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?

Five and Counting

It would have made the AAA map guy furious.

I'm talking about the person whose job was to draw the yellow lines on Trip-tik road trip maps back in the day, a job that is surely now done on computer. The person whose sure handed, easy-to-read map made clear how to get to each of the destinations along your road trip.

Oh, sure, he'd be fine highlighting the Northern Neck-bound route from Jackson Ward to Morattico for a Reuben lunch with my parents, the Reuben part a holdover from Father''s Day when he'd wanted one and something else got planned for lunch.

That I showed up in a Cubs t-shirt tickled my mother no end.

And while they were waiting for us on the screened porch, you'd better believe Wimbledon was on in a nearby room. Mom takes her tennis watching seriously. Still, I was very surprised when she told me that not learning tennis was a sincere regret. Funny, I always attributed my lack of hand/eye coordination to her un-athletic DNA. Maybe not.

The Trip-tik guy might have let it slide that when we left Morattico, it was to retrace our steps to Warsaw to go to Menokin's speaker series to hear architect Reid Freeman. Why double back, you ask? For no other reason than I'm the kind of bon vivant who chooses to spend a gorgeous Friday afternoon being lectured to about early Tidewater building techniques. Yes, I am.

Or at least that had been the planned topic when the series was decided 6 months ago, but as Reid said, now it all tied back into the wood frame classroom they'd built on Menokin's 18th century grounds. In researching local house-framing techniques before building it, he'd been sucked down the rabbit hole of old, local frame buildings (like smokehouses and barber shops), information which had informed the building of the classroom.

But where he scored major points was toward the end of his two-hour talk when he implored us, "Now, just let me dork out for a minute here," and took off running down an architectural rabbit hole with a faraway smile on his face.

Surely the Trip-tik guy would have scratched his head when we left Warsaw for the Trick Dog Cafe in Irvington because by now our route resembled a backward "Z" or perhaps just scribble-scrabble. There's tuna tartare and obscenely rich she-crab soup, asparagus and grilled shrimp but a very small crowd. It's my first time, so I know not what to expect.

The next morning, the AAA guy would be further perplexed as he drew yet another yellow line, this one needing to be drawn from Irvington across the river at the Merry Point ferry back to River Road, less than 10 miles from my parents' house.

Even the trees were starting to look familiar at that point.

But I'd do a lot more than retrace routes to get to the yellow cottage on the Corrotoman to stay with the only couple I know who refer to their time apart between the two stages of their relationship as "the terrible awful."

The captain had already promised me a boat ride (never mentioning he had a new power boat) but then delivered three rides, including one to scope out the view from the river of the house we'd just left, a leisurely tour of the western branch (with all its new construction) and a sunset cruise on a glassy river.

He also grilled salmon for dinner while my girl crush made shrimp and grits (the latter unfamiliar to the native Chicagoan, though he loved them) and a cobbler with fresh peaches for dessert. The topic was how hungry everyone was after an exhausting day doing little more than sitting on a boat cutting through the water.

My Mom used to say that children never sleep or eat better than at the beach, and maybe the same applies to river time for adults. All I know is, the four of us didn't do much beyond eating, drinking and comparing notes on our backstories the entire time.

And when it all became too much, there was my favorite screened porch for sleeping.

Sunday was basically rinse and repeat, with more of the same plus a test drive in a fast car done by two men with an affinity for high RPMs and show tunes. I'm going to go out on a limb and say that Sunday was the first time "Camelot" was being belted out from a speeding car in Bertrand.

When it came time to bid farewell to the happy couple, it was to head back to Irvington, but naturally not by the same route we'd come the day before because the ferry doesn't run on Sundays. So back we went, practically to my parents' house, before taking the long way back to Irvington.

At this point, AAA guy's yellow line has begun to resemble a line drawing of a shrimp or crawfish with its mouth open and there's just no way to tell what any of the routes are because they've crissrossed each other so many times.

A first-timer to the Northern Neck would have looked at that map and given up. I'm talking people like John and Sharon, the nice couple from Frederick, Maryland sitting behind us after the next leg of the journey took us from Irvington to Topping for dinner at Merroir. They were NNK virgins, having succumbed to an enticing Travelocity package (who knew that was a thing?) to celebrate his recent retirement.

They were celebrating with Rochambeau oysters while I had to have Old Salts to accompany Vino Verde (and commemorate our occasion), followed by ceviche, fish tacos and smoked cobia and arugula. The ritual pineapple upside down cake followed for dessert before we took the last of the wine down to the dock to watch dusk settling in while fish splashed in and out of the river.

Fortunately, the drive back to Irvington added no new lines to the map. Nevertheless, Trip-tik guy's head has exploded by now.

Even today's drive home further muddied the waters since we came back via West Point rather than Tappahannock, as we'd done on Friday. This was no carefully planned route, this was a map covered in intersecting and overlapping yellow lines as we tooled around Lancaster County for days.

Not to mention, had a perfectly marvelous time doing it. Let me dork out for a minute here and share my favorite assessments of this brave  new world I now occupy. I was compared to a three layer chocolate cake, for one, but it's hard to beat what the boat captain observed to the newcomer. "She's walking a whole lot lighter now."

Without a map, I might add. Take that, Trip-tik.

To Neck, To Love, To Propose

My thinking was, if it's warm enough to be on the roof, it's warm enough to be by the bay.

So when a certain pink hotel-owning woman made an executive decision and posted it online - 63 degrees in November? That's enough for us to open Q Rooftop for a drink or two and watch a spectacular fall sunset. Bring a coat and scarf and come on up! - I naturally took note and mentioned it to Mac on our sunny walk along the river this morning.

Only then did it occur to me that weather fine enough for rooftop sipping combined with neither of us having to work today was practically a blueprint pointing us in the direction of Merroir. It didn't hurt that we both love a good road trip, either.

By 2:00, we were en route with her Sirius radio set to the '70s station - because Al Wilson's "Show and Tell" guarantees a good time - and by 3:00, easing down winding Locklie's Road, where the absence of leaves on the trees meant we spotted the brilliant, blue water far sooner than a summer visit allows.

We'd missed the lunch crowd, beat the dinner crowd and had our choice of tables, asking only for one in full sunlight.

The moon was already rising in the sky as we ordered a dozen Old Saltes and settled back to watch a sailboat, masts down, glide into the marina next door. Fate was smiling on us because instead of 12, 15 briny oysters arrived on our platter and we slurped them down like we'd just walked four miles. Oh, wait...

Within minutes, we realized how impeccable our timing was as a foursome joined us outside and a busload of people arrived in the parking lot. The latter (oyster tourists, perhaps?) were apparently on some sort of guided tour where they were led to the dockside building were oyster spat are nurtured to learn about aquaculture, but not to the tables to partake of the fruits of that labor. Tragic, really.

Recognizing us for the starving women we were, our server came back to recite the specials and we gave two the immediate nod: brussels sprouts with cherries and honey, and tuna tacos.

When I mentioned that I was tempted by the fish cakes over mesclun on the menu because they hadn't been on the menu last time I was there, our server tells us that the menu had been changed only yesterday and they'd been added. When I ask what kind of fish, she says rockfish and Mac swoons. We'll take them, too.

When the food arrived, we dove right in, so when she returned not too terribly long after to check on us, asking, "You ladies need any...oh, no, you don't," she was laughing as she looked at two empty plates and two more that were down to the last few bites.

No shame in a healthy appetite.

By that point, the tour bus had pulled around and was casting an enormous shadow on the area where the foursome was sitting enjoying their Stingrays (nice, but not nearly salty enough for some of us) and don't you know that one of the women at the table (the one wearing shorts) marched right over to that bus driver and asked him to pull up enough to give us back our sunlight?

On a day as fine as today, nobody wants their mellow harshed and if buses must be moved, so be it.

It was when I was coming back from the bathroom - still located outside, which Mac and I think is one of Merroir's most honest features - that I was spotted by the long-time chef I'd first met on my initial visit back in June 2012 when I'd interviewed him. I rave about the rockfish cakes, he grins, shrugs and says, "Tis the season."

Next thing I know, he's coming out to the porch to meet me for a quick catch-up session and bear hug. Just as I'm letting go, he squeezes me again and jokes, "It's so great to see you. Wanna go neck?" and cracks me up. When I tell Mac about it, she laughs, too, wondering who says "neck" anymore."

Middle-aged chefs?

The sun is dropping below the tree line when we finally pull away from the water, but we're both happier for having spent the time with a view of the moon rising, birds soaring and boat traffic.

Once back in J-Ward, we did the only sensible thing and strolled over to Quirk Hotel to ride the elevator to the Q rooftop bar. After all, Mac had never been, it had been over a year since I had and, frankly, we had nothing better to do. Sure, we'd missed the sunset, but drinks and views awaited us.

The real pleasure was how uncrowded it was. Because I'd only been during peak season in the past, I was unprepared for how spacious it felt with less than 20 people up there. As we were ordering, a guy paying his check pointed out how he'd expected it to feel colder and it wasn't. It was lovely.

Even so, Mac couldn't resist an Irish coffee, saying yes to the bartender when she offered both Jameson's and Bailey's, while I toasted the night sky with a plastic Christmas-decorated party cup two thirds full of Prosecco. I feel certain that's not a standard pour, not that I told her how to do her job.

Taking our libations in hand, we walked the perimeter of the rooftop so Mac could admire the views east, west and south, from whence the breeze was coming.

As it turned out, it was a new experience for me, too, since I'd never been up there in the dark before. The red and green traffic lights of Broad Street looked particularly seasonal and festive, but the most striking vista was the twin up-lit spires of the Mosque against a fading red horizon.

Once we'd finished sipping our drinks on a bench facing south and toward the river, we meandered back to my house and Mac's car, because of course the night wasn't over with Secretly Y'All starting in less than an hour.

Now I'm going to sound like the old-timer talking about how I've been going to Secretly Y'all for storytelling for years except that now it's so crowded that Mac and I couldn't even find seats despite arriving 35 minutes before it began. Insert shaking fist. As my theater critic friend and I discussed, Secretly Y'All has completely outgrown the space at Flora, unless the goal is to worry the fire marshal and make people shed clothing because it's so warm with body heat.

We plastered ourselves against the back wall with one stool between us for stories around tonight's theme, "This Doesn't End Well." As it turned out, that applied to more than the stories.

There was one about an 18-year old and his friends involving their shared love of trespassing and climbing on top of buildings that ended with a drunk girl duct-taped to a table and a friend in intense groin pain from a fall, but, as Mac pointed out, who doesn't have one of those stories?

Another involved a woman who was trying to say yes to life and wound up encouraging a sociopath (yes, I'll go to the park with you, yes, I'll give you my phone number, yes, I'll answer the door at all hours) who lived in the apartment beneath hers and kept a lizard farm in his old TV. So many red flags.

Then there was the guy who retired two weeks ago and couldn't stop talking. There are only three rules at Secretly Y'All: the story must be true, no notes are allowed and you must keep your story to 7 minutes. A bell rings at 6 minutes to give you a heads up and you wind things up quickly when you hear it. This guy showed up with notes (not used, thank heavens) and then proceeded to tell us about what the social climate was like in 1969, what the effects of Hurricane Camille were on Nelson County and a thousand other rambling details while ignoring the bell ringing every minute for about 12 or 13 minutes. Ouch.

We heard from a woman with a drinking problem assuming you think 12 glasses of wine and 9 gin and tonics in one night is problematic. No? How about after imbibing all that, she's outside a bar trying to make herself barf so she can go back in and drink some more? That one ended with, "Hi, I'm Sarah and I'm an alcoholic." Who knew we were going to an AA meeting?

One story involved a guy in traffic with no A/C flipping off another car and the guy following him and putting a pistol to his head. He got out of it by telling the guy that the finger wasn't for him, it was for the world and then spinning a tale about his wife and best friend's infidelity that had the pistol guy feeling sorry for him. If this sounds like it didn't end badly, please know that he still had no A/C after the guy left.

Finally, there was a guy who told a story of trying to avoid a crashed car on Powhite Parkway and then skidding on ice right into it. When another car skidded and headed for them both, he was hit, run over and his head pinned under the car's axle, getting third degree burns on his shoulders. Miraculously, once at the hospital, he was fine except for the burns. The worst part, he said, was seeing his mother's reactions to his situation.

With a theme like tonight's we were bound to hear some awful stories, but that one ended with the storyteller seriously choked up and trying to convey what he'd learned. "Fall in love with your existence," he directed the overflow crowd in a voice thick with emotion.

He even thanked his girlfriend for sticking by him during his difficult recovery, calling her up on stage to show his appreciation. And wouldn't you just know, after hearing an array of stories - awful, overly revealing, trite, uninteresting - he dropped to one knee and proposed to her right in front of all of us.

The question took longer to sink in for her than it did for the crowd who began cheering and applauding for what we'd just witnessed. Organizer Kathleen took control back by going to the mic and saying, "I don't know if that fits tonight's theme, but congratulations!"

Proof positive that sometimes you've got to ignore the theme and show and tell with your heart.

Meanwhile, I love my existence, but I'd heard all the bad endings I needed for one night. And on that note, Mac and I called it a day.  A very fine day.

When You're Home

When you can't vacation, staycation.

For the first time since, I don't know, the early '90s, I won't be on vacation for the week of July fourth. I'm not going to lie, it's a little weird.

So in an effort to make the most of being stuck in the city when most of the population bugs out, I'm trying to do things almost as pleasurable as vacation, except I'm still sleeping in my own bed at night.

I'm also not waiting until Saturday to begin doing it.

So after luring a willing walker to join me by the river this morning, I suggested a road trip, although without sharing its destination. We hopped in the car and he obligingly followed my directions, moving toward lower elevations and, as he put it, more sky.

I love that sense you get as you head past cornfields and boat dealers toward sea level and any sense of far ground disappears, leaving trees in the foreground but only the promise of water behind it.

Getting out of the car, he asked incredulously, "How do you know places like this?" Please.

It was an absolutely lovely day to find a table under the canopy at Merroir and spend the afternoon watching boats come and go from the marina, marveling at the changing bands of color on the river and sipping Vino Verde.

If that's not enough to evoke time away from home, I don't know what is.

For my companion, it was an especially interesting sojourn because he's never been much of a seafood eater, having only recently tried mussels for the first time.

Today was the equivalent of a hat trick since we shared crab and vegetable soup (the vegetables tasting like pure summer), smoked cobia salad with pickled cauliflower, butter lettuce and grilled bread and, most impressively, Old Salte oysters.

You know a guy is completely under the spell of the setting (sparkling company?) when he's willing to slurp bivalves for the first time.

We'd barely finished ours when the two couples seated behind us got theirs. They'd already proved themselves worthy as they debated what their first bottle of wine should be when one of the two women announced, "Let's begin with the better bottle since we won't know the difference later."

Eating through their oyster sampler - Rapphannocks, Rochambeaus and Old Saltes - one guy finished the latter and decided, "That's like licking a salt lick!"

Well, you know given my affection for Old Saltes, I had to couch his feelings in more positive terms, so I swung around and explained that, no, it's not salt lick-like, it's like being knocked down by a wave and getting a mouthful of saltwater.

"I never would have come up with those words, but you're right," he said, sounding vaguely amazed. No big deal, sir, I traffic in words.

They then ordered a second dozen, this time all Rappahannocks. Wimps.

Best of all, Merroir wasn't crowded so we felt zero guilt about lingering while we talked about overuse and inappropriate use of quotation marks (If you break a "plate," you will be charged $1.00), our initial sailing experiences (very different) and oyster farming (this was before he saw the oyster chart in the men's room).

Granted, it wasn't sitting on the screened porch overlooking the ocean, but it was no afternoon in the city, either.

We could have lingered hours longer, but one of us had early plans tonight (his were later), so we hit the road before we were ready to give up the gorgeous tableau in front of us. After a crash caused us to have to detour on the way home, we arrived 12 minutes after a friend was to have picked me up at home.

Oops. Luckily, Pru was smart enough to amuse herself until I belatedly made my appearance.

We dished (more accurately, a post-vacation debrief) while I got cleaned up and changed before strolling over to Saison Market for dinner. It's my third time there in five days, not that there's anything wrong with that, but we wound up eating inside because all the outside tables had been claimed on such a lovely day.

Our meal was prelude to seeing Virginia Rep's new production of "In the Heights," a big deal because it's Lin-Manuel Miranda's award-winning pre-"Hamilton" musical.

And we weren't the only ones stoked for it judging by the buzz in the room and sold out house on a Thursday night.

And with good reason. The talented cast wowed the crowd with stellar singing, dancing and acting that brought this rapidly-gentrifying corner in Washington Heights to life against a set that evoked a NYC streetscape with the blinking George Washington bridge in the background.

Despite the large size of the cast, only the handsome Josh Marin was familiar (as Benny), and seeing so many out-of-town faces only increased the sense that I was seeing a play somewhere other than Richmond.

Because sometimes when you're on vacation, you want to relax by the water. Other times, you just need a bit of culture.

And when you're on staycation, sometimes you get both in the same day.

As Pru commented tonight, "It must be exhausting to be you."

When it is, there's always the low-hanging fruit of a vacation staycation nap to tide a girl over. Maybe tomorrow...

Lookin' for Adventure

It was a day for relaxin' with the womenfolk and then showing a gent around.

Pru, her boho-clad Mom and I had made a date last week to lunch at Merroir for a reprise of our "ladies-who-lunch" extravaganza, meaning all of us had been eagerly looking forward to it.

When the weather forecast showed that it would be a cloudy, breezy and cool afternoon, Pru got nervous. Me? I interpreted those conditions as prime beach weather and looked forward to not having to slather on sunscreen for our al fresco meal.

"You and your silver linings," she always chides me. Yea, aren't they great?

The trip there, as always, delights with that bucolic, small town Northern Neck charm that announces you are heading toward a body of water. It's not just the flat landscape - her Mom, a Rodanthe native, likened it to Currituck and I could see the comparison - but the softness of the air as you get closer to the river.

With an hour's drive, we had plenty of time for chatter about non-assertive men, being gas-lit and how people change because of what life hands them. Pru tried to label us by saying, "We are some hard, jaded, bitter women," but I disagreed.

We are some experienced, cautious, complex women if you ask me.

We were also far from the only people who'd wanted a riverside lunch despite the forecast, although we did choose to eat on the porch rather than out in the open air. Fortunately, the "windows" of the plastic porch enclosure were rolled up on the marina side and the front door facing the river was open, so we had all the smells and occasional errant breezes but without getting chilly.

The food, as always, was second only to the view.

When our server asked if we wanted un-spiced or spicy steamed shrimp, she looked to Pru for an answer. I immediately did my best impression of spicy, which unexpectedly involved jazz hands and a vibrating body that the server found hilarious.

In fact, I may have over-vibrated since there was so much spice on the shrimp and accompanying vegetables (onions, celery, red pepper) that our mouths were soon on fire. Meanwhile I polished off a dozen Old Saltes and probably the best bowl of crab and vegetable soup I've ever slurped.

There were also angels on horseback, a stuffin' muffin and grilled shrimp to round out the meal on the porch. The sky was just as cloudy and the air just as beachy when we reluctantly hit the road for Richmond, making a stop at Norman's produce just long enough to score vegetables and hanging baskets of petunias for Pru's Church Hill manse.

"Are you sure you don't need some vegetables?" she asked. "Don't you ever cook at home?" Have we met?

And, yes, I make oatmeal every morning.

Back at home, I had enough time to answer a few emails before heading out for a walk that would take me to my evening's plans and provide the walk I hadn't had time for because of my lunch plans.

Unexpectedly, I had company.

Barely two blocks from home, a girl walking a bike joined me at a corner and we began talking. In Richmond a year after growing up in Roanoke, she's an anthropology major who knows she wants to work outside. Except she might want to do something else, she admitted guiltily.

As we crossed Broad Street and headed down Grace Street toward her boyfriend's apartment and my plans at Secco, we talked about a woman's range. She said she felt like her interests were so wide and she had no idea how to begin to narrow them down to figure out who she is and what she wants.

I may have made her day when I shared my age and that I'm still narrowing my range and figuring out who I am and what I want. When she admitted that she's often quiet in group conversations, she said it was because she was eager to hear other, more knowledgeable people's thoughts to help her form her own opinion.

I couldn't help but assure her that the older she gets, the more comfortable she'll be with what she thinks and likely lose that hesitation about speaking out. Opinions form themselves as you navigate the pleasures and perils of life.

When we parted, I told her I couldn't have asked for a better companion for my walk and she thanked me for the wisdom.

I was meeting a friend who'd been to Sicily a few years back and swore he hadn't been able to find Sicilian wine in Richmond since returning. Always happy to take on a challenge, I'd suggest meeting at Secco to see what it offered up.

One Sicilian red, but since we were looking for something a bit lighter, we wound up drinking a Basque Rose, mainly because he'd never heard of Basque wine, much less had any. Wait, there's more: he hadn't had a Rose before.

Intervention was essential.

The slightly spritzy Ameztoi Txakolina Rubentis not only brought him into the Rose fold, but did so with zippy notes of mineral and red fruit. It was a gorgeous pairing with smoked arctic char bruschetta and roasted asparagus with a crusted egg, its yolk oozing richness over every bit of green.

We finished the bottle with just enough time to stroll over to the Byrd to see a film that had already aroused the envy of everyone on Secco's staff who had to work tonight: 1969's "Easy Rider."

My friend had not only never seen it start to finish (my one and only viewing had been at Capital Ale House a lifetime ago back in 2010) but it had been one of the first two albums he'd bought with his own money.

In other words, it was inexcusable that he'd never sat through it.

From the footage of Mardi Gras parade in New Orleans (which might as well have been newsreel footage for how fascinating a glimpse into what the parade used to be it was) to the masterful use of existing music rather than a true soundtrack (can you ever have too much Roger McGuinn?), we were both completely sucked in to the late '60s with Captain America and Billy as they encountered hippie communes, free love and a whole lot of bad attitudes about nothing more than long hair.

We took our post-film discussion to the Gypsy Room so as to have the accompanying musical stylings of the Mikiyas Negussie Trio - jazz guitar, upright bass, drums - with more Rose education for him in the form of glasses of La Galope Rose.

We'd barely settled on the couch when my friend commented on the beautiful tone of Negussie's guitar, but soon corrected himself to acknowledge that it was as much about the young trio's talent as the instruments.

And although he'd played the room before as a musician, this was his first time hearing a show there and was inordinately pleased at the room's sound. The low-lit vibe and three sets of music, the final with a sax player sitting in, didn't hurt either.

Cultural lapses corrected? Check. Rose education begun? Check. Great company morning 'till night? Check.

Captain America may have put it best: "I'm hip about time." I like to think I am, too, especially when using it like I did today to store up especially satisfying interludes for those times when things are not so pleasurable.

Just another deposit of good times in the bank of life. Ya dig?

Éirinn go Brách

As a half-Irish (O'Donnell), raised Catholic (practicing heathen), daughter of a woman named Patricia who was born the day before St. Patrick's Day (and who gave me a lecture just Monday about the meaning of shamrocks), I was a dismal failure at celebrating today's holiday like a traditionalist.

I did not wear green, instead opting for magenta and black.

I did not drink green beer, preferring to guzzle Prosecco on tap while admiring the visual wit of a Ralph Steadman-designed label on Pearl Necklace Stout.

I did not go to an Irish bar, I went to the river where I spotted a man in a green plastic hat toasting a woman in a kelly green sweater. Without irony.

I did not eat corned beef and cabbage, I ate corned rock fish over kimchee, salty oysters and smoky chowder.

I did not see a parade, I watched fireworks set off from a nearby dock soaring upwards before landing somewhere far out in the water near a flashing green channel marker.

Sitting outside under a sky still light enough to see clouds yet dark enough to admire moon and stars, I wrapped a house blanket around my legs and listened to one of the guys in the kitchen sing a surprisingly lovely version of "Danny Boy."

To my Irish Grandmother's way of thinking, that could be considered almost as good as being in heaven a half hour before the devil knew I was dead.

Patio Daddio

I have a great Dad and I went to the Northern Neck to visit him today.

He's not great because he was ahead of his time, helping my Mom with parental responsibilities and daily care of me and my five sisters. There was a time when he used to mention nonchalantly that he'd never once changed a diaper. By today's standards, he was a negligent parent.

He's not great because he fawned over me (or any of us) or told me I was his little princess. But at the dinner table, he would seek out our opinions or ask what we were reading currently and really listen when we answered.

He's not great because he gave me a car when I was of age (he didn't) or paid for my college education (I did) but because he taught me to play beach volleyball, croquet and badminton, all things I wouldn't have tried without his invitation.

Where he's truly great is in his devotion to and love for my Mom, whom he refers to as "my sweet" and "love of my life" as if these were normal terms of endearment after almost 60 years. The flip side of that is how utterly frustrating it is to grow up with that kind of relationship as the role modeling set by your parents because it's a rarity to find, much less maintain in the real world.

But he's also day-to-day great in that he refuses to be any less industrious, gallant or helpful just because he's 83 with a hip replacement. He's still out there cutting multiple acres of grass, going to the wood yard to dump off a load of fallen branches and stopping by the store to pick up some cherries after my Mom casually mentions she's been craving them.

He gives blood regularly at the Red Cross and the old lady volunteers flirt shamelessly with him. Funny part is, it barely registers with him because women have been flirting with him since he was a teenager in Highland Park. And if he hadn't been used to female attention before he had six daughters, he definitely got used to it once we all showed up.

I'm not saying he's perfect - what child wants to wake up and see her naked father delivering tooth fairy money? - and I've no doubt my mother has some anecdotes that would curl my hair (although honestly, I'd like that), but all in all, for a guy who would have probably gotten voted least like to stay married for over a half century, he's done all right.

Today's Father's Day lunch involved two of my sisters, grilling burgers for lunch (because that's one thing he doesn't do anymore), drinking Rose and grapefruit juice with him (his first) and sitting with him while he watched part of the Nationals game and ate the lemon/chocolate cake I'd made for him (because it's one of his favorite combinations and no one else will make it, much less eat it).

And like the father that he's always been, when he finished with his cake plate and fork, he instinctively turned to hand it off to one of the womenfolk, namely me, to rinse and put in the dishwasher.

"Thank you, daughter," he says. Thank you, Dad, for everything else.

Meal Enhancement

With apologies to Fanfarlo, I've been driving for twelve hours now and ending up in the same place.

It wasn't intentional.

Tuesday I'd made plans to go to Merroir with Pru tonight. Wednesday I'd gotten a couple of short but labor-intensive assignments due today. Wednesday night I'd heard from a friend that he was driving to Annapolis to sail for the weekend, planning to lunch today at Captain Billy's on 301 along the way. Knowing my assignments would be finished by then, I suggested meeting him in Pope's Creek for lunch.

When I got home that night, I found three more short but labor-intensive assignments. Did I want them? Yes. Was I going to finish them by Friday, too? Unlikely. I got an extension through the weekend.

That's how I found myself driving up Route 301 today to have lunch with a man who'd left an away message on his work phone saying, "Sailing the bounding main."

Arriving at Captain Billy's, I was surprised I'd arrived before he did and disappointed when they said that there was no outdoor dining today. But part of the restaurant is over the Potomac and we had a tiny table tucked into a corner by the windows, with a view of not only the bridge we'd just crossed, but boats and water.

"I've never noticed this place when I'm crossing the bridge," he observed about the proximity of the bridge. I hadn't either, but who really wants to look around when you're crossing a  bridge bounded by Jersey barricades? It just doesn't seem all that sturdy. I know a guy who drove over it in a snowstorm and was scarred for life. That bridge terrifies him.

But from a short distance, it was a picture-postcard view.

The paper placemat contained a lesson on how to enjoy steamed crabs with diagrams and instructions that involved using a spoon or knife to clean off the area under the shell. Give me a break. If you need a tool to eat a crab (beyond a mallet for the harder shells of claws), you did not learn to eat crabs in Maryland.

My knife was as pristine when I left the table as when I'd arrived. 'Nuff said.

He insisted the Maryland crab soup - touted on the menu as low in fat and full of vegetables -was the best thing on the menu, so we ordered a bowl to share. And it was good but less a bowl of vegetable and more a bowl of starch with peas, limas, corn and potatoes holding up enormous hunks of lump crabmeat.

I'd considered getting the crab salad cold plate but woke up and realized it would be foolish to drive an hour and a half to a crabhouse and not eat crabs. And by eat, I mean pick, so I asked for a half dozen.

Seven arrived (I didn't challenge their math) and I dove in, even using my superior picking skills to aid my friend, handing him claws sporting backfin lollipops. Meanwhile, he'd ordered a hot crab melt, essentially warm crab under cheddar on an English muffin. It was a lot of crab on that table, not that I'm of the opinion you can ever have too much.

I wanted to applaud when a woman at a table near us requested to her server that the frigid air conditioning be dialed back from sub-zero to something that allowed us to feel comfortable yet summery. No more summer sweaters ever!

Our server, a veteran of nine years at Captain Billy's, checked on us frequently, but we didn't need anything more that what we had. I heard about the sailing plans, the spots on the eastern shore they'd visit and his plans to detour through Solomon's Island for the scenery.

Most impressively of all, he pulled out a crisp Maryland map to study as he devised his route. Map reading is a lost art, one I admire when I see it being done.

By the time we finished eating, we were both stuffed to the gills and looking at drives of over an hour, although in different directions. "You enhanced my lunch," he said gallantly before taking me to the far end of the auxiliary parking lot to see a historical marker about John Wilkes Boothe called dramatically, "Journey Into Darkness: Story of an Assassin."

Coming back over the bridge, I looked back and sure enough, there was Billy's low-slung red building on the banks of the river. I guess it had been there in plain sight all along.

The drive back was some kind of hot, I felt covered in crab spices and sweat and far too many Sunday drivers lolly-gagged on 301, but I eventually got back so I could get cleaned up for another road trip.

It wasn't enough that I'd had breakfast in Richmond, Virginia and lunch in Pope's Creek, Maryland because I had plans to enjoy dinner in Topping, Virginia at Merroir. We arrived just shortly after the Friday dinner rush madness began to abate, as evidenced by our young server showing up looking slightly stressed, saying, "I'm just catching my breath."

We insisted he take a deep one, let us ask him some questions in order to buy him some down time and not to worry about giving us speedy service. His smile showed his appreciation after the craziness and our Cave de Pomerols Picpoul de Pinet was delivered far sooner than was required.

After he left to assist the more demanding, we admired the seascape to our right, a scene of moored boats, many masts and the perfection of the evening colors on the river. It looked like an old Dutch master painting, the clouds and water streaked pink in front of the boats.

Pru doesn't do raw so I slurped Old Saltes solo before we shared an orgasmic plate of angels on horseback, baked oysters swimming in a pool of herbed butter under a blanket of Edwards ham. I drank the butter our of each shell, but Pru is far too much of a lady to slurp (all those years at boarding school), kindly pouring her butter on the remaining oysters.

Given the seafood orgy my day had become, there seemed to be no reason not to order steamed spiced shrimp and as with my crab picking companion earlier, my superior shrimp peeling skills made me popular with my date. I not only do the driving, I make the food mouth-ready. Who could ask for anything more?

Pru could and what she wanted was another batch of those angels on horseback to accompany more wine now that dusk had set in. It was her first time at Merroir and I could see she was firmly under its spell. It may not be as rustic as it used to be (or as I wish it still was) but its charms are still considerable, especially with a light wind blowing off the river.

A s'mores doughnut - pound cake doughnut, marshmallow cream, chocolate sauce and graham cracker crumbs - was the inevitable conclusion to our meal (because it was the only chocolate option), or so it seemed until Pru ordered a bottle of Rose to sip with it and take home, iced by our charming server for the road.

Unlike Boothe, my journey into darkness involved driving home, where the first thing that occurred to me was that I'd spent five of the past twelve hours driving. The second was that I'd had a boatload of seafood today, all of it stellar.

Should I have been home finishing those assignments to make a last minute deadline? That's what Saturday is for. My away message (as if I had one) might have said I was "doing research in two states." So there.

But, man, "sailing the bounding main" sounds way better.

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?

Don't Stop 'Till You Get Enough

Being the dutiful daughter results in a lot of waterfront pleasures.

It began with my Mom's birthday brunch at the Inn at Montross with four of my five sisters and their husbands and spawn. Sister #5 was missing in action because her husband (my friend before he ever laid eyes on her) had broken his knee cap in five places two days before the brunch.

I mean, I'd go to great lengths to avoid a family get-together, too, but not that far.

The rest of us met up for an eating orgy and non-stop talking fest (best comment: "We don't do 'shut out mouths' very well") that only nominally celebrated my mother.

Best quip from a sister: #3, who'd just returned from New Orleans. "We only went for three days. We can't do a week anymore or we come back in body bags." Tragic, but true, from two devotees of the Big Easy.

Once brunch was over, I headed to Mom and Dad's for my annual assist with preparations for her women's club St. Patrick's Day luncheon. What this involves is me making potato soup and soda bread for 70 women while my Mom watches and offers less-than-helpful advice.

Because St. Patrick's Day immediately follows Mom's birthday - March 16th - there was also the creation of  coconut cake (her fave) and dinner -Crab Imperial, chosen from a '70s Maryland Seafood Board cookbook both she and I own (original cost $1.50) - accompanied by the lovely "Love Drunk" Rose. Nothing beats seeing your Mom a little loopy on "Love Drunk."

My parents are basketball fanatics so while they stayed up to check the playoff brackets, I was more than happy to read the Washington Post and make it an early night.

Today dawned bright and early as I made a coffee cake for Mom's birthday (her request) and got started on the three loaves of raisin-studded soda bread she requires for the luncheon.

In between making the loaves (each takes 3 hours start to finish), there were walks to a house with fretwork from our own Broad Street Station and out on a lengthy pier that boasted terra cotta tubes over the posts so that during the controlled burns of the marsh, the pier wouldn't go up in flames.

Lunch was birthday-appropriate: sandwiches made from liverwurst from Metzger (I'm starting a cult of Metzger liverwurst devotees), accompanied by Fritos, a stipulation my family has always demanded with liverwurst, don't ask me why.

There is much about my family I have no explanation for. Such as why my mother, the least adventurous eater on the planet, a woman who would no more eat liver or pig's tail than dance on a bar, can love liverwurst. You know what it's made from, Mom, don't you?

Discussing my omnivore status, she says, "But you wouldn't eat brains, would you?" Would I? I have, Mom! The look of revulsion on her face alone was worth the drive.

Leaving there during the shank of the 68-degree afternoon, we headed to Belle Isle State Park, less than two miles away, and a world away in feeling. Horse trails, pavilions and a long pier that had a view of my parents' house were enough to seduce us down road after road once we entered the park.

Spotting a bald eagle stood with its feet in a massive puddle at the center of a field, I was reminded that my dad had said he'd seen a few around lately.

From there, the only logical thing to do was spend some time with a bottle of Mazzolino Brut Rose and a view of another river. Luckily for me, we have friends who happen to have a charming cottage fronting the Carotoman River mere miles from my parents' house.

Were they home? No, they're decent people at work on a Monday afternoon. Us, not so much.

Boldly setting up camp on their deck overlooking the Carotoman River, we promptly sent a photo of me, glass in hand, to the homeowner, with an email, "Trespassers! Call the police!"

The joke there is that our friend works for the county sheriff's office.  He called, laughing heartily, and lamenting that he couldn't be deck-side with us to enjoy the Rose and slow slide to sunset. Too bad because he's always terrific company and full of good stories.

But even interlopers don't want to overstay their welcome, so we tooled down the road to Merroir for dinner. It was too cool for al fresco dining, but we did take a minute to admire the new pergola and mourn the loss of the big tree that used to lord majestically over the outdoor tables.

Cozy on the porch with a view of the marina and a blue sky morphing into pink, chef Pete came out to say hello and invite us in to admire his new kitchen shelving, notable because the handsome slabs of wood had been reclaimed from an old building in Williamsburg.

His other bit of trivia was that the room we were standing in, the kitchen, had originally been the post office for the village of Lockslie during the pre-Zip code era.

Back on the porch, our cute server arrived to do our bidding. She shared her name, an unusual one, and when I inquired about her middle name, she explained that her parents gave her and her siblings middle names better suited to the opposite sex.

So hers was Ray while her brother's was Lynne, that sort of thing. Hippies, I asked? She broke into a wide grin. "Well, they're from Burlington, Vermont if that tells you anything!"

Sure does, honey, it tells me your parents sound almost as eccentric as mine.

We went straight to hog heaven with Wimmer Gruner Veltliner and a dozen Old Saltes in front of each of us while Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young's "Ohio" played overhead. I couldn't have been happier.

We were eventually joined on the porch by a foursome of locals who appeared to be regulars with good attitudes. But when our server told them about the lamb neck poutine special, they were flummoxed about the neck part.

Tongue loosened by then, I leaned over and assured them of the absolute tastiness of lamb neck. And come on, over fries with gravy and cheese curds? Not only did they order it, but as they left later, one of the women stopped to thank me, saying she'd never have had the nerve to order it without my endorsement.

Who doesn't like being thanked by a stranger for offering unsolicited food advice?

While I was eating my rockfish cake and my date his halibut special, Chef Pete returned and I insisted her share the tale of refinding his true love, a story I already knew but never tire of hearing. The man glows when he talks about his wife.

The meal was capped off with pure decadence - a doughnut split in half to hold marshmallow cream and then smothered in dark chocolate sauce, incidentally my first chocolate in days - as the fading sunset finally gave way to night on the river, our third body of water for this stellar afternoon.

I'd baked, I'd trespassed, I'd slurped bivalves, if that tells you anything.

Best of all, I'd earned my good daughter badge for another year.

Rock Me, Baby

Afraid that today is the last time it's going to feel so gloriously summer-like this year, I took full advantage.

Conveniently, I had multiple interviews to do in Kilmarnock, leaving me mere minutes from Merroir at 1:45. Only an idiot would have high-tailed it back to Richmond without stopping by.

Driving back over the bridge, the river looked silver-gray and the sky was crowded with clouds but once on the gravel road to Merroir, I could see blue sky and bluer water beckoning.

The hostess sat me in the center-most table, the sun on my back and the river view spread out before me. Only two other tables were occupied (and only two when I left) and one was by a staff member schooling the visitors on oysters and how much more slowly the river heats and cools off than the air.

Boats were bobbing at the marina next door  - one had a small pirate flag next to a small Confederate flag - and sailboats were spanning the mouth of the bay.

I began with Wimmer Gruner Veltliner and a salad of hydroponic butter lettuce with cranberries (not craisins, so decidedly tart), sunflowers, sauteed honey onions and fromage bleu. Only problem? The hearty breeze kept trying to blow my lettuce leaves off my plate. Solution? Eat faster.

The music was pretty much bluegrass, with occasional recognizable songs such as "Wagon Wheel," easy background listening on such a gorgeous day.

Next to me was a trio who weren't speaking English but the most interesting thing I noted was how one of the guys would suck the spices off the steamed shrimp before shelling it. Brilliant! How had that never occurred to me?

I could hardly enjoy such a perfect day at the river without oysters, so I got my favorite Old Saltes and sucked the briny liquor out of the shells.

When I inquired of my server if I could finish with a half glass of wine, she said they didn't do that but she'd check with her manager and ask, returning with a generous half pour which accompanied me down to an Adirondack chair by the dock.

There, I again put my back to the sun and watched as sea gulls battled it out for supremacy on posts in the water, squawking  at each other as they tried to assert themselves.

One dock over, a series of tiny American flags stood out stiffly in the warm, afternoon breeze.

Summer was teasing me even as she was ripping out my heart with a day as gloriously warm and perfect as this set to the sounds of water lapping, tree tops rustling in the wind and bird calls. Is there any feeling more exquisite than sitting waterside on an 82-degree day?

Let's put it this way: if I hadn't had a date tonight, I'd have sat there until Merroir closed, returning to the restaurant only to score more food and drink.

My only regret was that now that the dock has railings, I couldn't stick my feet in the water. And I'd just heard from an oyster expert that the river is till plenty warm, so that was just too bad.

I was alone down there until a couple of employees came down to rearrange tables for an upcoming wedding on Saturday. Apparently they had their first one a couple of weeks ago and now they're hosting another. Couples get married at the end of the dock and the reception swirls in the area where I was sitting. The bride and groom-to be could only wish for a day as beautiful as today for their celebration.

I left them to their rearranging and headed back up to visit the loo and leave. On the way, I chatted with the duo who'd been seated near me, discovering that he was a visitor from Michigan who'd been to Merroir before a couple of years ago.

Like two old-timers, we immediately lapsed into a "remember when?" session, lamenting how fancy Merroir has gotten and missing its rustic elements. The old dock! The long-gone oyster shell pile! The mismatched tables!

Yet despite how uptown things have become, here we both were, back on a random gorgeous Tuesday, loving our lives because we'd spent the afternoon there.

It feels like today might be the last day of summer 2014, I told him. "Then we were exactly where we should've been for it," he agreed.

Out of the mouths of strangers straight to my sun-tinged ears. Oh, happy day.

Give Me a Reason

Of all the ways I could wile away a couple of days, I may have found one of the best.

So happy I was invited
Give me a reason to get out of the city

The National had it right. How fortunate was I to be asked to escape the city for the river?

Invited to the northern neck to eat crabs, I packed one sundress, a toothbrush and enough fruit to mitigate the bad influences.

Stop one was Willoby's on the Rappahannock where I had a lunch of an epic crab cake, the kind where you wonder how those lumps of back fin are bound together, and a view of the Rapphannock sparkling in the afternoon sun at one of its widest points.

Next came Good Luck Cellars, a place I'd been before, but new to my date and a pleasure to experience with the owners.

From the dozen wines offered in the tasting to a tour of the cupola and wine cellar, we found strangers to talk to, photographs to inspect and winery dogs sniffing around my companion's.

We lingered on the porch with glasses of Good Luck Cellars' Vignoles 2013 with a big, peachy nose and a rich stone fruit finish, appealing to those of us allergic to stone fruit but still eager to get my fix where I can.

Fact is, we spent so much time at the winery that we just barely made it to our friends' house at a respectable hour for the crab feast.

As much as I love crabs, they were forgotten when we arrived and found what surely must be the most charming river house on the planet.

Where do I start? Beds and colorful, antique quilts on porches, steps leading down to a lengthy dock and the biggest, hands down biggest, outdoor shower I've ever seen.

Half covered by a roof overhang and half open to the sun or moon, it was the kind of outdoor shower I dream about: big enough to dance and/or get clean in.

After meeting our hosts, the man of the house said that if anyone wanted him to put the boat in the water so we could go for a ride, to let him know.

My hand went up as fast as a Jeopardy contestant hits the buzzer and next thing I know, we are all dock-bound for a ride on the western branch of the Caratoman river in the late afternoon sun.

Splayed out on the front of the boat next to my just-met hostess, we bonded over age, true love and having sex in outdoor showers (her, not me).

Amazing what a woman will share with a glass of pink bubbles in her hand and the wind blowing through her hair.

Back on the deck, newspaper was laid out for crab picking, a specialty of mine, followed by steaks and steelhead trout, a sumptuous feast set out under a beautifully clear sky with great company both familiar and new.

Once everything in sight had been consumed, we debated the super moon and decided that the best way to chase it was via boat and all piled back in the craft again.

Our route was much shorter at dusk, essentially a straight shot in the direction of that big, fat yellow moon lingering low in the August night sky and then back again.

Returned to the deck, we savored our hostess' key lime pie and a moon that just kept climbing higher in the clear, night sky.

Richmond felt like a world away.

Today's adventure began with a change to the other sundress and a walk on Windmill Point, a sandy beach where a lighthouse once stood, waves gently lapping at the sand as we made our way along the shore.

Next came a history lesson at Christ Church - a 1735 colonial Anglican church - led by an enthusiastic volunteer who'd once volunteered at Mount Vernon and seemed to share as much about Washington's house as the church we were standing in.

So she digressed a bit. Don't we all?

But it was an impressive structure, with floors of 400,000 year old stone, a vaulted roof and pew boxes so high it was impossible to see other churchgoers (intentional, she said).

I know plenty of people would be bored listening to a guide talk about a nearly 400 year old building, but not me. It was impressive to think about the role this still-imposing building must have played in colonial life.

Lunch was at Merroir on a day meant to be outside, alternately sunny and cloudy, occasionally spitting a raindrop or two, at the same umbrella-covered table at which I'd eaten just a few weeks ago.

Our server was the able-bodied Caleb, a sincere and efficient young man who told us he went to Hampden Sydney and was spending the summer earning money at Merroir.

For the first time ever, they were out of Old Saltes after the weekend, so we ordered a dozen Rapphannocks and a dozen Stingrays and Caleb warned us that they were short-staffed so he'd have to shuck the oysters himself.

Fortunately, he brought over our bottle of Gruet Brut before donning his shucking gloves and proving how multi-talented he was.

When he returned in record time with the second dozen, he admitted he hadn't shucked them, not that he wasn't a talented shucker, he assured us. "They call me Shuck Norris," he joked.

On the other side of the patio was a long table and person by person, the group at it grew until it seemed obvious that it was a clutch of restaurant employees. You can just tell.

Also obvious, to me at least, was that these were not Richmond people but hipsters of another type, more affected, less genuine and trying oh-so hard to ooze coolness.

Fun to watch, not the types I'd want joining my fun.

After further fortifying ourselves with steamed shrimp and a special of scallops and slaw, we decided to take the show on the oyster road.

So we asked Caleb for a bottle of the tangy and complex Las Fils de Gras Mouton Muscadet and made tracks for Merroir's deck to spend the afternoon.

I got barely a few steps when a woman approached me, only to realize I knew her.

She was part of that huge table, who turned out to be D.C. restaurant Eat the Rich's staff, and someone I knew from Richmond's restaurant and theater scene.

"I know you're everywhere, but I still never expected to see you here!" she said.

That's what they all say.

After catching up on her life in Washington, my date and I continued on to the dock, taking Adirondack chairs and setting our wine bucket between us in the shade.

Before long, a couple of the D.C. hipsters strolled down and picked up some of the crushed oyster shells lining the walkway.

"What are these white things?" one girl asked.

After all, why should someone at an oyster growing and packing (not to mention serving) facility immediately think of crushed oyster shells when they see crushed white things?

No need to answer that.

Driving back to Richmond, I couldn't help but think that it had been a pretty terrific little getaway, with outstanding food and drink, unexpected boat rides, serious stargazing (some of it to Chaka Khan) and sightseeing, a lot for 36 hours, even for me.

And while you might think we'd seen enough action for the time being, we wound up making our last stop The Roosevelt for dinner.

People gotta eat.

Hardly surprisingly, it was hopping even on a Monday night, but we still scored bar stools (the only two free) and Thibaud Jannison bubbles to accompany lamb nachos, a specialty of the kitchen tonight.

Smoked chicken wings and a cheeseburger rounded out the meal, making for an upscale southern take on classic bar food.

I got home to an e-mail from my new river friend. "Meeting you was wonderful and I can't wait to see you again! Anytime you can visit, please do!"

Yes, I admit I'm tired after so much non-stop fun.

But, make no mistake, also oh-so happy to have been invited.

Sex at the River

It was a perfect day to read on your porch.

I said as much to four different men I saw reading on their porches on my walk this morning.

But, despite the mid-70s temperatures and cloud cover, my day was not about porch reading but all about a road trip.

In an effort to catch up with a favorite couple, I'd suggested Merroir because they'd never been. Make no mistake, I'd raved about the place to them, but we'd never quite been able to align out schedules and make it happen.

Today, the planets lined up and we hit the road to eat oysters by the river.

(sound of record scratching)

Unexpectedly, 64 was full of vacation-bent cars headed to the Outer Banks. It was a major buzz kill.

Fortunately, the driver was willing to be creative with the map and we were soon cruising through the back roads of Providence Forge and Quinton.

When we eventually landed in Topping at Merroir, the first person I saw I knew. Really? An hour from Richmond and I see someone I know from the Camel? Apparently, yes.

We had our pick of seating options, opting for a picnic table facing the river, and causing the female portion of the couple to take a deep breath and exclaim, "It smells so good!"

It was true, the salty air off the river was carried on the breeze and delivered to our table right about the time the first bottle of M. Lawrence "Sex" Brut Rose arrived.

Because if a Saturday sojourn to the river isn't cause for celebration (and thus, sparkling), what is?

With sailboats pulling in and out of the marina, we ordered our first dozen oysters, a mix of buttery Rappahannocks, mildly salty Stingrays and briny Old Saltes.

If it had been up to me, and it wasn't, they would have been all Old Saltes.

Then suddenly, we had a man in a green golf shirt join our group, a man who turned out to have gone to high school with my friend and had already been at Merroir drinking beer for four hours.

On the plus side, he was a scintillating conversationalist (JFK, the media, feminism), curious ("What are your political leanings?") and an architect, albeit one with an odd laugh.

When he got up to leave, we ordered our second dozen oysters - this time all Old Saltes- and welcomed our server for the evening who turned out to be young Ford, whom I'd first met last July when he'd waited on me and my date during his early days as a server.

Tonight, he was assured, obviously having mastered the serving game in the year since I'd seen him. Or, judging by the overly generous way he pored my wine, at least able to fake it.

I think it was around the time we moved on to our third dozen (also Old Saltes) that I looked over and saw two good friends, another favorite couple, taking the table next to us.

Good god, was there no escaping people I knew despite being an hour from home? Clearly not.

I grinned at them, I met their gaze and smiled like a crazy person, but it took me getting up and walking over to their table for them to recognize me.

That's okay, I accept that I'm not the memorable type.

I leaned in for a picture with them, capturing our random meeting, but was slapped in the face with 21st century reality when my friend went to post the picture and Facebook not only recognized me but automatically tagged me.

Do I really want to think about face recognition technology that knows who I am before a friend tags me? Nope, I don't.

Meanwhile, we kept ordering "Sex" and more food, namely a crabcake, a lamb hotdog and the clam and lamb stew, a perennial favorite with me.

The music was classic rock, veering from Neil Young to the Beatles to CCR and back, tolerable only because my friends offered me a taste of their sassy scallop ceviche.

We watched speedboats speeding in a no-wake zone and ordered Carolina shrimp and a grilled Cesar with anchovies.

Much as I love Merroir on a sunny day, today's overcast skies were ideal for lingering with no fear of discomfort or skin burning.

As we delved into another bottle of "Sex," I looked up to see a familiar face, a restaurant owner who's now out of the business.

Was there no end to the number of Richmonders who'd followed us to Topping today? I'm not complaining because it was fun to run into so many people I know, but after a dozen visits to Merroir with no familiar sightings, it was a bit surprising.

But mostly it was wonderful spending a coolish, cloudy day on the river watching boats traverse the water and eating and drinking with friends.

I heard about their recent trip to D.C.'s Hotel Rouge (and Bistro Coin) and the National Gallery, as well as a side trip to Solomon's Island, Maryland, a place I've never been.

We admired the changing light and sky as afternoon gave way to evening. Eventually, we gave in to dessert after hearing another table ask for a doughnut.

What is this doughnut you speak of?

This was a s'mores doughnut, split with marshmallow cream inside, chocolate on top and graham cracker crumbs over that and we devoured it with the last of the "Sex." Ford nodded his approval as he cleared the table.

My final request was a trip to the dock which has changed so drastically since last summer when it had been "upgraded" to include railings on three sides so it was no longer possible to sit on the end and dangle my feet in the water, as I had since they'd opened.

But making the best of what it is, we stood at the end of the railing, savoring the river breeze in our hair and ruminating on what a stellar day at the river it had been.

We didn't want to leave, but we were full and it wasn't fair to take up a table any longer with people continuing to arrive.

Walking back past other diners, my friend jokingly asked people at tables if they knew him. "We're from Richmond..." one woman said, half expectantly. Stop the madness.

Driving back, we got almost to Richmond before my friend suggested a nightcap at Lucy's, conveniently mere blocks from my house. Why would I say no?

Dinner service was winding down and our savvy bartender was able to recreate a cocktail my friend had fallen in love with at the Hotel Rouge while her beloved and I happily sipped Espolon.

With vintage soul playing - Stevie, Gladys, Smokey - we sipped our drinks and talked trash with the staff until it was time to call it a day.

My friend told me to stop gloating about taking them to a place they enjoyed so much. His girlfriend did nothing but rave about what a fabulous day it had been.

Me, I'm just going to end my lovely day reading on my porch. Because it's that kind of day night.

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.

Playing Hooky

What do you mean you can't come to the phone? What are you doing? It's the middle of the afternoon! Don't make me speculate!

Pru's phone message was hysterical, but there was nothing to speculate about.

A friend and I had planned to drive out to the river to have lunch at Merroir, a Friday afternoon treat to ourselves.

He drove while regaling me with stories of what the area near West Point reminded him of, namely his childhood in rural North Carolina.

There was one tale of how he was taught to clean catfish as a Boy Scout: nail the fish to a tree (!) by its head, then make an "X" under the gill and use pliers to peel off the tough skin.

"It was okay at the beginning of the summer, but by mid-summer the stench of old fish heads on tree trunks was pretty bad," he said with masterful understatement.

We stopped for gas at a station where the sign read, "Fish/hunting licenses. Bait & tackle. Tornados-nachos-sandwiches." When he asked if I needed anything, all I could request was how a store sold tornadoes.

Arriving at Merroir, we debated eating outside under the big tree, but decided it wasn't quite warm enough. That said, others arrived and were braver, although one had on a puffy ski jacket with the hood up and another table had brought their own blankets, which they wrapped around themselves like cocoons.

Up on the porch, we found only one couple and they invited us to share the space with them. Also from Richmond, she admitted she had called in sick today so she and her husband could have an adventure together. That said, they had checked Yelp before coming out (you know, because strangers' opinions matter) and did not eat either raw oysters or lamb.

Friend and I settled in with a view of the incredibly blue river through the plastic shades and began our multi-course lunch. We'd order a couple of things and our server would try to take our menus and we'd insist we weren't full, until she gave up even trying.

The music was odd, everything from Led Zeppelin to the Shins so I finally had to ask, sure that they were no longer playing owner Ryan Croxton's approved mix, as they had for so long.

Nope, Black Keys radio was to blame for the Shins and the Rolling Stones. Still, the volume was good and it could have been much worse, say, Journey radio.

Since it was my friend's first Merroir outing, we started with a sampler of dozen oysters, four buttery Rapphannocks, four mildly salty Stingrays and four briny Old Saltes. Friend swooned with pleasure over the perfection of the oysters eaten riverside.

Next we got a pound of fresh North Carolina steamed shrimp and the woman playing hooky told us how much they had enjoyed theirs. "I didn't even know there was such a thing as homemade cocktail sauce," she admitted. "I thought it only came in bottles, like ketchup."

In a case like that, there really is nothing to do but smile.

My friend had to know about the Stuffin' Muffin, a mainstay on the menu and with a direct lineage to Chef Pete's mother's post-Thanksgiving day recipe. Oyster stuffing, celery, scallions and gravy soon had my friend moaning, eyes closed, "This tastes like everything I ever ate as a child."

A very good thing, he assured me.

The grilled romaine salad came loaded with anchovies after we made our love of small fish known to our eager-to-please server. The giant crabcake came atop a thick slice of Italian bread with remoulade oozing over it all and almost pushed us over the edge.

I wanted the beef sliders jut to eat from the land for something different and that was all she wrote. As in, we were full or at least full of savory so our server began working on us for dessert.

Our only option was grilled pound cake with apples, caramel sauce and homemade whipped cream and Friend said yes before I could remind him we were stuffed. Not that one adult should have to remind another of that, but his eyes were kind of glazed and I knew he was in his first Merroir-induced food coma.

We finally stood up to go for a stroll and prove that we could still move, heading down to the dock area, which seems to sport an upgrade every time I return.

This time, rope fencing had been added to cordon off the river seating area from the parking area, which was fine, but also the dock had been replaced and railings put up on three sides, which was so not okay. 
Every single other time I've been to Merroir, my visit has ended by sitting on the end of the dock, enjoying the river view with my feet hanging over the water.

I have shared a bottle of wine sitting there (carried down by our server), I have been kissed sitting there and I've even extended my bare foot down to the water to feel the temperature on a particularly hot summer day (warm as bath water).

Those days are gone, sadly.

My friend didn't know the difference, but I did and it made me a little sad to see how fancy Merroir keeps getting when only a year or two ago, it was the simplest and loveliest place to spend an afternoon or evening eating and drinking.

Not that the food isn't still stellar. It is. Not that the porch and yard aren't still delightful places to wile away hours. They are. Not that paying $15 for a dozen oysters instead of $24 like at the Grace Street offshoot, Rappahannock, isn't still part of the allure. It is.

Stop gilding the lily, guys. Merroir's rustic appeal needs no more improvements.

I don't want to have to nail a catfish head to that big tree to make my point.

Cloud Song for Bivalves

Today had to be the most exquisite weather Richmond has ever presented us with on July 25th.

So naturally my first thought was to go someplace else.

With a willing companion, we headed east to Merroir and a leisurely meal by the riverside.

Yesterday, Merroir had posted a picture of the view with an impressive looking water spout straight out from the dock.

We didn't require a water spout, just sustenance, libations and a scenic place for sustained conversation.

My first stop on arriving was necessarily the ladies' room and as I made my way there, a large party began greeting me, calling "hello" and "glad you're here" as if they knew me.

When I inquired if they were the welcome committee, they answered in the affirmative.

Turns out they were actually celebrating a birthday and doing so with lots of alcohol, making for a noisy, garrulous group for several hours to come.

Not that it mattered to us because we knew we were going to outlast them.

I have a long-standing record of closing down places even when I don't have good company, so I felt pretty sure they'd cave long before we did.

An unexpectedly beautiful Thursday afternoon at the river surely merits bubbles, so we began with Gruet Brut under a sky packed with clouds and promising spots of blue.

Our server, Ford (short for [and much cooler-sounding than] Clifford, a family name), was ever-present, checking in frequently to see if we were ready to order.

With a view of masts bobbing at the marina, the tempestuous-looking sky and a continuing stream of new arrivals, it seemed a shame to hurry.

I just don't have any trouble making the shift to river time.

But you can only send a nice boy away so many times before agreeing to order oysters to give him something to do.

We tucked into buttery Rappahannocks, mildly salty Stingrays and killer Old Salts, while discussing the difficulty (at least for me) of ordering only one type rather than a variety of all three.

I say why limit yourself when you can savor the fruits of three different parts of the river?

Others might say I'm just greedy.

The party table continued their greeting of every new arrival, pretty much drowning out the very '90s music emanating from the porch, not necessarily a bad thing when a decades-old Counting Crows or Third Eye Blind song is playing.

With bubbly and oysters behind us, we moved on to the next course.

Young Ford looked relieved.

Pan-seared scallops with crab slaw, Prospect Farms beef sliders with roasted garlic and herb aioli and the signature crabcake accompanied a bottle of Cave de Pomerols, Picpoul de Pinet, a lovely, acidic default to go with our seafood.

And may I just say what a good idea putting crab into slaw is?

Of course, with my Maryland roots, I probably wouldn't object to putting crab in much of anything savory.

One of the evening's specials was a flat bread "pizza" of butter-poached oysters, bacon, spinach and Parmesan on flat bread, which we'd both seen on Facebook earlier and discussed on the drive down.

But with our lackadaisical ways, by the time we got around to asking for it, we barely made it in time.

Ford put our order in, returning with a grin to inform us we'd gotten the last one.

Well, that was close.

Munching on the coveted final special, we discussed our next move.

Since my last visit to Merroir in late April, they'd greatly enhanced their little piece of riverside heaven.

Besides fancier picnic tables and more metal table and chair sets, there's now a landscaped area down by the dock.

Merroir, we hardly know ye.

Crushed oyster shells defined paths for Adirondack chairs and other seating so that the dock was no longer the only option for sitting.

Not that there's anything wrong with dock-sitting.

We'd already seen the birthday boy from the loud table head down there with a bottle of wine, so why not us?

After informing Ford of our intentions, he informed us that he'd have to be the one to carry our wine to the dock for us.

You just never know when the Virginia ABC will rear its useless head.

Pulling two big chairs side by side, we settled in to enjoy more Languedoc loveliness mere feet from the rippling water.

Uranus was the first arrival in the night sky but we sat there long enough to watch others join it overhead.

Call me old school (or worse), but eventually the big Adirondacks lost their appeal and we moved down to the end of the dock to hang our feet off the edge and admire the fuzzy lights across the river.

Being severely directionally-challenged, I had no idea from where they emanated and even my navigationally-savvy companion could only hazard a guess.

Irvington? White Stone? Smoldering meteorite?

But when you're sitting on a dock drinking wine and listening to fish jump, who really cares what's on the other side?

And just for the record, we did outlast everyone except the staff, who were politely waiting on the porch railings when we finally made our way back.

Say goodnight, Ford.