot map of the island would have resembled a jigsaw puzzle.

When we got to the end of Old Ferry Road, presumably no longer needed because of that fabulous swing bridge, we found three houses facing the water and a sandy, white beach with small waves licking at the shore.

"Want to get your feet wet?" I was asked rhetorically. The river wasn't nearly as cold as I'd expected and we stood there in it looking across the expanse of the bay to, yep, the Eastern Shore.

Our guide had raved about the sunrises and moonrises from the island and it was easy to imagine how splendid they'd be from here.

Driving back out past the colorful little houses and weekend shacks, I could feel that my body had already shifted to what our guide had called "island time."

Nothing's important and there's seldom a need to rush...for anything.

When we left Gwynn's Island, it was with plans to come back this summer for a boat ride at the very least.

From there, we meandered around to Merroir for lunch, arriving around 2:00 to find six other tables full of laughing, lunching, drinking people sitting outside facing the water.

Not a soul was on the porch.

Our server asked if we wanted a sunny or shady table and I said yes, so she placed us at one under the tree so I'd have sun on my back but not my face.

Obviously everyone there was on the same sort of Monday schedule as we were. Lunch was a nod to the Commonwealth with a bottle of Barboursville Sauvignon Blanc and a dozen and a half oysters - Old Saltes, natch - ans we settled back to watch boats like a trimaran coming back to the marina.

It was such a beautiful afternoon and since the rest of our day's plans had yet to be determined, we took our time. I couldn't resist a softshell over crab and bacon slaw, a dish so perfect it should be its own food group.

On my way to the loo, I ran into Chef Pete and told him that that we had nothing as impressive as that slaw back in Richmond. Enfolding me in his bear arms, he called me a beautiful woman and told me that was great because it ensured I'd have to keep coming back there.

As if that wasn't going to happen.

Over our last glasses of wine, we considered our options for the rest of the afternoon. I was hoping for a ferry ride but the ferry doesn't run on Sunday and Monday. So we headed back through Irvington to the Dog and Oyster Vineyard and took up residence on their magnificent screened porch.

With the winemaker's four young sons doing their homework at a nearby table, we tasted through Oyster White (a Chardonel), Pearl (Vidal Blanc), Rosie (a Merlot and Vidal Blanc Rose), Shelter Dog Red (Chambourcin) and Merlot while hearing about the winery dogs and the Dog and Oyster's relationship with Good Luck Cellars, a winery I'd visited just last month.

It was hard to get motivated to leave the screened in porch, a place with a long, old wooden table adorned with fresh wildflowers and able to seat fourteen and that was in addition to the table where the boys were doing their homework.

Well, all except the 13-year old who'd found a lizard with a leg injury and proceeded to cauterize the wound and then test out the lizard's agility post-op for us.

Boys will be boys and all that.

With such fine entertainment, we couldn't summon a good reason to leave so we had a glass of the Rosie, a pretty pink wine with notes of strawberries and lime and chatted up a couple from Lynchburg who had also been at Merroir now sitting at the far end of the table from us.

Out in the vineyards, the adopted hounds happily romped up and down the rows of grapes. We purchased a couple bottles of Rosie for future summer afternoons and hit the road again, Pandora now set to the Marvin Gay station.

This time, our meandering led us back to the 1884-built Kilmarnock Inn, a charming-looking place with a delightful patio out back facing a courtyard of guest cottages and lush garden beds.

We were the only ones eating out there, although why, I can't imagine. It was a beautiful night to be eating outdoors under a pergola with flowers all around. Those people inside needed a good talking to, if you ask me.

Beginning with Crab Louis salad, a long-time favorite of mine, I was happy to see plenty of meaty lumps of blue crabmeat, as it should be. Since our original plan had been to find a crab house, this was my compensation for there being no places to pick tonight.

Because it was the start of my birthday week, I went for filet mignon and loaded down the accompanying baked potato with enough butter to close my arteries by my actual birthday. If not now, when?

Our server brought the check before we asked for it, so after paying, we went inside to scope out the inn and wound up meeting the chef.

Once he got to talking to us, it seemed silly not to order dessert, so I asked what they had and the girl got no further than "chocolate cake with chocolate frosting and chocolate filling" before I waved away whatever else she had to say and ordered that.

The chef wanted me to drink the right spirit with my dessert, bringing out Terra d'Oro Zinfandel Port, a lush fortified wine tasting of raisins and the soul mate of chocolate.

Here was a man who'd just met me and he was already anticipating my needs. Superbly.

So here I am, only a day into my birthday week celebration and already feeling terribly lucky to have spent the entire, glorious day eating, sipping, dipping my feet in the river and watching bridges open. Blathering the whole live long day.

Best line of the day, despite the absence of fries: "I could eat my french fries without ketchup, but why would I do that?"

This looks to be an excellent week for the birthday girl.