I try never to miss the opportunity to celebrate Martin Luther King Day.
That's why I was at the Maggie Walker historic site for a lecture this afternoon from Kitty Snow about the West Clay streetcar line where her great-grandfather was a motorman from 1909-1934.
Hello, I've lived on West Clay for almost six years now. I was that person calling out, "What block is that?" throughout her talk.
Arriving early, I heard a woman address the speaker, acknowledging their bond, having worked together at the telephone company 30 years ago. As they reminisced, a man in the second row, called out. "Where did you go to high school?" Huguenot High, she responded. He told her he'd been a good friend of her brother.
"That's the thing, " she said, laughing. "You can't be unkind to anyone in this town because they'll end up being someone you know's cousin." Just then a woman spoke up, saying she was knew the speaker's daughter, who had just had triplets.
I was sitting there feeling superior, thinking how grateful I was that I hadn't gone to high school or college in this town when a woman behind me began talking about how she knew the women's brother, even lived near him, and had heard about the stories of the triplets. When she mentioned the twins' father, I recognized the name and suddenly I was in the game.
The father is a musician and someone I know well. All of a sudden, I was one degree removed from all these Richmond stories. Funny how that happens, as I admitted as much to the group.
The talk was fabulous: pictures taken by a streetcar motorman who worked the West Clay line (Oakwood Cemetery to Newtowne) and snapped pictures of people and places along the way.
There were pictures of mule teams working on the Broad Street station (yes, now the Science Museum of Virginia). There were lots of pictures of activity on Bowe and Moore Streets in Carver, including one of Norton Street looking north towards what is now Magpie.
Photos of VUU showed a mostly wooded lot where now buildings stand. The stockyards located behind Newtowne West showed up in photos of pigs and cows being led down Leigh Street and Bowe Streets to slaughter.
Other photos showed drugstores with spittoons, streetcar drivers taking much-needed naps and various Jackson Ward neighbors, black and white, posing for portraits.
It was a fitting tribute to the everyday man, the best possible way to salute Martin Luther King.
After that, we went to Evergreen Cemetery, a huge burial ground for blacks and one I'd only read about. Everywhere you looked were tombstones, most buried behind trees and overgrowth, a testament to the sheer numbers of dead and the complete abandonment of the grounds.
The only ones who hadn't forsaken the cemetery were the lovers or at least the fornicators because we unearthed two used condoms as we sought out graves. Headstones ranged from early 19th century to the 1980s, with some trees growing right through the slabs of stone.
It was a powerful reminder that we only get so much say over the dead and gone. Me, I want to be burned to a crisp and scattered to the four winds.
With the east end in our rear view window, we made a bee-line for the Boathouse, hoping to see the sun set. The end result was even better, a twinkling view up the river toward downtown, crowned by the Libbie Hill monument.
While it was incredibly bright in the bar, our stools put the sunset at our backs, the TV out of view, and glasses of LaMarca discounted by $3. Not a bad place to end up on a Monday night.
The guy next to us was trying to achieve three weeks in January without alcohol (kudos, buddy) while most other people were taking advantage of discounted pizza. For us, a view of the setting sun was sufficient.
On a day dedicated to a man who sought racial equality, we were more than happy to sit at a bar of people of all races, ages and creeds. Equal opportunity drinkers and talkers, so to speak.
Quoting MLK, I have decided to stick with love; hate is too great a burden to bear. Besides, love holds so much more appeal.
Or perhaps I'm just showing myself to be the hopeless romantic I really am. There can be no deep disappointment when there is not deep love. Or walks in the cemetery and bubbles.
Showing posts with label lamarca prosecco. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lamarca prosecco. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 20, 2015
Thursday, June 12, 2014
The Getaway
I was only gone for 35 hours, but I like to think I spent my time wisely.
The six hours on the train up and back were put to indulgently satisfying use starting one of my birthday books, "The Goldfinch," talking me through just under 300 pages.
Beautifully written, immediately engrossing from the first few pages, I already know I'll be sorry when this book ends.
It's taken me no time at all to realize that train trips are second only to being at the beach when it comes to hours on end doing nothing more than turning pages. Heaven.
Much as I enjoy getting lost in the scenery passing by outside the train, it could have been snowing for all I knew.
Arriving in Annapolis just after a shower, it was sticky and muggy when my friend picked me up from the train station where she'd been incorrectly informed that my train had already come and gone (it hadn't). She was in a mild panic when I spotted her in the parking lot.
The afternoon flew by and by the time we got ready to get back in the car to go out for dinner, it was almost 8:30 and we spent the drive chatting on speaker phone with a mutual Richmond friend who'd called earlier, unbeknownst to us.
He'd been out for happy hour and it was happy he sounded as he tried to stir the pot and make us laugh, taking us right up to the restaurant parking lot with his nonsense.
My friend had been hoping to take me to a new restaurant, a place I hadn't yet been, but when pressed, I admitted that what I really wanted was crabs. Again.
That's how we've ended up at Cantler's, a riverside crab place three of the last four times I've gone up there. Only this was the first time the weather made sitting outside a possibility.
The earlier mugginess had given way to a beautifully breezy evening and there was a prime corner table on the patio overlooking the river. My friend warned me that the service outside tended toward the terrible, but even she had to admit it was a prefect night to do so.
As a dedicated summer-lover (you'll never hear me complain that it's too hot or humid), these long days are part of the siren song of the season. As I looked out over the river, I was struck by not just how light it still was at 8:45 (duh, ten days until summer solstice), but how there was still plenty of light for the boats and houses along the shore to throw reflections on the water.
It didn't hurt that the river was smooth as glass, allowing the reflections a mirror-like surface to join with the reality above.
A fading white shack, sailboat masts, boat hulls all joined their likeness at the water line. It was not only beautiful, but striking for how dusky the sky was...and yet still enough.
Okay, so my friend had been right and the service was lackadaisical at best, although I did get a kick out of seeing servers clearing tables pour any remaining water from cups onto the window boxes along the patio's railing. So eco-friendly, if nothing else.
As usual, we powered through hushpuppies and extra-large crabs, scratching our head when a server told us they were low on crab seasoning, as if it's tough to get Old Bay or kosher salt.
Gradually the patio began clearing out except for us and two women at a nearby table deep in wine and conversation after an earlier broken wineglass (it happens).
For that matter, my friend and I got pretty deep into it, trying to elucidate the difference in a relationship when young versus middle aged and how what you want that partnership ultimately to become changes (or doesn't).
A (male) friend once told me that middle aged people don't "fall" in love, they find a compatible person and agree to compromise, but my girlfriend and I begged to differ. Why shouldn't we be able to feel passion and romance like we did when we were 25?
Over multiple splits of bubbly (her) and Herradura (me), we ruminated on the things that matter to us in a partner before being distracted by a boat towing another, smaller one into the dock below, both with lights twinkling on the inky river.
When we'd stuffed ourselves silly and the place was close to closing, we got back in the car and she asked if I wanted to go to a neighborhood, down and dirty-style bar. Sure I did.
While meandering through Eastport trying to find said dive bar, she noticed our friend had left another message, pulled over in front of one of the charming (and no doubt costly) vintage houses and called him back again.
That's how we ended up parked on a residential side street for who knows how long, our tipsy friend providing hilarious phone entertainment that kept us both in stitches.
So much for the bar. She did drive home via downtown Annapolis, around the city dock area, a place I hadn't been since the '80s.
Back in college, my boyfriend Curt and I, along with my best friend and her beloved, spent many a Sunday right there, eating (I had my first Monte Cristo there and thought it was the best sandwich I'd ever had), drinking (it was legal then) and wiling away the afternoon (I began practicing that early).
And while it was mostly recognizable, all the dilapidated little storefronts (I particularly recalled a hardware store that even back then felt like it had been frozen in time) have long since been replaced with chains and boutiques.
Still, a trip down Memory Lane was a fine ending to our evening.
Today's greatest pleasure was finding a treasure trove of my girlfriend's family photos and memorabilia.
As a lover of photography, I am always entranced by old photos, but there were some truly amazing pieces she had, like a couple of tintypes - precursors to photographs- and pictures from when her grandfather had been in school, an announcement for her grandmother's wedding in 1901 and even family report cards from 1879 and 1890 (back when kids got grades for hygiene and penmanship).
There was a wide, panoramic photograph of a rocky beach in Massachusetts, not looking all that different than how it did when I first went to Cape Cod in college.
Over and over, my friend marveled at how tickled her Dad was going to be when he saw all these old pictures of his father. Honestly, it was pretty fascinating to see them and I'm no relation to anyone in them.
We got so caught up going through stuff that all of a sudden we looked up and realized I had 75 minutes before my train left.
Ever the resourceful one, Friend instructed me to grab my things and we'd head to the nearby steakhouse for a quick happy hour.
Admittedly, I'm not the steakhouse person she is, but I can happy hour with the best of them and with less than 60 minutes to departure, we were walking up a staircase with large-format black and white photographs of local scenes such as the distinctive Thomas Point Lighthouse, Maryland state capital, and watermen pulling in crabs.
At the bar, we set out to have quick glasses of Lamarca Prosecco (although it took three flat pours before we got glasses with sufficient bubbles) and a pre-train nibble.
My friend wanted the buffalo meatballs while I chose bacon-wrapped, chorizo-stuffed dates and I'm proud to say she ended up liking my choice better than hers, an accomplishment in my eyes.
We were in and out in 20 minutes and at the train station in another 20. Mission accomplished.
My train ride home was cozier than its predecessors because of the rain beading up on the windows, but also more punctual for a change. Plus the fairly empty Quiet Car I was riding in afforded the opportunity to get further lost in this magnificent book I'm reading.
I'd call these two well-spent summer days.
The six hours on the train up and back were put to indulgently satisfying use starting one of my birthday books, "The Goldfinch," talking me through just under 300 pages.
Beautifully written, immediately engrossing from the first few pages, I already know I'll be sorry when this book ends.
It's taken me no time at all to realize that train trips are second only to being at the beach when it comes to hours on end doing nothing more than turning pages. Heaven.
Much as I enjoy getting lost in the scenery passing by outside the train, it could have been snowing for all I knew.
Arriving in Annapolis just after a shower, it was sticky and muggy when my friend picked me up from the train station where she'd been incorrectly informed that my train had already come and gone (it hadn't). She was in a mild panic when I spotted her in the parking lot.
The afternoon flew by and by the time we got ready to get back in the car to go out for dinner, it was almost 8:30 and we spent the drive chatting on speaker phone with a mutual Richmond friend who'd called earlier, unbeknownst to us.
He'd been out for happy hour and it was happy he sounded as he tried to stir the pot and make us laugh, taking us right up to the restaurant parking lot with his nonsense.
My friend had been hoping to take me to a new restaurant, a place I hadn't yet been, but when pressed, I admitted that what I really wanted was crabs. Again.
That's how we've ended up at Cantler's, a riverside crab place three of the last four times I've gone up there. Only this was the first time the weather made sitting outside a possibility.
The earlier mugginess had given way to a beautifully breezy evening and there was a prime corner table on the patio overlooking the river. My friend warned me that the service outside tended toward the terrible, but even she had to admit it was a prefect night to do so.
As a dedicated summer-lover (you'll never hear me complain that it's too hot or humid), these long days are part of the siren song of the season. As I looked out over the river, I was struck by not just how light it still was at 8:45 (duh, ten days until summer solstice), but how there was still plenty of light for the boats and houses along the shore to throw reflections on the water.
It didn't hurt that the river was smooth as glass, allowing the reflections a mirror-like surface to join with the reality above.
A fading white shack, sailboat masts, boat hulls all joined their likeness at the water line. It was not only beautiful, but striking for how dusky the sky was...and yet still enough.
Okay, so my friend had been right and the service was lackadaisical at best, although I did get a kick out of seeing servers clearing tables pour any remaining water from cups onto the window boxes along the patio's railing. So eco-friendly, if nothing else.
As usual, we powered through hushpuppies and extra-large crabs, scratching our head when a server told us they were low on crab seasoning, as if it's tough to get Old Bay or kosher salt.
Gradually the patio began clearing out except for us and two women at a nearby table deep in wine and conversation after an earlier broken wineglass (it happens).
For that matter, my friend and I got pretty deep into it, trying to elucidate the difference in a relationship when young versus middle aged and how what you want that partnership ultimately to become changes (or doesn't).
A (male) friend once told me that middle aged people don't "fall" in love, they find a compatible person and agree to compromise, but my girlfriend and I begged to differ. Why shouldn't we be able to feel passion and romance like we did when we were 25?
Over multiple splits of bubbly (her) and Herradura (me), we ruminated on the things that matter to us in a partner before being distracted by a boat towing another, smaller one into the dock below, both with lights twinkling on the inky river.
When we'd stuffed ourselves silly and the place was close to closing, we got back in the car and she asked if I wanted to go to a neighborhood, down and dirty-style bar. Sure I did.
While meandering through Eastport trying to find said dive bar, she noticed our friend had left another message, pulled over in front of one of the charming (and no doubt costly) vintage houses and called him back again.
That's how we ended up parked on a residential side street for who knows how long, our tipsy friend providing hilarious phone entertainment that kept us both in stitches.
So much for the bar. She did drive home via downtown Annapolis, around the city dock area, a place I hadn't been since the '80s.
Back in college, my boyfriend Curt and I, along with my best friend and her beloved, spent many a Sunday right there, eating (I had my first Monte Cristo there and thought it was the best sandwich I'd ever had), drinking (it was legal then) and wiling away the afternoon (I began practicing that early).
And while it was mostly recognizable, all the dilapidated little storefronts (I particularly recalled a hardware store that even back then felt like it had been frozen in time) have long since been replaced with chains and boutiques.
Still, a trip down Memory Lane was a fine ending to our evening.
Today's greatest pleasure was finding a treasure trove of my girlfriend's family photos and memorabilia.
As a lover of photography, I am always entranced by old photos, but there were some truly amazing pieces she had, like a couple of tintypes - precursors to photographs- and pictures from when her grandfather had been in school, an announcement for her grandmother's wedding in 1901 and even family report cards from 1879 and 1890 (back when kids got grades for hygiene and penmanship).
There was a wide, panoramic photograph of a rocky beach in Massachusetts, not looking all that different than how it did when I first went to Cape Cod in college.
Over and over, my friend marveled at how tickled her Dad was going to be when he saw all these old pictures of his father. Honestly, it was pretty fascinating to see them and I'm no relation to anyone in them.
We got so caught up going through stuff that all of a sudden we looked up and realized I had 75 minutes before my train left.
Ever the resourceful one, Friend instructed me to grab my things and we'd head to the nearby steakhouse for a quick happy hour.
Admittedly, I'm not the steakhouse person she is, but I can happy hour with the best of them and with less than 60 minutes to departure, we were walking up a staircase with large-format black and white photographs of local scenes such as the distinctive Thomas Point Lighthouse, Maryland state capital, and watermen pulling in crabs.
At the bar, we set out to have quick glasses of Lamarca Prosecco (although it took three flat pours before we got glasses with sufficient bubbles) and a pre-train nibble.
My friend wanted the buffalo meatballs while I chose bacon-wrapped, chorizo-stuffed dates and I'm proud to say she ended up liking my choice better than hers, an accomplishment in my eyes.
We were in and out in 20 minutes and at the train station in another 20. Mission accomplished.
My train ride home was cozier than its predecessors because of the rain beading up on the windows, but also more punctual for a change. Plus the fairly empty Quiet Car I was riding in afforded the opportunity to get further lost in this magnificent book I'm reading.
I'd call these two well-spent summer days.
Thursday, November 28, 2013
First, Last, Everything
Ah, yes, the annual Thanksgiving eve get-together with the city-bound.
I got the e-mail this morning, inviting me for what sounded like the typical Italian Christmas Eve meal - all kinds of seafood- and since it also promised, "reds, whites and a bubbly," I RSVP'd yes indeed.
The evening began with music from a Buffalo Springfield box set while we marshaled our forces and decided how to best attack preparing this meal.
My charming host began with the most time-specific wine choice for the next few weeks, a Georges Duboeuf beaujolias nouveau to celebrate the harvest.
That got us through the Stephen Stills covers of Neil Young songs, into the Graham Beck Brut Rose and through the shrimp cocktail, lobster tails, crab legs and basmati rice.
My charming hostess told me how she'd seen a blast from the past today: the Thanksgiving episode of the "Beverly Hillbillies" from 1963.
They ate on the pool table, FYI, she said.
It was four hours in when we retired to the living room to continue sipping and discuss life that I made the mistake of yawning.
"Don't you dare," my hostess instructed firmly. "Ordinarily, you'd just be going to Balliceaux now."
She did have a point. It was then that the host decided to put on "The Velvet Underground and Nico," the banana album, saying that he wanted to play a song for me.
The grand irony was that I'd never heard the album start to finish, so even after he'd played "Femme Fatale" for me, I insisted on hearing the rest of it.
Interestingly enough, my hostess had never heard it, either, but then she's a fan of '40s and '50s music, so there are a lot of '60s and '70s bands she doesn't know.
But after a few songs, and she did admit that Nico must have sounded like a revolutionary vocalist for the time (1967), she rolled her eyes at me as I rhapsodized about finally hearing this piece of musical history.
You have to remember, I reminded her, this band and this unique sound inspired legions of people to start bands.
And she, out of step with much past 1979, said, "And now they just sound like everybody else!"
Talk about nailing it on the head, but what an evolution that is.
When "Banana" finished, my hostess requested something from the disco era and the host obliged with "Saturday Night Fever."
Overplayed? Yes, to death. Listened to much recently? Nope, definitely not. Evocative of a very young period? Without doubt.
The host was not the disco fan we were, but totally got into it when "Tragedy" came on and picked up a nearby kazoo (noteworthy in and of itself) and played kazoo accompaniment for the rest of the song. And pretty damn well, too.
We challenged him to reach out to that other side of our impressionable young selves and he responded admirably with Joni Mitchell's "Hits" (as opposed to "Misses"), starting with a song from "Court and Spark," a high point for both her poetic songwriting about youth and the perfection of her voice.
I was a free man in Paris
I felt unfettered and alive
Nobody was calling me up for favors
No one's future to decide
You know I'd go back there tomorrow
But for the work I've taken on
Stoking the starmaker machine
Behind the popular song
"Stoking the starmaker machine" may be one the of the most well-written musical phrases of 1974.
Talking about "Court and Spark" reminded my hostess that on the "Beverly Hillbillies" episode she'd just seen, Elly Mae had been given lessons of courting and sparking.
Coincidence? We didn't dwell on it.
Not sure what possible musical direction we could go in with our Lemarca Prosecco, in a masterful stroke, our host chose "Barry White's Greatest Hits," a record so worthy I also own it.
A record so satisfyingly danceable that two of us were soon dancing on the couch, at least until the host grabbed his woman and danced with her on the floor.
The other of us continued her couch dancing.
When they finished, he chided her for not wanting to dance more with him. She challenged that she didn't know how to dance.
If you're old enough to have danced to Barry White the first time, you can dance. Hell, if you can do it, you can dance.
Never tell a man who's said out loud that any night he sees you is a special night that you don't want to dance with him.
Remember Barry's advice, my dear? "I'll Do anything You Want Me To."
Second only to "Let the Music Play."
I got the e-mail this morning, inviting me for what sounded like the typical Italian Christmas Eve meal - all kinds of seafood- and since it also promised, "reds, whites and a bubbly," I RSVP'd yes indeed.
The evening began with music from a Buffalo Springfield box set while we marshaled our forces and decided how to best attack preparing this meal.
My charming host began with the most time-specific wine choice for the next few weeks, a Georges Duboeuf beaujolias nouveau to celebrate the harvest.
That got us through the Stephen Stills covers of Neil Young songs, into the Graham Beck Brut Rose and through the shrimp cocktail, lobster tails, crab legs and basmati rice.
My charming hostess told me how she'd seen a blast from the past today: the Thanksgiving episode of the "Beverly Hillbillies" from 1963.
They ate on the pool table, FYI, she said.
It was four hours in when we retired to the living room to continue sipping and discuss life that I made the mistake of yawning.
"Don't you dare," my hostess instructed firmly. "Ordinarily, you'd just be going to Balliceaux now."
She did have a point. It was then that the host decided to put on "The Velvet Underground and Nico," the banana album, saying that he wanted to play a song for me.
The grand irony was that I'd never heard the album start to finish, so even after he'd played "Femme Fatale" for me, I insisted on hearing the rest of it.
Interestingly enough, my hostess had never heard it, either, but then she's a fan of '40s and '50s music, so there are a lot of '60s and '70s bands she doesn't know.
But after a few songs, and she did admit that Nico must have sounded like a revolutionary vocalist for the time (1967), she rolled her eyes at me as I rhapsodized about finally hearing this piece of musical history.
You have to remember, I reminded her, this band and this unique sound inspired legions of people to start bands.
And she, out of step with much past 1979, said, "And now they just sound like everybody else!"
Talk about nailing it on the head, but what an evolution that is.
When "Banana" finished, my hostess requested something from the disco era and the host obliged with "Saturday Night Fever."
Overplayed? Yes, to death. Listened to much recently? Nope, definitely not. Evocative of a very young period? Without doubt.
The host was not the disco fan we were, but totally got into it when "Tragedy" came on and picked up a nearby kazoo (noteworthy in and of itself) and played kazoo accompaniment for the rest of the song. And pretty damn well, too.
We challenged him to reach out to that other side of our impressionable young selves and he responded admirably with Joni Mitchell's "Hits" (as opposed to "Misses"), starting with a song from "Court and Spark," a high point for both her poetic songwriting about youth and the perfection of her voice.
I was a free man in Paris
I felt unfettered and alive
Nobody was calling me up for favors
No one's future to decide
You know I'd go back there tomorrow
But for the work I've taken on
Stoking the starmaker machine
Behind the popular song
"Stoking the starmaker machine" may be one the of the most well-written musical phrases of 1974.
Talking about "Court and Spark" reminded my hostess that on the "Beverly Hillbillies" episode she'd just seen, Elly Mae had been given lessons of courting and sparking.
Coincidence? We didn't dwell on it.
Not sure what possible musical direction we could go in with our Lemarca Prosecco, in a masterful stroke, our host chose "Barry White's Greatest Hits," a record so worthy I also own it.
A record so satisfyingly danceable that two of us were soon dancing on the couch, at least until the host grabbed his woman and danced with her on the floor.
The other of us continued her couch dancing.
When they finished, he chided her for not wanting to dance more with him. She challenged that she didn't know how to dance.
If you're old enough to have danced to Barry White the first time, you can dance. Hell, if you can do it, you can dance.
Never tell a man who's said out loud that any night he sees you is a special night that you don't want to dance with him.
Remember Barry's advice, my dear? "I'll Do anything You Want Me To."
Second only to "Let the Music Play."
Monday, July 29, 2013
Double Dutch DInner
Once isn't always enough.
Tonight that meant two dinner dates, with the first at Toast.
I'd reviewed Toast last Fall, but it's located way out of my limited world, so I hadn't been back since my four visits back then.
But when one of my couple date suggested dinner there, I happily agreed, even offering to drive.
As we headed westward ho, it became clear from the darkening sky that we were just going to beat the rainstorm.
Walking in with my umbrella clutched in hand, the hostess complimented my wisdom, noting that I was the first to come in prepared.
Well, I was a girl scout.
Within minutes, the skies opened up and a deluge began to fall outside.
I'd offered my extra umbrella to one of my companions, but she'd turned it down, commenting, "I don't melt in a little rain."
Honey, this was a lot of rain and I may not melt, but I can do without wet hair at the beginning of an evening out.
Over peach sangria and happy hour beer, we slowly narrowed our food selections.
Since I had a second dinner date, I kept my choice light with the grilled avocado and cheesy corn chip salad with cucumber, sprouts, sunflower kernels, tomatoes, and pico de gallo in a lemon/smoked honey vinaigrette.
Our food took forever to come out and I wondered if perhaps it had been sitting a while since the cheese on my four corn chips was cold and hard, meaning a long way from freshly melted.
Luckily, the rest of it was fresh and quite delicious, so I overlooked the sub-par chippage.
As we ate, we watched people rush in from the monsoon, eager to escape the outside for drinks and eats.
Meanwhile, we moved on to Toast's signature doughnuts with honey mascarpone, the only dessert I know of that arrives being shaken in a paper bag.
I'm here to tell you that the smell of freshly fried doughnuts shaken in cinnamon sugar is enough to make a person forget she has further dinner plans.
If I'm going to leave my personal orbit and venture as far as Three Chopt and Patterson, these doughnuts are as worthy a reason as I know of.
By the time we left Toast, the rain had stopped and a rainbow was arching over Patterson Avenue as we drove back to the city and all I hold dear.
Dinner #1 done.
Stop #2 was at the home of my friend, Holmes, and the occasion was a visit by a mutual friend.
Our little quartet has an affinity for bubbles and LaMarca Prosecco, the favorite of Holmes' beloved, had ben earmarked as the beverage of the evening.
By the time I arrived, the three of them were already starting the second bottle so I had to hit the ground running.
First order of business was choosing wine tags for our glasses.
Holmes had already claimed "immature," his beloved went with "earthy," the guest chose "rich" and I opted for "supple."
Sometimes we label ourselves as we are and other times as we wish we were.
In any case, it didn't stop people from drinking from the wrong glass on occasion, but what's shared cooties among friends?
My work was cut out for me when I noticed that there was no music playing because I don't see how people can have a dinner party without it.
Holmes allowed me to choose the music (probably since he knew I had to pick from his collection so how bad could it be?) and I began with the Finn Brothers' 2004 album, "Everyone is Here."
One of my favorites on that record is "Anything Can Happen," which seemed like an apt metaphor for tonight's gathering.
I could never give it up
I could never relent
And I can't wait to see
What will happen to me next
Music blasting from the dining room, we prepared to commence the business of making dinner.
This involved grilling shrimp in Holmes' secret sauce whilst preparing chicken and steak to be grilled afterwards.
Despite keeping the meal simple with jasmine rice and sliced Hanover tomatoes sprinkled with Old Bay, it wasn't long before the kitchen and deck resembled a Keystone Cops caper, with people coming and going, taking things that others were looking for and constantly losing what mattered.
But as long as the LaMarca kept flowing, no one seemed to mind.
It seemed to me that such chaos required '80s music, so my next album choice was "Natural History: The Very Best of Talk Talk," a record I never expected to find in Holmes' collection.
Au contraire, he informed me; he had four Talk Talk albums.
Man, you think you know a person.
Funny how I blind myself
I never knew
If I were sometimes played upon
Afraid to lose
By the time we finally sat down to eat, it was on Holmes' new Japanese placemats, purchased yesterday at an estate sale and leading to a discussion of the pleasures of said sales.
Sometimes it's not about the stuff for sale (an $18,000 cabinet?) but about being inside a house you'd never otherwise get to see.
With three women and only Holmes to represent the simpler sex, I'm afraid the conversation took a decidedly feminine turn, settling on the intricacies of relationships.
Is living together necessarily the goal of a relationship? How long is too long to wait for commitment? How important is the concept of the "right person"?
Hell if we knew.
Once the conversation devolved into our misspent youths, we decided it was dessert time.
Fortunately, bubbly goes extremely well with chocolate eclairs and chocolate mousse cake.
We gorged on sweets while listening to Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young's "Deja Vu," a true time warp, but well-suited to Holmes' taste.
Groovy vibes permeated the room, or perhaps that was the Prosecco.
Everybody, I love you
Everybody, I do
Though your heart is in anger
I need your love to get through
Nothing like a Sunday night with everybody.
Our visiting friend told me she had never seen me looking happier or more vivacious.
I'm just happy to wait and see what will happen next.
Tonight that meant two dinner dates, with the first at Toast.
I'd reviewed Toast last Fall, but it's located way out of my limited world, so I hadn't been back since my four visits back then.
But when one of my couple date suggested dinner there, I happily agreed, even offering to drive.
As we headed westward ho, it became clear from the darkening sky that we were just going to beat the rainstorm.
Walking in with my umbrella clutched in hand, the hostess complimented my wisdom, noting that I was the first to come in prepared.
Well, I was a girl scout.
Within minutes, the skies opened up and a deluge began to fall outside.
I'd offered my extra umbrella to one of my companions, but she'd turned it down, commenting, "I don't melt in a little rain."
Honey, this was a lot of rain and I may not melt, but I can do without wet hair at the beginning of an evening out.
Over peach sangria and happy hour beer, we slowly narrowed our food selections.
Since I had a second dinner date, I kept my choice light with the grilled avocado and cheesy corn chip salad with cucumber, sprouts, sunflower kernels, tomatoes, and pico de gallo in a lemon/smoked honey vinaigrette.
Our food took forever to come out and I wondered if perhaps it had been sitting a while since the cheese on my four corn chips was cold and hard, meaning a long way from freshly melted.
Luckily, the rest of it was fresh and quite delicious, so I overlooked the sub-par chippage.
As we ate, we watched people rush in from the monsoon, eager to escape the outside for drinks and eats.
Meanwhile, we moved on to Toast's signature doughnuts with honey mascarpone, the only dessert I know of that arrives being shaken in a paper bag.
I'm here to tell you that the smell of freshly fried doughnuts shaken in cinnamon sugar is enough to make a person forget she has further dinner plans.
If I'm going to leave my personal orbit and venture as far as Three Chopt and Patterson, these doughnuts are as worthy a reason as I know of.
By the time we left Toast, the rain had stopped and a rainbow was arching over Patterson Avenue as we drove back to the city and all I hold dear.
Dinner #1 done.
Stop #2 was at the home of my friend, Holmes, and the occasion was a visit by a mutual friend.
Our little quartet has an affinity for bubbles and LaMarca Prosecco, the favorite of Holmes' beloved, had ben earmarked as the beverage of the evening.
By the time I arrived, the three of them were already starting the second bottle so I had to hit the ground running.
First order of business was choosing wine tags for our glasses.
Holmes had already claimed "immature," his beloved went with "earthy," the guest chose "rich" and I opted for "supple."
Sometimes we label ourselves as we are and other times as we wish we were.
In any case, it didn't stop people from drinking from the wrong glass on occasion, but what's shared cooties among friends?
My work was cut out for me when I noticed that there was no music playing because I don't see how people can have a dinner party without it.
Holmes allowed me to choose the music (probably since he knew I had to pick from his collection so how bad could it be?) and I began with the Finn Brothers' 2004 album, "Everyone is Here."
One of my favorites on that record is "Anything Can Happen," which seemed like an apt metaphor for tonight's gathering.
I could never give it up
I could never relent
And I can't wait to see
What will happen to me next
Music blasting from the dining room, we prepared to commence the business of making dinner.
This involved grilling shrimp in Holmes' secret sauce whilst preparing chicken and steak to be grilled afterwards.
Despite keeping the meal simple with jasmine rice and sliced Hanover tomatoes sprinkled with Old Bay, it wasn't long before the kitchen and deck resembled a Keystone Cops caper, with people coming and going, taking things that others were looking for and constantly losing what mattered.
But as long as the LaMarca kept flowing, no one seemed to mind.
It seemed to me that such chaos required '80s music, so my next album choice was "Natural History: The Very Best of Talk Talk," a record I never expected to find in Holmes' collection.
Au contraire, he informed me; he had four Talk Talk albums.
Man, you think you know a person.
Funny how I blind myself
I never knew
If I were sometimes played upon
Afraid to lose
By the time we finally sat down to eat, it was on Holmes' new Japanese placemats, purchased yesterday at an estate sale and leading to a discussion of the pleasures of said sales.
Sometimes it's not about the stuff for sale (an $18,000 cabinet?) but about being inside a house you'd never otherwise get to see.
With three women and only Holmes to represent the simpler sex, I'm afraid the conversation took a decidedly feminine turn, settling on the intricacies of relationships.
Is living together necessarily the goal of a relationship? How long is too long to wait for commitment? How important is the concept of the "right person"?
Hell if we knew.
Once the conversation devolved into our misspent youths, we decided it was dessert time.
Fortunately, bubbly goes extremely well with chocolate eclairs and chocolate mousse cake.
We gorged on sweets while listening to Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young's "Deja Vu," a true time warp, but well-suited to Holmes' taste.
Groovy vibes permeated the room, or perhaps that was the Prosecco.
Everybody, I love you
Everybody, I do
Though your heart is in anger
I need your love to get through
Nothing like a Sunday night with everybody.
Our visiting friend told me she had never seen me looking happier or more vivacious.
I'm just happy to wait and see what will happen next.
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