I'll be honest, what I really wanted was a flaming pu pu platter and a hurricane.
But, alas, it was not long after noon on a dreary, rainy Monday and I was meeting Lady G for planning purposes, not to kick off a party. Although given how busy the place was - I think I passed exactly 2 empty tables being led to ours - there was a sort of festive vibe to the place.
Little Nickel is what had drawn me to southside for lunch (fact: I'm a sucker for a tiki bar) and the place delivered, from the colorful decor (c'mon, textured pink flamingo wallpaper in the loo?) and catchy menu to all kinds of dishes not seen in other Richmond restaurants.
Heck, before even sitting down, I ran into the cider king enjoying some Hawaiian nachos - that's bacon, pineapple and pork - with friends. Lady G and I immediately targeted the shrimp ukey, described as a bird's nest of carrots, sweet potatoes, shrimp, cilantro and tarot root, with a chili vinegar sauce riding shotgun, for its unique-sounding appeal.
And, yep, what was delivered looked very much like a green-flecked orange nest, which I promptly tore in half, musing to G about whether or not it was the kind of thing we should eat with fingers or forks. Before she could answer, I made an executive decision and went with bare hands, savoring every bite of the crispy, fried veggies with shrimp hidden inside.
I don't want to make it sound like we didn't discuss details for our upcoming trip (that came later), but first we had to catch up on life and love, meaning she couldn't resist reminding me, "I really miss the blog."
Sigh. Tell me something I haven't heard. And, if you ask and of course she did, I'll tell you how low I've been and why no one would want to read most of my words these days. I'm doing my readers a favor.
Then it was on to the main event. While she may have grown up in NOVA, G lived for over two decades in Massachusetts, meaning she responds to New England standards like Pavlov's dog. Translation: she ordered the filet o' Nickel, a fabulously battered hunk o' cod at least an inch thick and slathered with caper tartar sauce on a glossy bun and situated next to a mountain of salty shoestring fries.
Me, I couldn't resist the siren song of an avocado crab "cocktail" piled atop a mound of arugula with bits of grapefruit for sass and a pile of tortilla chips for scooping, should that be one's preferred method of delivery (it wasn't mine).
We took a tangent on the subject of tea (G has a multiple cup a day habit) when I told her I'd discovered Earl Grey with double bergamot (her squeal told me she's an Earl Grey fan) but it was so strong and caffeinated that it required some adjustment on my part. Given my lack of coffee drinking, I need to drink my lone cup of tea early in the day or suffer the consequences of a low caffeine tolerance.
"Just use the tea bag 3 or 4 times," she advises me. "All the caffeine's in the first cup. Make it and throw it away and then use the teabag for the other cups." Brilliant.
When we finally got down to the business of our getaway itinerary, it soon became clear how spoiled we are. Between the Smithsonian's various museums and the VMFA, Lady G and I rarely pay for art (the Phillips Collection being a notable exception), so she was gobsmacked when I told her nearly everywhere we were going put a price on our heads.
It'll be worth it, no doubt, but it did require some mental adjustment on her part. Then there were the choices: oddities or contemporary? the '60s or Monet? airborne or black history? Decisions, decisions.
By the time we'd worked out a non-stop itinerary, our smiling server was asking about dessert. Remembering our mid-century childhoods, we went with warm pineapple upside down cake, even better than our memories because Little Nickel's is rum-soaked and Mom's wasn't. Fortunately, the maraschino cherries are still just as artificially red and cloying as they always were, so some things never change.
It only took us two and a half hours to gorge ourselves and nail down 48 hours in the city that's been cholera-free since 1866.
These days, I'm not setting my sights very high. But at least I'm getting my sour puss out of town.
Showing posts with label southside. Show all posts
Showing posts with label southside. Show all posts
Sunday, March 11, 2018
Thursday, October 19, 2017
Reckless Thoughts
It was chilly, no doubt about it, but it was a magical evening to sit outside and listen to sad songs.
There aren't many people who could entice me to the bowels of southside - don't ask me where, I was in no man's land from German School Road on - but Jonathan Vassar and the Badlands have that power over me.
Maybe it's because my appreciation for Jonathan dates back to those first Listening Rooms back in the dark ages of 2009, before Richmond was an "it" town. It didn't hurt that our hostess had invited me to her other house shows, albeit when she was living a quarter mile away in Monroe Ward, and I knew she always creates an exceptional environment for artists to play in.
But mainly it's the wonderful memories I have of a 2010 show that Jonathan and the Speckled Bird had done one evening over on Grace Street, when they'd played music to accompany watching scores of chimney swifts swoop and swerve as they settled down for the night. It had also happened in October and been chilly enough that some of us had to huddle under covers to watch and listen.
Tonight was huddle redux. So with chair, blanket and shawl, I joined friends and strangers for an evening of music outdoors under a blue velvet sky with only a few stars punctuating it.
First came seasonally-appropriate red wine and socializing, which took an unexpected turn not long after Jonathan's sweet dog Dolly began alternating eating grass and vomiting.
Our hostess shared that her former tenants had decided to put down cheap wooden flooring (and poorly, too) over the hardwood floors in one bedroom, prompting someone to observe, "He probably murdered someone and wanted to cover up the blood."
Or the sperm, someone else conjectured. Or blood and sperm, posited another. What our hostess needed was luminol to detect bloodstains, we agreed, like what police use at a crime scene.
While it seemed like a hell of a tangent, we weren't though yet. My former Jackson Ward neighbor said that she'd love to do CSI work, that she'd always been attracted to that sort of thing (a fact confirmed by her friend since age 12), but had also considered being a vet were it not for all the math.
Then she casually mentioned she currently has two fox paws packed in salt in her refrigerator. Naturally, this led to a discussion of why (she plans to integrate them into a sculpture) and how she became interested in tanning but it turned out to be more challenging than she expected.
Her first attempt involved a road kill squirrel. "I cut him too far up the butt," she explained nonchalantly and we roared with laughter. Seems she did a better with the fox that yielded the paws currently in cold storage next to the milk.
Tragic as it was that this conversation had to wind down, the band was ready to begin playing, so I fetched my chair and set up camp between two girlfriends, both singers, and both dating back to the Listening Room days. Dolly was just left of my feet.
With Jonathan on guitar and harmonica, Curtis on pedal steel and Nate on upright bass and harmonies, the trio began with "Oklahoma Rose," with the sound of the instruments wafting on the crisp night air. You could practically see the sustained notes of the pedal steel hanging in front of us and winding their way around the audience.
The visuals, too, were lovely, with the band playing against a backdrop of the brick of the house with candles lining the window sills and twinkle lights strung on potted plants, the deck, the instrument cases, just about everywhere.
For that matter, Jonathan and Nate had a string of lights in their chest pockets, sort of like a lighted pocket square for the occasion.
Songs like "You are Gone" were beautiful and sad - Jonathan doesn't write any other kind - and soon people swayed and moved their heads or leaned into each other as they sat on chairs and blankets around the back yard.
A guy near me passed out hand warmers and I slid one into my glove. Yes, gloves. No judging.
Jonathan said that they were playing the same set they'd played last month at the Bristol Rhythm and Roots Reunion, where he'd been amazed to learn that Bristol's Main Street separates Virginia and Tennessee. Since I'd only learned that fact last month at a moonshine lecture, I could relate.
"If you see a look of pain on my face," he warned us, "It's because my beard got caught in my harmonica holder." Ouch.
Referring to the song, "What I Talk About When I Talk About Us," he joked, "That's as jammy as we get," providing Nate - the bagel-maker extraordinaire who's about to open his own bagel shop - an opening for a bagel joke (he tried).
A song such as "Darken My Door" sounds like it'll be terribly sad, but a lyric like, "Please darken my door, just to be sure that you're nigh" sounds pretty romantic to me. Other times - "When things fall apart, don't let it harden your heart" - he sounded downright hopeful.
We kept it so close to the chest
I always had to second guess
The show had originally been scheduled for last week and been canceled because of a forecast for rain (which never materialized), so Jonathan thanked us for showing up this week despite the chill. "It was too hot last week!" a friend called out, but I disagreed just as vocally. I'd rather be hot.
She who was swaddled next to me concurred. "I could have worn something cuter last week!"
"This feels like fall!" one of the men said, as if that were a good thing.
The band announced that their final song would be "The Truth," after which Jonathan thanked our hostess and said it had been a lot of fun playing these songs and a nearby dog began barking relentlessly, causing Dolly to sit up and stare into the darkness.
I think back to way back when
All it took was the mention of your name
Change is the only thing that stays the same
It's the only thing
For me, there was no more sublime way to be reminded of that than with music, surrounded by lovers and other strangers outside on an autumn night.
Nevermind the blood stains inside the house.
There aren't many people who could entice me to the bowels of southside - don't ask me where, I was in no man's land from German School Road on - but Jonathan Vassar and the Badlands have that power over me.
Maybe it's because my appreciation for Jonathan dates back to those first Listening Rooms back in the dark ages of 2009, before Richmond was an "it" town. It didn't hurt that our hostess had invited me to her other house shows, albeit when she was living a quarter mile away in Monroe Ward, and I knew she always creates an exceptional environment for artists to play in.
But mainly it's the wonderful memories I have of a 2010 show that Jonathan and the Speckled Bird had done one evening over on Grace Street, when they'd played music to accompany watching scores of chimney swifts swoop and swerve as they settled down for the night. It had also happened in October and been chilly enough that some of us had to huddle under covers to watch and listen.
Tonight was huddle redux. So with chair, blanket and shawl, I joined friends and strangers for an evening of music outdoors under a blue velvet sky with only a few stars punctuating it.
First came seasonally-appropriate red wine and socializing, which took an unexpected turn not long after Jonathan's sweet dog Dolly began alternating eating grass and vomiting.
Our hostess shared that her former tenants had decided to put down cheap wooden flooring (and poorly, too) over the hardwood floors in one bedroom, prompting someone to observe, "He probably murdered someone and wanted to cover up the blood."
Or the sperm, someone else conjectured. Or blood and sperm, posited another. What our hostess needed was luminol to detect bloodstains, we agreed, like what police use at a crime scene.
While it seemed like a hell of a tangent, we weren't though yet. My former Jackson Ward neighbor said that she'd love to do CSI work, that she'd always been attracted to that sort of thing (a fact confirmed by her friend since age 12), but had also considered being a vet were it not for all the math.
Then she casually mentioned she currently has two fox paws packed in salt in her refrigerator. Naturally, this led to a discussion of why (she plans to integrate them into a sculpture) and how she became interested in tanning but it turned out to be more challenging than she expected.
Her first attempt involved a road kill squirrel. "I cut him too far up the butt," she explained nonchalantly and we roared with laughter. Seems she did a better with the fox that yielded the paws currently in cold storage next to the milk.
Tragic as it was that this conversation had to wind down, the band was ready to begin playing, so I fetched my chair and set up camp between two girlfriends, both singers, and both dating back to the Listening Room days. Dolly was just left of my feet.
With Jonathan on guitar and harmonica, Curtis on pedal steel and Nate on upright bass and harmonies, the trio began with "Oklahoma Rose," with the sound of the instruments wafting on the crisp night air. You could practically see the sustained notes of the pedal steel hanging in front of us and winding their way around the audience.
The visuals, too, were lovely, with the band playing against a backdrop of the brick of the house with candles lining the window sills and twinkle lights strung on potted plants, the deck, the instrument cases, just about everywhere.
For that matter, Jonathan and Nate had a string of lights in their chest pockets, sort of like a lighted pocket square for the occasion.
Songs like "You are Gone" were beautiful and sad - Jonathan doesn't write any other kind - and soon people swayed and moved their heads or leaned into each other as they sat on chairs and blankets around the back yard.
A guy near me passed out hand warmers and I slid one into my glove. Yes, gloves. No judging.
Jonathan said that they were playing the same set they'd played last month at the Bristol Rhythm and Roots Reunion, where he'd been amazed to learn that Bristol's Main Street separates Virginia and Tennessee. Since I'd only learned that fact last month at a moonshine lecture, I could relate.
"If you see a look of pain on my face," he warned us, "It's because my beard got caught in my harmonica holder." Ouch.
Referring to the song, "What I Talk About When I Talk About Us," he joked, "That's as jammy as we get," providing Nate - the bagel-maker extraordinaire who's about to open his own bagel shop - an opening for a bagel joke (he tried).
A song such as "Darken My Door" sounds like it'll be terribly sad, but a lyric like, "Please darken my door, just to be sure that you're nigh" sounds pretty romantic to me. Other times - "When things fall apart, don't let it harden your heart" - he sounded downright hopeful.
We kept it so close to the chest
I always had to second guess
The show had originally been scheduled for last week and been canceled because of a forecast for rain (which never materialized), so Jonathan thanked us for showing up this week despite the chill. "It was too hot last week!" a friend called out, but I disagreed just as vocally. I'd rather be hot.
She who was swaddled next to me concurred. "I could have worn something cuter last week!"
"This feels like fall!" one of the men said, as if that were a good thing.
The band announced that their final song would be "The Truth," after which Jonathan thanked our hostess and said it had been a lot of fun playing these songs and a nearby dog began barking relentlessly, causing Dolly to sit up and stare into the darkness.
I think back to way back when
All it took was the mention of your name
Change is the only thing that stays the same
It's the only thing
For me, there was no more sublime way to be reminded of that than with music, surrounded by lovers and other strangers outside on an autumn night.
Nevermind the blood stains inside the house.
Saturday, August 12, 2017
Field Recordings
A non-native species is easy to spot in the wild.
After dinner in service of my hired mouth, my date suggested a foray to Forest Hills and a place called Cafe Zata to see some friends of his playing in a band called the Free Rangers. And while I'd heard of Zata, I had no clue where exactly it was or even what it was.
For us city dwellers, this sort of outing is what is known as field experimentation.
He warned me that every time he'd been to Zata, there were more people playing on stage than seated in the generous, high-ceilinged room. At least he did until we walked in and he had to eat his words since practically every chair and stool had a butt in it and lines snaked from the service counter and bar.
I was assigned to find perches for us while he set out to procure wine and almost immediately I heard my name called out. It was the landscape architect for whom I'd ghost-written a few articles, but more importantly, she's lately been posting old photos on Facebook of her, her friends and her Mom in vintage bathing suits.
Well, not vintage at the time the pictures were taken, but definitely dated looking now in a charming late '50s, early '60s way that predated the youth revolution and the swingin' '60s. She was thrilled that I'd taken notice of her youthful fashion choices.
I'd scored us stools at the end of the bar with a fine view of the band, who seemed to have a chicken theme - on their sign, on the stage and next to the old suitcase housing their CDs for sale - because, well, Free Rangers, get it?
I met a charming couple, friends of my date, who both teach at UR while he's also a musician. Looking around the room, I observed a lot of Friday night date action going on, albeit mostly middle-aged couples whom I'm willing to guess lived in the neighborhood. A bottle or two of wine graced most tables.
Then it happened. I couldn't have been more surprised (or pleased) when my former Jackson Ward neighbor showed up in the bar line. For years, he and his wife lived four blocks away from me and we ran into each other at shows and events regularly. I'd been to plenty of their pre-First Friday happy hours.
When they'd moved out there, they'd promised that they'd still be in the city often so we'd still see each other just as frequently. That hasn't happened much at all and I miss their upbeat energy and passion for live music.
He seemed as glad to see me as I was to see him and we wasted no time in catching up. I knew that, like my date, they'd been at Red Wing Roots Music festival, but they'd also gone to FloydFest, where our mutual friends Lobo Marino had played this year. He said local band Dharma Bombs had also played to great success, another band we'd seen together.
We were knee-deep in musical conversation when all of a sudden, he got a perplexed look on his face and said, "Wait, what are you doing here?" Apparently he didn't see Cafe Zata as my natural habitat.
Pointing to my date and introducing them, I explained that we'd come to see his friends play. Not surprisingly, he was also friends with several people in the band and from there, the mutual associations poured forth. The two of them had loads of people in common and not necessarily people I knew, either.
Leaving them to man talk, I headed over to the table where his wife was sitting with friends. Putting my hands over her eyes and making her guess who it was, it didn't take long for her to figure it out and squeal in delight. It had been way too long since we'd last seen each other and she was quick to say she missed me as much as I missed seeing them.
"Remember that time you invited me to iHop for pancake day and I said no?" she asked out of the blue. "I regret that now." I couldn't believe she even remembered - that had been almost 2 years ago while she was between jobs - but it was a terrific starting point for planning something for the near future.
"But I don't think I could keep up with you on your walks," she admitted, holding on to both of my hands. Not to worry, I wanted to plan a get-together to eat, drink and be merry, not walk our asses off.
Besides, I've got a couple people who like that from me.
From behind her came the woman who used to host house shows at her Franklin Street apartment (the one that once housed Mrs. Morton's Tea Room in the brownstone where Mrs. M. lived) and where I'd seen the Honey Dewdrops, Sons of Bill and Haze and Dacey in the candlelit intimacy of her living room.
She, too, has shifted home base and is now ensconced on southside, although she went to great pains to share that she feels lost and cut off on this side of the river. I didn't point out the obvious (move then) because everyone has their own reasons for where they roost. But I certainly understood her point.
She was trying to convey that she, too, was a non-native species here, at least in her soul.
The band - two guitars, bass, dobro - provided plenty of middle-aged entertainment, covering songs by Gram Parsons, Allison Krause and Crystal Gale, doing a song that involved yodeling (now there's a rarely seen skill set) and inciting an audience-wide singalong when they did "Teach Your Children," in addition to original material.
Also, it should be noted, a woman had brought her cowbell and used it liberally to add the requisite cowbell when a song screamed out for it.
And because the bass player and rhythm guitarist were married, there was plenty of banter about what a good cook and guitarist she was (cleaning not so much), what a showboater he was (see; yodeling and white Stetson) and a corny joke about him sucking in his stomach for two hours to be around a bevy of bikini-clad women.
It was all in good fun.
By the time we left, the place had cleared out considerably and we joked about why people had needed to leave before 9:30 on a Friday night. But of course the answer is obvious: this must be the typical sleeping pattern for natives of the area and who am I, an interloper, to judge?
For us, there was still plenty of evening left, so we decamped for his front porch swing, where we were promptly joined by the musician from across the street, guitar in hand. He told us Vespa stories, did a bit of strumming and asked for a summary of the show we'd just seen before disappearing into the darkness.
As we sat there in the sticky air, it suddenly became cool and breezy enough that we both got a chill, only to be followed by a blast of hot, humid air that announced rain.
And oceanfront aside, is there really a better place to watch a gentle summer rain roll in than from the recessed depths of a dark front porch within spitting distance of the river?
Depends on your species, naturally, but it worked for this urban bird.
After dinner in service of my hired mouth, my date suggested a foray to Forest Hills and a place called Cafe Zata to see some friends of his playing in a band called the Free Rangers. And while I'd heard of Zata, I had no clue where exactly it was or even what it was.
For us city dwellers, this sort of outing is what is known as field experimentation.
He warned me that every time he'd been to Zata, there were more people playing on stage than seated in the generous, high-ceilinged room. At least he did until we walked in and he had to eat his words since practically every chair and stool had a butt in it and lines snaked from the service counter and bar.
I was assigned to find perches for us while he set out to procure wine and almost immediately I heard my name called out. It was the landscape architect for whom I'd ghost-written a few articles, but more importantly, she's lately been posting old photos on Facebook of her, her friends and her Mom in vintage bathing suits.
Well, not vintage at the time the pictures were taken, but definitely dated looking now in a charming late '50s, early '60s way that predated the youth revolution and the swingin' '60s. She was thrilled that I'd taken notice of her youthful fashion choices.
I'd scored us stools at the end of the bar with a fine view of the band, who seemed to have a chicken theme - on their sign, on the stage and next to the old suitcase housing their CDs for sale - because, well, Free Rangers, get it?
I met a charming couple, friends of my date, who both teach at UR while he's also a musician. Looking around the room, I observed a lot of Friday night date action going on, albeit mostly middle-aged couples whom I'm willing to guess lived in the neighborhood. A bottle or two of wine graced most tables.
Then it happened. I couldn't have been more surprised (or pleased) when my former Jackson Ward neighbor showed up in the bar line. For years, he and his wife lived four blocks away from me and we ran into each other at shows and events regularly. I'd been to plenty of their pre-First Friday happy hours.
When they'd moved out there, they'd promised that they'd still be in the city often so we'd still see each other just as frequently. That hasn't happened much at all and I miss their upbeat energy and passion for live music.
He seemed as glad to see me as I was to see him and we wasted no time in catching up. I knew that, like my date, they'd been at Red Wing Roots Music festival, but they'd also gone to FloydFest, where our mutual friends Lobo Marino had played this year. He said local band Dharma Bombs had also played to great success, another band we'd seen together.
We were knee-deep in musical conversation when all of a sudden, he got a perplexed look on his face and said, "Wait, what are you doing here?" Apparently he didn't see Cafe Zata as my natural habitat.
Pointing to my date and introducing them, I explained that we'd come to see his friends play. Not surprisingly, he was also friends with several people in the band and from there, the mutual associations poured forth. The two of them had loads of people in common and not necessarily people I knew, either.
Leaving them to man talk, I headed over to the table where his wife was sitting with friends. Putting my hands over her eyes and making her guess who it was, it didn't take long for her to figure it out and squeal in delight. It had been way too long since we'd last seen each other and she was quick to say she missed me as much as I missed seeing them.
"Remember that time you invited me to iHop for pancake day and I said no?" she asked out of the blue. "I regret that now." I couldn't believe she even remembered - that had been almost 2 years ago while she was between jobs - but it was a terrific starting point for planning something for the near future.
"But I don't think I could keep up with you on your walks," she admitted, holding on to both of my hands. Not to worry, I wanted to plan a get-together to eat, drink and be merry, not walk our asses off.
Besides, I've got a couple people who like that from me.
From behind her came the woman who used to host house shows at her Franklin Street apartment (the one that once housed Mrs. Morton's Tea Room in the brownstone where Mrs. M. lived) and where I'd seen the Honey Dewdrops, Sons of Bill and Haze and Dacey in the candlelit intimacy of her living room.
She, too, has shifted home base and is now ensconced on southside, although she went to great pains to share that she feels lost and cut off on this side of the river. I didn't point out the obvious (move then) because everyone has their own reasons for where they roost. But I certainly understood her point.
She was trying to convey that she, too, was a non-native species here, at least in her soul.
The band - two guitars, bass, dobro - provided plenty of middle-aged entertainment, covering songs by Gram Parsons, Allison Krause and Crystal Gale, doing a song that involved yodeling (now there's a rarely seen skill set) and inciting an audience-wide singalong when they did "Teach Your Children," in addition to original material.
Also, it should be noted, a woman had brought her cowbell and used it liberally to add the requisite cowbell when a song screamed out for it.
And because the bass player and rhythm guitarist were married, there was plenty of banter about what a good cook and guitarist she was (cleaning not so much), what a showboater he was (see; yodeling and white Stetson) and a corny joke about him sucking in his stomach for two hours to be around a bevy of bikini-clad women.
It was all in good fun.
By the time we left, the place had cleared out considerably and we joked about why people had needed to leave before 9:30 on a Friday night. But of course the answer is obvious: this must be the typical sleeping pattern for natives of the area and who am I, an interloper, to judge?
For us, there was still plenty of evening left, so we decamped for his front porch swing, where we were promptly joined by the musician from across the street, guitar in hand. He told us Vespa stories, did a bit of strumming and asked for a summary of the show we'd just seen before disappearing into the darkness.
As we sat there in the sticky air, it suddenly became cool and breezy enough that we both got a chill, only to be followed by a blast of hot, humid air that announced rain.
And oceanfront aside, is there really a better place to watch a gentle summer rain roll in than from the recessed depths of a dark front porch within spitting distance of the river?
Depends on your species, naturally, but it worked for this urban bird.
Wednesday, April 29, 2015
Psychedelic Pineapple Collective
My evening took me down a gravel and grass path to the '70s.
Technically speaking, it was a friend's birthday celebration but it was also a chance to show off their recently purchased Southside house and property. All I'd been told was that it was across from a park and needed a lot of work.
Finding it was the first challenge because while I saw 2716 and 2720, I saw nothing in between. Except above mentioned path. To quote Talking Heads, this must be the place.
Wrangling armfuls of stuff - spinach avocado dip, a bag of "really seedy" (actually the name) crackers, a blue hydrangea for the birthday girl's new garden, a jean jacket for once the sun went down - I joined two friends in taking the path to the party.
Passing a large camper (sold but not yet picked up), we soon came to the ramshackle house (originally 1780, addition 1800). This house pre-dates everything around it, having been built when Manchester was a separate city and the grid had not yet been extended that far. Old as dirt.
Nearby was a circle of seats and cushions around a fire pit, while behind that was the sweetest little camper painted dusty blue (matching the color on my host's knuckles) and their current living quarters.
Asked if I wanted a tour, I signed on to hear about their plans to grow indigenous perennials and fruit trees on the front acreage. On the back 40, they plan to convert the former shed to a tiny house they'll live in and the carport will become a studio and place for gardening classes.
As for the aging house, after renovations their intention is to rent out the two upstairs bedrooms to like-minded souls and use the large room downstairs as a community space. A summer kitchen using a gray water system will be built outdoors.
My only question was where will the outdoor shower be?
So, yes, it'll be an earth-friendly farming collective in the city. I felt like I was right back in the '70s, loving everything about the whole, groovy plan.
There were only about eight people at the party when I arrived, but already conversation was getting real. The mother of a toddler was explaining to another woman the miracle of childbirth, complete with open knees, saying giving birth was basically the same as sex, only better. "It's the ultimate sex."
Immediately, the birthday girl challenged her on how she knew how good someone's sex was and that maybe childbirth isn't better than some people's "getting busy" mode. I was in her camp.
People kept arriving with contributions for the vegetarian food table, soon groaning under an assortment of salads, bean dips and salsas, cheeses, fruits and casseroles. The unlikely crowd favorite turned out to have come from a funeral.
Well, if there's going to be a wake and folks are going to bring food, you may as well pick up fresh ideas for group meals.
This one was Paula Deen's pineapple casserole and as disgusting as that sounds, I have to say it was quite tasty, no doubt due to the abundance of cheddar, Ritz cracker crumbs and buttah, as Paula would say.
Rock solid southern funeral eating at its best.
A table held libations, a cassette deck player and a box of cassettes (Beatles, Phil Collins, a mix tape, natch) which were played throughout the night, although at times it was turned down to accommodate nearby conversations.
Toting buckets, flats of squash seedlings and pies from WPA, a girl showed up with party favors: bunches of carrots and bags of spinach from Tricycle Gardens where she works. Adult party favors, so much better than kazoos and bubble gum.
More than once, I was asked how I'd met the birthday girl and for the life of me, I couldn't recall. Probably a show, but I really wasn't sure. Midway through the night, it hit me.
It was her silent film-loving boyfriend I'd first met back in 2007 at one of his Silent Music Revival events. He was the reason I'd gotten into silent films. That was it.
I met a yoga teacher and another woman who'd done her yoga training in Colorado, only to feel like it didn't translate once she got back to Virginia. A passionate 5th grade teacher lamented the frustrations of having to teach to standardized tests.
Upon learning that my parents lived on the northern neck, a favorite couple told me about a friend they'd known who'd also lived there. No longer, because he committed suicide (or his wife killed him, if you believe the scuttlebutt).
Seems that he was loaded. He'd ended up down there because he'd run his boat into a mud flat on the Carrotoman river and his solution was to buy all the land around the mud. He wanted a circus, so he created and paid for an annual I Love America Festival, complete with elephants.
Because we all want to celebrate how much we love our country with America's indigenous species, the elephant. Hilarious!
Talking about the annual James River Batteau Festival, one long-time participant shared that while she wears a long skirt on the boat, her costume is hardly period correct.
"There's a guy on another batteau who dresses to the period in Revolutionary War clothing down to the details. He looked at me and said I was a "far-be," as in, "far be it from historically accurate." Not that she cares when she and her fellow boat mates are wrangling a shallow, flat-bottomed boat down the James River for a week.
I got a recommendation for a new Philly band, Foxhound, with ties to another musician I've seen several times, Chris Kasper. Described as psychedelic Appalachian folk music, I was assured I'd like it a lot. Now I'll need to hear it and find out.
Once the sun set, a fire was lit as people continued to arrive, take the tour and chat with each other. What was so interesting was how far away from the city it all felt, surrounded as we were by land and greenery (lots and lots of mulberry trees). Yet, at the end of the path and across the street, a night baseball game was happening on a lit field with fans shouting their team support.
You just wouldn't know it from where we stood.
The birthday girl told me some great stories she'd been told by the owner of the house, who'd bought it back in the rough and tumble '80s when Richmond was a very different city.
To discourage crackheads from squatting on his property, he'd gone out and shot five bucks, decapitated them and placed the five heads on stakes around the property to ward off unwelcome visitors. I can't imagine they smelled too good come summer.
She said when they'd first asked to look at the house before they bought it, the owner had admitted he'd lost the house keys while using a scythe (!) to trim the grass in the yard. Undaunted, they'd propped a ladder against the rickety old wooden porch and climbed through an upstairs window to gain access to look at the house ("I can't believe we did that!").
The funniest part of that story is that when they returned after buying it, they found that a homeless man had picked the lock and gained entry, although not yet moved in. Basically, he'd saved them a locksmith's fee.
"I shouldn't tell you this," she went on, looking around, "But a friend suggested we christen the camper the "stabbin' cabin." When her partner was informed of this, he cringed, saying that when he gets lucky, he never thinks of it as stabbing. Good man.
Besides, stabbin' cabin doesn't flow with the feel-good vibe of their sprawling compound.
Unable to resist, I told a similarly-aged friend that everything from stepping into the camper to the sense of community and shared goals felt like deja vu. She nodded. "It's just how we lived back then."
Everyone who heard the master plan for the property was impressed, many complimenting it as the wave of the future, energy efficient and green in most every possible way. The whole idea of a collective suggests a group of like-minded people doing their part to be part of the solution, not the problem.
I think we called it a commune back in the '70s and there was no craft beer or pineapple casserole. But otherwise, take me home, country roads.
And don't come a-knockin' if the van is a-rockin'.
Technically speaking, it was a friend's birthday celebration but it was also a chance to show off their recently purchased Southside house and property. All I'd been told was that it was across from a park and needed a lot of work.
Finding it was the first challenge because while I saw 2716 and 2720, I saw nothing in between. Except above mentioned path. To quote Talking Heads, this must be the place.
Wrangling armfuls of stuff - spinach avocado dip, a bag of "really seedy" (actually the name) crackers, a blue hydrangea for the birthday girl's new garden, a jean jacket for once the sun went down - I joined two friends in taking the path to the party.
Passing a large camper (sold but not yet picked up), we soon came to the ramshackle house (originally 1780, addition 1800). This house pre-dates everything around it, having been built when Manchester was a separate city and the grid had not yet been extended that far. Old as dirt.
Nearby was a circle of seats and cushions around a fire pit, while behind that was the sweetest little camper painted dusty blue (matching the color on my host's knuckles) and their current living quarters.
Asked if I wanted a tour, I signed on to hear about their plans to grow indigenous perennials and fruit trees on the front acreage. On the back 40, they plan to convert the former shed to a tiny house they'll live in and the carport will become a studio and place for gardening classes.
As for the aging house, after renovations their intention is to rent out the two upstairs bedrooms to like-minded souls and use the large room downstairs as a community space. A summer kitchen using a gray water system will be built outdoors.
My only question was where will the outdoor shower be?
So, yes, it'll be an earth-friendly farming collective in the city. I felt like I was right back in the '70s, loving everything about the whole, groovy plan.
There were only about eight people at the party when I arrived, but already conversation was getting real. The mother of a toddler was explaining to another woman the miracle of childbirth, complete with open knees, saying giving birth was basically the same as sex, only better. "It's the ultimate sex."
Immediately, the birthday girl challenged her on how she knew how good someone's sex was and that maybe childbirth isn't better than some people's "getting busy" mode. I was in her camp.
People kept arriving with contributions for the vegetarian food table, soon groaning under an assortment of salads, bean dips and salsas, cheeses, fruits and casseroles. The unlikely crowd favorite turned out to have come from a funeral.
Well, if there's going to be a wake and folks are going to bring food, you may as well pick up fresh ideas for group meals.
This one was Paula Deen's pineapple casserole and as disgusting as that sounds, I have to say it was quite tasty, no doubt due to the abundance of cheddar, Ritz cracker crumbs and buttah, as Paula would say.
Rock solid southern funeral eating at its best.
A table held libations, a cassette deck player and a box of cassettes (Beatles, Phil Collins, a mix tape, natch) which were played throughout the night, although at times it was turned down to accommodate nearby conversations.
Toting buckets, flats of squash seedlings and pies from WPA, a girl showed up with party favors: bunches of carrots and bags of spinach from Tricycle Gardens where she works. Adult party favors, so much better than kazoos and bubble gum.
More than once, I was asked how I'd met the birthday girl and for the life of me, I couldn't recall. Probably a show, but I really wasn't sure. Midway through the night, it hit me.
It was her silent film-loving boyfriend I'd first met back in 2007 at one of his Silent Music Revival events. He was the reason I'd gotten into silent films. That was it.
I met a yoga teacher and another woman who'd done her yoga training in Colorado, only to feel like it didn't translate once she got back to Virginia. A passionate 5th grade teacher lamented the frustrations of having to teach to standardized tests.
Upon learning that my parents lived on the northern neck, a favorite couple told me about a friend they'd known who'd also lived there. No longer, because he committed suicide (or his wife killed him, if you believe the scuttlebutt).
Seems that he was loaded. He'd ended up down there because he'd run his boat into a mud flat on the Carrotoman river and his solution was to buy all the land around the mud. He wanted a circus, so he created and paid for an annual I Love America Festival, complete with elephants.
Because we all want to celebrate how much we love our country with America's indigenous species, the elephant. Hilarious!
Talking about the annual James River Batteau Festival, one long-time participant shared that while she wears a long skirt on the boat, her costume is hardly period correct.
"There's a guy on another batteau who dresses to the period in Revolutionary War clothing down to the details. He looked at me and said I was a "far-be," as in, "far be it from historically accurate." Not that she cares when she and her fellow boat mates are wrangling a shallow, flat-bottomed boat down the James River for a week.
I got a recommendation for a new Philly band, Foxhound, with ties to another musician I've seen several times, Chris Kasper. Described as psychedelic Appalachian folk music, I was assured I'd like it a lot. Now I'll need to hear it and find out.
Once the sun set, a fire was lit as people continued to arrive, take the tour and chat with each other. What was so interesting was how far away from the city it all felt, surrounded as we were by land and greenery (lots and lots of mulberry trees). Yet, at the end of the path and across the street, a night baseball game was happening on a lit field with fans shouting their team support.
You just wouldn't know it from where we stood.
The birthday girl told me some great stories she'd been told by the owner of the house, who'd bought it back in the rough and tumble '80s when Richmond was a very different city.
To discourage crackheads from squatting on his property, he'd gone out and shot five bucks, decapitated them and placed the five heads on stakes around the property to ward off unwelcome visitors. I can't imagine they smelled too good come summer.
She said when they'd first asked to look at the house before they bought it, the owner had admitted he'd lost the house keys while using a scythe (!) to trim the grass in the yard. Undaunted, they'd propped a ladder against the rickety old wooden porch and climbed through an upstairs window to gain access to look at the house ("I can't believe we did that!").
The funniest part of that story is that when they returned after buying it, they found that a homeless man had picked the lock and gained entry, although not yet moved in. Basically, he'd saved them a locksmith's fee.
"I shouldn't tell you this," she went on, looking around, "But a friend suggested we christen the camper the "stabbin' cabin." When her partner was informed of this, he cringed, saying that when he gets lucky, he never thinks of it as stabbing. Good man.
Besides, stabbin' cabin doesn't flow with the feel-good vibe of their sprawling compound.
Unable to resist, I told a similarly-aged friend that everything from stepping into the camper to the sense of community and shared goals felt like deja vu. She nodded. "It's just how we lived back then."
Everyone who heard the master plan for the property was impressed, many complimenting it as the wave of the future, energy efficient and green in most every possible way. The whole idea of a collective suggests a group of like-minded people doing their part to be part of the solution, not the problem.
I think we called it a commune back in the '70s and there was no craft beer or pineapple casserole. But otherwise, take me home, country roads.
And don't come a-knockin' if the van is a-rockin'.
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Following the Lard
For some people, the scent of meat and lard brings me to mind.
I'm sure there's a compliment in there somewhere, but damned if I can find it.
Weeks ago, I'd run into a friend who'd rushed to tell me about a taqueria he'd stumbled on while in search of a beer.
The place didn't serve alcohol, but the smells, while repugnant to him as a devout vegan, reminded him of me.
Why me, of all his flesh-loving friends, I have no idea.
But he was so excited for me to try it that he'd written down the name and a nearby business for a frame of reference.
I put it on my to-eat list and went about my business.
Out on my walk last week, he spotted me on Leigh Street as he began to bike across the intersection.
Riding over, he didn't even say hello, just, "Have you been to Tako Nako yet?"
Answering in the negative, I could see the disappointment on his face.
I'll move it up to the top of my list, I promised.
So on this sticky day, I turned my car in the direction of the southside to satisfy him and have lunch.
The guy at the counter inside the little green building had a basic grasp of English and I conveyed my taco choices in my language, not his.
Tongue, cow head and Chorizo, a mere dollar each.
Did I want onions on them was his only question.
He did look a little surprised when I said I'd be eating in, but the air conditioning felt wonderful and there were plenty of tables, so why not have an immersive experience?
I picked up the Tidewater Hispanic News, not that I read Spanish, but to see what I could glean.
Seems the White House has put in solar panels, not tough to decipher given that those two words apparently don't have a Spanish equivalent.
The big screen was set to a Mexican soap opera and some impassioned, dark-eyed, curly-haired man was repeatedly professing, "Ti amore!" to the comatose blond in the hospital bed.
And speaking of blonds, fully three quarters of the actresses in the show were fair-haired. It seemed a bit odd.
My food was delivered on a tray complete with two grocery store napkins sporting a strawberry design.
All three tacos were tasty. It may have been my first cabeza, Chorizo's always a no-brainer, but I'm a sucker for lengua so I saved the best for last.
When I got up to leave, I saw that the order-taker was deeply engrossed in the soap, so I dumped my debris and made for the door.
"Come back again!" he called, looking up momentarily from the drama.
Maybe. A $3.15 lunch is hard to beat, although it's a bit off the beaten path for me.
But now I can give a full report to the man who hasn't eaten meat since before I met him.
The things I'll do for a friend.
I'm sure there's a compliment in there somewhere, but damned if I can find it.
Weeks ago, I'd run into a friend who'd rushed to tell me about a taqueria he'd stumbled on while in search of a beer.
The place didn't serve alcohol, but the smells, while repugnant to him as a devout vegan, reminded him of me.
Why me, of all his flesh-loving friends, I have no idea.
But he was so excited for me to try it that he'd written down the name and a nearby business for a frame of reference.
I put it on my to-eat list and went about my business.
Out on my walk last week, he spotted me on Leigh Street as he began to bike across the intersection.
Riding over, he didn't even say hello, just, "Have you been to Tako Nako yet?"
Answering in the negative, I could see the disappointment on his face.
I'll move it up to the top of my list, I promised.
So on this sticky day, I turned my car in the direction of the southside to satisfy him and have lunch.
The guy at the counter inside the little green building had a basic grasp of English and I conveyed my taco choices in my language, not his.
Tongue, cow head and Chorizo, a mere dollar each.
Did I want onions on them was his only question.
He did look a little surprised when I said I'd be eating in, but the air conditioning felt wonderful and there were plenty of tables, so why not have an immersive experience?
I picked up the Tidewater Hispanic News, not that I read Spanish, but to see what I could glean.
Seems the White House has put in solar panels, not tough to decipher given that those two words apparently don't have a Spanish equivalent.
The big screen was set to a Mexican soap opera and some impassioned, dark-eyed, curly-haired man was repeatedly professing, "Ti amore!" to the comatose blond in the hospital bed.
And speaking of blonds, fully three quarters of the actresses in the show were fair-haired. It seemed a bit odd.
My food was delivered on a tray complete with two grocery store napkins sporting a strawberry design.
All three tacos were tasty. It may have been my first cabeza, Chorizo's always a no-brainer, but I'm a sucker for lengua so I saved the best for last.
When I got up to leave, I saw that the order-taker was deeply engrossed in the soap, so I dumped my debris and made for the door.
"Come back again!" he called, looking up momentarily from the drama.
Maybe. A $3.15 lunch is hard to beat, although it's a bit off the beaten path for me.
But now I can give a full report to the man who hasn't eaten meat since before I met him.
The things I'll do for a friend.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Southern Exposure
I lucked out because a friend had invited me to dinner last night and when I said I couldn't make it because of the Al Green show, he invited me for tonight instead. My host-to-be was the bialy-pushing Gregg, one of the husbands I've been known to appropriate for an evening out, here.
Gregg likes to give me a hard time about just about everything; my refusal to have a cell phone and my lack of a TV are two of his favorites. But his invitation for Labor Day was based on my refusal to cross the river to meet him for dinner. If I wouldn't come for a restaurant, would I at least come south if he cooked? Well that was a no-brainer. Of course I would.
I didn't even hyperventilate crossing the river (he had told me the air was different south of the James), instead admiring the calm beauty of it on this Labor Day. I found his house easily enough and he and his wife welcomed me in. Gregg even complimented me on my colorful surf shop dress (I'll beat black yet).
We settled in on their spacious deck and I was poured good tequila. My host told me that he'd tested the tequila previously and admired its smoothness, actually acknowledging to me that he could now understand my affection for it.
The first course was a trio of cheeses along with his homemade fig jam (to die for), Asian pears (my first and I loved the texture) and an almond/honey paste. I could have made a meal off of just this as we sat chatting about winery touring here and abroad, the Williamsburg restaurant scene and how a blowtorch was used to prepare a country ham by his colorful father.
One of the reasons Gregg and I bonded when we first met was that his palate is far more adventurous than his wife's. So on a night when she has plans, we will go out and eat something together that she wouldn't touch. Our next course demonstrated this: tuna carpaccio with Hawaiian black salt, olive oil and slivers of cheese for the two of us and shrimp for her. The carpaccio was divinely thin and flavorful, melting in my mouth.
There was a wonderful quinoa salad with currants, spiced nuts, edamame and balsamic over butter lettuce and the only reason I didn't finish every bite was because I knew there was more food coming. It was the kind of dish a vegetarian would salivate over and this omnivore did the same.
Lightly sauteed crab meat with blue cheese and breadcrumb-topped tomatoes came next and what kind of Maryland-raised girl would I be if I didn't enjoy every bite of my favorite crustacean? But I'll admit I was getting mighty full.
In a nod to the changing weather and my host's favorite season, next up was butternut squash soup with a maple syrup swirl and seared scallops. The rich and creamy soup did taste like fall and the scallops we cut with a spoon they were so tender. It was a decadent course and then I was really done. We all were. Forks could have been stuck in us.
But of course the talented Gregg had to prove that we had room for just one thing more and that was a champagne and lime granita with two cookies, one each of ginger and vanilla. He was right, much as I hate to admit it. We did have room for the weightless and crystalline granita and it was the absolutely perfect final course.
It was a good thing we still had plenty of conversation left in us because after that it was about all we were capable of. But it was a beautiful night south of the river, and with the earlier darkness, light breeze and absence of mosquitoes, we sat sipping and sharing stories past and present while digesting our Labor Day repast.
I didn't change my mind about crossing the river for a restaurant, but anytime this man wants to cook for me, I'm heading south post haste. As I've demonstrated, I can do a couple date just as easily as I can borrow a husband.
Either way, I get to utilize my strong suits, conversation and eating. Lucky me.
Gregg likes to give me a hard time about just about everything; my refusal to have a cell phone and my lack of a TV are two of his favorites. But his invitation for Labor Day was based on my refusal to cross the river to meet him for dinner. If I wouldn't come for a restaurant, would I at least come south if he cooked? Well that was a no-brainer. Of course I would.
I didn't even hyperventilate crossing the river (he had told me the air was different south of the James), instead admiring the calm beauty of it on this Labor Day. I found his house easily enough and he and his wife welcomed me in. Gregg even complimented me on my colorful surf shop dress (I'll beat black yet).
We settled in on their spacious deck and I was poured good tequila. My host told me that he'd tested the tequila previously and admired its smoothness, actually acknowledging to me that he could now understand my affection for it.
The first course was a trio of cheeses along with his homemade fig jam (to die for), Asian pears (my first and I loved the texture) and an almond/honey paste. I could have made a meal off of just this as we sat chatting about winery touring here and abroad, the Williamsburg restaurant scene and how a blowtorch was used to prepare a country ham by his colorful father.
One of the reasons Gregg and I bonded when we first met was that his palate is far more adventurous than his wife's. So on a night when she has plans, we will go out and eat something together that she wouldn't touch. Our next course demonstrated this: tuna carpaccio with Hawaiian black salt, olive oil and slivers of cheese for the two of us and shrimp for her. The carpaccio was divinely thin and flavorful, melting in my mouth.
There was a wonderful quinoa salad with currants, spiced nuts, edamame and balsamic over butter lettuce and the only reason I didn't finish every bite was because I knew there was more food coming. It was the kind of dish a vegetarian would salivate over and this omnivore did the same.
Lightly sauteed crab meat with blue cheese and breadcrumb-topped tomatoes came next and what kind of Maryland-raised girl would I be if I didn't enjoy every bite of my favorite crustacean? But I'll admit I was getting mighty full.
In a nod to the changing weather and my host's favorite season, next up was butternut squash soup with a maple syrup swirl and seared scallops. The rich and creamy soup did taste like fall and the scallops we cut with a spoon they were so tender. It was a decadent course and then I was really done. We all were. Forks could have been stuck in us.
But of course the talented Gregg had to prove that we had room for just one thing more and that was a champagne and lime granita with two cookies, one each of ginger and vanilla. He was right, much as I hate to admit it. We did have room for the weightless and crystalline granita and it was the absolutely perfect final course.
It was a good thing we still had plenty of conversation left in us because after that it was about all we were capable of. But it was a beautiful night south of the river, and with the earlier darkness, light breeze and absence of mosquitoes, we sat sipping and sharing stories past and present while digesting our Labor Day repast.
I didn't change my mind about crossing the river for a restaurant, but anytime this man wants to cook for me, I'm heading south post haste. As I've demonstrated, I can do a couple date just as easily as I can borrow a husband.
Either way, I get to utilize my strong suits, conversation and eating. Lucky me.
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