I'm a hopeless romantic, so I thought it was terribly sweet. But I know a girl who saw it as stalker-like.
I'm talking about how people handle heartbreak because for every broken heart, there's a reaction by the breakee and who's to say which is best?
Not long ago I ran into a musician friend I hadn't seen out in a while, which wasn't like him. When I teasingly asked where he'd been, his head dropped to his chest.
"I got my heart broken so I've been staying at home the past couple of months."
It led to an intense discussion of how long it takes to get over a broken heart, but I could tell he was nowhere close.
Today, I saw how a stranger is handling his heartbreak. Driving down Malvern, brightly-colored signs line both sides of the street, presumably where the sign writer's beloved drives regularly.
The signs, and there are many, many of them, say it all:
Real love has no boundaries
I'M SORRY!
I miss your smile
Real love doesn't judge
Tomorrow doesn't matter without you
There is no US without U
Sky's are grey without you
My heart cries
Time moves slow
I'm empty without you
You have my heart
Believe in us
I care for you
I'M SORRY!
I told a friend who had also seen the simply-worded signs that, spelling aside, the gesture seemed very sweet and romantic to me.
Clearly someone is hurting and hoping to get through to his/her ex.
He agreed but said his girlfriend differed, seeing it as threatening, stalking even. Clearly, there's no one-size-fits-all when it comes to romance and heartbreak.
But someone's trying awfully hard and it strikes me as rather touching.
I think I'd be inclined to use other people's words if I were putting up signs, starting with the immortal words of Pearl Bailey.
The sweetest joy, the wildest woe is love
Imagine the impact on a day-glo pink poster board with a heart over the "i."
Ah, romance...
Friday, July 15, 2011
A European Romp
As a trip, it would have been stellar. As an evening, it was still awfully good.
I went from Britain to France to Italy in a distance of less than a few miles.
First stop was the Library of Virginia for a lecture on "A World on Fire: Britain's Crucial Role in the American Civil War" by Amanda Foreman.
Foreman was an outstanding storyteller, sharing lively anecdotes about two British men who served the South in a casually informative manner that was light years removed from your typical stale history lecture (her British accent didn't hurt).
She spoke of the surprising frequency with which Brits sympathized with and volunteered for the Southern cause. Many blockade runners were British, it turns out.
Back in the motherland, many people jumped aboard the Confederate bandwagon, including students, academics, theater people and journalists. In other words, all the usual liberal suspects.
What was interesting was how, at the end of the war, the London Times apologized for siding with the South. It has been the only time the Times has ever publicly apologized for a stance, she said.
And then I left England for France because it was Bastille Day, which demands celebration.
At Bistro Bobette, the Independence day soiree was in full swing. Luckily, I had a reservation at the bar and soon was surrounded by friends and regulars.
I used a glass of Muscadet as an aperitif while chatting with neighboring barsitters about Mama Zu, Varina and putting out fires (figuratively, not literally).
The point of the evening was the Bastille Day foie gras mania menu, which started with foie gras terrine and port jelly on homemade brioche.
The fortuitous presence of the Wine Consigliere provided a wine recommendation as well as stellar company for most of the evening.
His recommendation of 2005 Chateau Les Grandes Terres Cadillac was spot on. As he explained, it was a Sauternes grown just across the river, so not truly a Sauternes in name (or price).
As a devotee of terrines, I thoroughly enjoyed this first course, although I tasted cherries in the port jelly. One friend tasted orange and another blueberry. Flawed palates, all.
During a break to the ladies' room, I found myself in line with a French girl. We discussed why it was taking the loo's occupant so long when girls wear dresses, making it faster to take care of business.
When the door finally opened, she gestured to let me proceed her. "Go ahead," she generously offered. "Your skirt is shorter." I think that meant that I should be able to finish up more quickly. I think I did.
Back at the bar, the crowd was growing and not everyone had a reservation, making for a large contingent milling around the bar behind us.
My next course was seared foie gras with fig wine sauce, a potato gallette and leek confit. As a friend put it, "This course alone was worth the price of admission."
Paired with my Cadillac, I couldn't have agreed more about the sweetness of the wine complementing the richness of the foie gras. A person could die happy after eating this combination.
The final course was a foie gras ice cream with cassis coulis. My dish was further improved by the Chef coming out to the bar to add additional Creme de cassis to my plate. Sweet over savory, yum.
I saw a familiar face in a red, white and blue bowtie. A favorite ex-bartender came in. I enjoyed talking to one of M Bistro's new staff members. I met another bartender's brother.
Over Cremant de Bourgone, a group of us got into a discussion of people who say stupid things to us and the dream responses we would give if only we were quick enough.
And before I realized, I was late to meet a friend for a drink at Balliceaux and do some editing for him.
As a bonus, it was Mondo Italia night and Glows in the Dark was performing music from '70s Italian sex and crime movies while films played on the wall behind them.
He had suggested meeting so that I could edit a Led Zeppelin bio (don't ask) and we could catch up.
I fear I ended up telling him far too much about my head and heart when he asked, but then he shared quite a bi about his upcoming plans to move in with his girlfriend, including a bit of trepidation.
On that subject, my favorite of his conclusions amounted to, "Better to have been in a f**ked-up relationship than never to have loved at all." Brilliance out of the mouth of a friend slightly nervous about cohabitation.
And the bio left tighter and more concise than when it had arrived, much to his delight.
And, if I'm not mistaken, the jet lag from Muscadet, Sauternes, a taste or two of William Birne pear brandy, Cremant de Bourgogne and Hornitos, will guarantee me a great big greasy breakfast in the morning.
Sadly, no stamps on my passport, but not all foreign experiences provide them.
Tonight's journey was a worthy distraction.
I went from Britain to France to Italy in a distance of less than a few miles.
First stop was the Library of Virginia for a lecture on "A World on Fire: Britain's Crucial Role in the American Civil War" by Amanda Foreman.
Foreman was an outstanding storyteller, sharing lively anecdotes about two British men who served the South in a casually informative manner that was light years removed from your typical stale history lecture (her British accent didn't hurt).
She spoke of the surprising frequency with which Brits sympathized with and volunteered for the Southern cause. Many blockade runners were British, it turns out.
Back in the motherland, many people jumped aboard the Confederate bandwagon, including students, academics, theater people and journalists. In other words, all the usual liberal suspects.
What was interesting was how, at the end of the war, the London Times apologized for siding with the South. It has been the only time the Times has ever publicly apologized for a stance, she said.
And then I left England for France because it was Bastille Day, which demands celebration.
At Bistro Bobette, the Independence day soiree was in full swing. Luckily, I had a reservation at the bar and soon was surrounded by friends and regulars.
I used a glass of Muscadet as an aperitif while chatting with neighboring barsitters about Mama Zu, Varina and putting out fires (figuratively, not literally).
The point of the evening was the Bastille Day foie gras mania menu, which started with foie gras terrine and port jelly on homemade brioche.
The fortuitous presence of the Wine Consigliere provided a wine recommendation as well as stellar company for most of the evening.
His recommendation of 2005 Chateau Les Grandes Terres Cadillac was spot on. As he explained, it was a Sauternes grown just across the river, so not truly a Sauternes in name (or price).
As a devotee of terrines, I thoroughly enjoyed this first course, although I tasted cherries in the port jelly. One friend tasted orange and another blueberry. Flawed palates, all.
During a break to the ladies' room, I found myself in line with a French girl. We discussed why it was taking the loo's occupant so long when girls wear dresses, making it faster to take care of business.
When the door finally opened, she gestured to let me proceed her. "Go ahead," she generously offered. "Your skirt is shorter." I think that meant that I should be able to finish up more quickly. I think I did.
Back at the bar, the crowd was growing and not everyone had a reservation, making for a large contingent milling around the bar behind us.
My next course was seared foie gras with fig wine sauce, a potato gallette and leek confit. As a friend put it, "This course alone was worth the price of admission."
Paired with my Cadillac, I couldn't have agreed more about the sweetness of the wine complementing the richness of the foie gras. A person could die happy after eating this combination.
The final course was a foie gras ice cream with cassis coulis. My dish was further improved by the Chef coming out to the bar to add additional Creme de cassis to my plate. Sweet over savory, yum.
I saw a familiar face in a red, white and blue bowtie. A favorite ex-bartender came in. I enjoyed talking to one of M Bistro's new staff members. I met another bartender's brother.
Over Cremant de Bourgone, a group of us got into a discussion of people who say stupid things to us and the dream responses we would give if only we were quick enough.
And before I realized, I was late to meet a friend for a drink at Balliceaux and do some editing for him.
As a bonus, it was Mondo Italia night and Glows in the Dark was performing music from '70s Italian sex and crime movies while films played on the wall behind them.
He had suggested meeting so that I could edit a Led Zeppelin bio (don't ask) and we could catch up.
I fear I ended up telling him far too much about my head and heart when he asked, but then he shared quite a bi about his upcoming plans to move in with his girlfriend, including a bit of trepidation.
On that subject, my favorite of his conclusions amounted to, "Better to have been in a f**ked-up relationship than never to have loved at all." Brilliance out of the mouth of a friend slightly nervous about cohabitation.
And the bio left tighter and more concise than when it had arrived, much to his delight.
And, if I'm not mistaken, the jet lag from Muscadet, Sauternes, a taste or two of William Birne pear brandy, Cremant de Bourgogne and Hornitos, will guarantee me a great big greasy breakfast in the morning.
Sadly, no stamps on my passport, but not all foreign experiences provide them.
Tonight's journey was a worthy distraction.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Richmond: Not Rugged, but Sly
I'm scared of balls being thrown toward me and I have zero hand/eye coordination.
But, yes, that was me at today's Virginia Historical Society's Banner Lecture on "Facts and Legends of Sports in Richmond."
Honestly, it was the appeal of using a different lens to look at Richmond's history that got me there.
For all my historical geekiness, the closest I've come to exploring the past through sports was the Armstrong/Walker exhibit at the Black History Museum, here.
Today's illustrated lecture combined the writing talent of Brooks Smith (who does similar commentary on WCVE) and Wayne Dementi, the keeper of all old Richmond photographs.
His studio on Grace Street is a treasure trove for lovers of history and photography and I've found myself lost in there looking at this city's past through the lenses of long-dead shooters.
Using great imagery, the two men took turns sharing sports anecdotes about players, teams, venues and sports as they related to RVA.
Beginning with the 1968 Tuckahoe 12-year old baseball team that went to the Little League World Series in Osaka (they lost 1-0), I was surprised at how many in the audience remembered the event.
At a recent reunion of the team, one of the original players remarked, "How did we know when we were twelve years old that it would end up being the highlight of our lives?" Boy, is that a heavy statement.
We heard about quoits, the predecessor of horseshoes and the Quoits Club which was created on Buchanan's Farm, where VCU's campus stands today.
Apparently the PGA Championship was played at Hermitage Country Club with slammin' Sammy Snead winning the fabulous prize of $3500.
A writer at the time described the golf course as "Not rugged, but sly." Maybe that could be RVA's new slogan.
Baseball player Ray Dandridge grew up paying ball in the cornfields of Church Hill using a branch for a bat and cardboard and tape for a ball, an image I can't even summon.
Southside Speedway, which I know only for its "Go Fast, Turn Left" bike races, has hosted quite an array of famous NASCAR drivers, I discovered.
Billie Jean King played the first Virginia Slims Tennis Championship at Westwood Club in 1970 (sponsored by Philip-Morris, natch), making us the birthplace of the professional women's tour.
Pictures of the Tour de Trump (and later the Tour DuPont) with big name bicyclists tearing through downtown Richmond in the late '80s and early '90s were as impressive for the spectator turnout as for the well-known names.
When Lance Armstrong was asked his thoughts on Taylor Hill after having to ascend it four times during the course of the race, he responded with, "Whew!"
You can't beat a bicyclist for a pithy quote.
And now that I've learned that we were home to the first recorded cricket game in the New World, I know you can't beat Richmond for its noble sports history.
So next time you go down Monument Avenue and see beer-swilling kids playing Bag-o in the grassy median, you'll know that they're really just descendants of the Buchanan Quoits Club.
Toss on, sports enthusiasts. Just please don't toss near me. I catch like a girl.
But, yes, that was me at today's Virginia Historical Society's Banner Lecture on "Facts and Legends of Sports in Richmond."
Honestly, it was the appeal of using a different lens to look at Richmond's history that got me there.
For all my historical geekiness, the closest I've come to exploring the past through sports was the Armstrong/Walker exhibit at the Black History Museum, here.
Today's illustrated lecture combined the writing talent of Brooks Smith (who does similar commentary on WCVE) and Wayne Dementi, the keeper of all old Richmond photographs.
His studio on Grace Street is a treasure trove for lovers of history and photography and I've found myself lost in there looking at this city's past through the lenses of long-dead shooters.
Using great imagery, the two men took turns sharing sports anecdotes about players, teams, venues and sports as they related to RVA.
Beginning with the 1968 Tuckahoe 12-year old baseball team that went to the Little League World Series in Osaka (they lost 1-0), I was surprised at how many in the audience remembered the event.
At a recent reunion of the team, one of the original players remarked, "How did we know when we were twelve years old that it would end up being the highlight of our lives?" Boy, is that a heavy statement.
We heard about quoits, the predecessor of horseshoes and the Quoits Club which was created on Buchanan's Farm, where VCU's campus stands today.
Apparently the PGA Championship was played at Hermitage Country Club with slammin' Sammy Snead winning the fabulous prize of $3500.
A writer at the time described the golf course as "Not rugged, but sly." Maybe that could be RVA's new slogan.
Baseball player Ray Dandridge grew up paying ball in the cornfields of Church Hill using a branch for a bat and cardboard and tape for a ball, an image I can't even summon.
Southside Speedway, which I know only for its "Go Fast, Turn Left" bike races, has hosted quite an array of famous NASCAR drivers, I discovered.
Billie Jean King played the first Virginia Slims Tennis Championship at Westwood Club in 1970 (sponsored by Philip-Morris, natch), making us the birthplace of the professional women's tour.
Pictures of the Tour de Trump (and later the Tour DuPont) with big name bicyclists tearing through downtown Richmond in the late '80s and early '90s were as impressive for the spectator turnout as for the well-known names.
When Lance Armstrong was asked his thoughts on Taylor Hill after having to ascend it four times during the course of the race, he responded with, "Whew!"
You can't beat a bicyclist for a pithy quote.
And now that I've learned that we were home to the first recorded cricket game in the New World, I know you can't beat Richmond for its noble sports history.
So next time you go down Monument Avenue and see beer-swilling kids playing Bag-o in the grassy median, you'll know that they're really just descendants of the Buchanan Quoits Club.
Toss on, sports enthusiasts. Just please don't toss near me. I catch like a girl.
Never Too Old to Look Apparently
An old guy leaning on a walker smiles widely at me in front of the 7-11 on Grace Street, white wisps of hair blowing in the morning's delicious breeze.
Before I can move on, he speaks.
"Good morning!"
"Morning!"
"You look great in shorts."
"Thank you."
"The good lord gave you a beautiful body!"
"How old are you?"
"Eight-eight."
"And you're still looking at women's butts?"
"Until the good lord strikes me dead!"
Amen. Now be on your way.
Before I can move on, he speaks.
"Good morning!"
"Morning!"
"You look great in shorts."
"Thank you."
"The good lord gave you a beautiful body!"
"How old are you?"
"Eight-eight."
"And you're still looking at women's butts?"
"Until the good lord strikes me dead!"
Amen. Now be on your way.
Mad. Mad World
Stop the world. I want to get off.
If one more thing happens before I try sleeping tonight, I think my brain will shut down. Are everyone's planets out of alignment at this moment in time or is it just mine?
Going to Sprout for dinner and a music show temporarily lulled me into thinking that the world was finally righting itself.
The chicken salad over mixed local greens with bacon vinaigrette was a savory marriage of flavors and full of greens I couldn't even identify (always a good thing). I thanked the two people who had recommended it to me.
And the music was strong tonight. Dogs on Main Street (really one dog named Mac) began with the folk classic "This Land is Your Land," a song I can remember singing in elementary school
Saying, "I felt like I lost a friend the past few weeks. This is for Clarence," he launched into a rousing cover of "Badlands."
He was clearly getting hot up there (as dogs do on steamy July nights) and cracked wise, "Is the air conditioning set on Mexico?" before wiping his face of accumulated sweat. Being hot, though, did not affect how good he sounded.
During the break, I saw a friend who a) told me that he and another musician are recording a Christmas album and b) asked me about Jane Goodall and her chimp for the sake of updating his status.
After a while, you don't ask why.
It was my second night in a row for The Great Unknown, so I got to hear a lot more songs as well as a full drum kit on the songs I'd heard last night.
At one point, the girl standing next to me turned to her friend and stage-whispered, "These guys are amazingly good. They're from Philly!" I couldn't tell if she thought the two were mutually exclusive.
Favorite lyric:
My window is half full of clouds and it's open
And I'm inviting the weather in
I totally get that. My windows are always open and the weather, like the sounds of train whistles and birds singing, come in unbidden, but not wholly unwelcome.
And the continuing weirdness I find awaiting me when I get home? That would be any number of e-mails from friends full of crazy content.
"Thumper's mother said if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all."
"You are looking at the latest job fatality. I am now a permanent woman of leisure."
"Just sitting here fantasizing about you in a pair of leather chaps. Wow, I must have one hell of an imagination to imagine that. Titillating nonetheless. "
[Sound of Head Exploding]
If one more thing happens before I try sleeping tonight, I think my brain will shut down. Are everyone's planets out of alignment at this moment in time or is it just mine?
Going to Sprout for dinner and a music show temporarily lulled me into thinking that the world was finally righting itself.
The chicken salad over mixed local greens with bacon vinaigrette was a savory marriage of flavors and full of greens I couldn't even identify (always a good thing). I thanked the two people who had recommended it to me.
And the music was strong tonight. Dogs on Main Street (really one dog named Mac) began with the folk classic "This Land is Your Land," a song I can remember singing in elementary school
Saying, "I felt like I lost a friend the past few weeks. This is for Clarence," he launched into a rousing cover of "Badlands."
He was clearly getting hot up there (as dogs do on steamy July nights) and cracked wise, "Is the air conditioning set on Mexico?" before wiping his face of accumulated sweat. Being hot, though, did not affect how good he sounded.
During the break, I saw a friend who a) told me that he and another musician are recording a Christmas album and b) asked me about Jane Goodall and her chimp for the sake of updating his status.
After a while, you don't ask why.
It was my second night in a row for The Great Unknown, so I got to hear a lot more songs as well as a full drum kit on the songs I'd heard last night.
At one point, the girl standing next to me turned to her friend and stage-whispered, "These guys are amazingly good. They're from Philly!" I couldn't tell if she thought the two were mutually exclusive.
Favorite lyric:
My window is half full of clouds and it's open
And I'm inviting the weather in
I totally get that. My windows are always open and the weather, like the sounds of train whistles and birds singing, come in unbidden, but not wholly unwelcome.
And the continuing weirdness I find awaiting me when I get home? That would be any number of e-mails from friends full of crazy content.
"Thumper's mother said if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all."
"I will stand semi-politely behind the youngsters that flock to you."
"You are looking at the latest job fatality. I am now a permanent woman of leisure."
"Just sitting here fantasizing about you in a pair of leather chaps. Wow, I must have one hell of an imagination to imagine that. Titillating nonetheless. "
[Sound of Head Exploding]
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
4-H Club: Hip, Horns & Happy Hour
Imagine having an exquisite experience and then months later seeing it captured on film.
That was my pleasure tonight at the Anderson Gallery's Happy Hour, "Now Showing: Jonathan Vassar and the Speckled Bird with filmmaker Jonathan Dodd."
I met a friend in the garden for beer and wine (oh-so reasonably priced at $2 and $3, respectively) and life advice before the performance began. And what a performance it was!
Dodd's new film "Travelogue" had been shot last year and featured various winter pastimes, including sled hockey, a sport I hadn't even known existed.
It used footage from his leisurely trip out West. And, most evocatively for me, he included film from the JV & SB performance last October done as a tribute to the departing chimney swifts in Monroe Ward, described here.
As the travelogue unfolded, the band, with the superb addition of Paul Watson on horns, played a soundtrack that took the film to a whole different level, a sentiment echoed by Dodd after the film finished.
It was truly moving. Accordions, guitars, clarinet, xylophone, horns, Jonathan's deep voice and Antonia's soaring vocals made for a soundtrack of breathtaking beauty.
After the sublime experience of having watched the chimney swifts float, fly and descend last Fall, it seemed like a gift to see it all again on film.
And Dodd, being a 21st-century photographer, shot in 35 mm, 16 mm and Super 8, making for a fascinating range of moving images.
It was my friend's first time at an Anderson Gallery happy hour and as we walked out, she was fumbling for words to express how impressed she'd been with what she'd just experienced.
But her sense of humor always comes through in the end.
"I kept thinking someone was going to come in and tell me to leave because I'm not hip enough," she said nonsensically.
But you don't have to be hip to enjoy the beauty of local film and music on a sultry summer evening.
You just have to have eyes and ears and be there.
Or, as Woody Allen put it, "Showing up is eighty percent of life."
Personally, I'm shooting for a perfect score.
That was my pleasure tonight at the Anderson Gallery's Happy Hour, "Now Showing: Jonathan Vassar and the Speckled Bird with filmmaker Jonathan Dodd."
I met a friend in the garden for beer and wine (oh-so reasonably priced at $2 and $3, respectively) and life advice before the performance began. And what a performance it was!
Dodd's new film "Travelogue" had been shot last year and featured various winter pastimes, including sled hockey, a sport I hadn't even known existed.
It used footage from his leisurely trip out West. And, most evocatively for me, he included film from the JV & SB performance last October done as a tribute to the departing chimney swifts in Monroe Ward, described here.
As the travelogue unfolded, the band, with the superb addition of Paul Watson on horns, played a soundtrack that took the film to a whole different level, a sentiment echoed by Dodd after the film finished.
It was truly moving. Accordions, guitars, clarinet, xylophone, horns, Jonathan's deep voice and Antonia's soaring vocals made for a soundtrack of breathtaking beauty.
After the sublime experience of having watched the chimney swifts float, fly and descend last Fall, it seemed like a gift to see it all again on film.
And Dodd, being a 21st-century photographer, shot in 35 mm, 16 mm and Super 8, making for a fascinating range of moving images.
It was my friend's first time at an Anderson Gallery happy hour and as we walked out, she was fumbling for words to express how impressed she'd been with what she'd just experienced.
But her sense of humor always comes through in the end.
"I kept thinking someone was going to come in and tell me to leave because I'm not hip enough," she said nonsensically.
But you don't have to be hip to enjoy the beauty of local film and music on a sultry summer evening.
You just have to have eyes and ears and be there.
Or, as Woody Allen put it, "Showing up is eighty percent of life."
Personally, I'm shooting for a perfect score.
Give Me Long Exposure
What I knew about pinhole cameras could fit on the head of a pin. Corny, but true.
So when the Science Museum offered a lunchtime lecture called "A Peek into Pinhole Photography," I invited a photographer friend to join me for a little midday education.
Speaking was James Draper, a local pinhole enthusiast who took up the art back in the 70s.
Once he explained to us pinhole morons that it was as simple as using a pinhole instead of a lens, I began to think that I could understand the lecture.
Draper talked about why pinhole photography spoke to him: that it offers soft focus or amazing depth of field, that it's a return to the past in a digital age and that it arouses people's curiosity.
Rarely, he said, is he out with one of his many, many cameras that people don't approach him, inquisitive about what he's using and doing.
In fact, that's how he ended up doing the lecture; a Science Museum employee noticed him out by the kugel with a box for hours on end (an exposure runs thirty seconds to ten minutes) and went out to see what was up.
His enthusiasm for shooting pictures was charmingly enthusiastic. "For me," he said, "All of Richmond is a studio. There's always something to shoot."
For visual aids, he'd brought a half dozen cameras he'd made of various sizes for different format films and of an array of materials, including a paper camera.
I was surprised to learn that oatmeal boxes make excellent pinhole cameras, as do any containers with a tight-fitting lid. Shoe boxes, not so much.
He'd made one out of an artist's wooden supply box, told of a colleague who'd made one from a briefcase and even mentioned one made of a Volkswagen van.
Later my friend told me that there's a VW pinhole right here in Richmond. Now I need to see it.
The official largest pinhole camera, Draper said, is constructed out of an old jet hanger, two stories high and four wide.
Even with my new-found pinhole knowledge, I couldn't get my head around that one.
But I don't need to, either. For a supremely non-scientific type like me, it's enough that I now know that I could make a pinhole camera from one of my old oatmeal boxes.
It's not likely to happen, but it could be terrific conversational fodder with someone someday.
And if science isn't all about someone, someday, what the hell is it about?
So when the Science Museum offered a lunchtime lecture called "A Peek into Pinhole Photography," I invited a photographer friend to join me for a little midday education.
Speaking was James Draper, a local pinhole enthusiast who took up the art back in the 70s.
Once he explained to us pinhole morons that it was as simple as using a pinhole instead of a lens, I began to think that I could understand the lecture.
Draper talked about why pinhole photography spoke to him: that it offers soft focus or amazing depth of field, that it's a return to the past in a digital age and that it arouses people's curiosity.
Rarely, he said, is he out with one of his many, many cameras that people don't approach him, inquisitive about what he's using and doing.
In fact, that's how he ended up doing the lecture; a Science Museum employee noticed him out by the kugel with a box for hours on end (an exposure runs thirty seconds to ten minutes) and went out to see what was up.
His enthusiasm for shooting pictures was charmingly enthusiastic. "For me," he said, "All of Richmond is a studio. There's always something to shoot."
For visual aids, he'd brought a half dozen cameras he'd made of various sizes for different format films and of an array of materials, including a paper camera.
I was surprised to learn that oatmeal boxes make excellent pinhole cameras, as do any containers with a tight-fitting lid. Shoe boxes, not so much.
He'd made one out of an artist's wooden supply box, told of a colleague who'd made one from a briefcase and even mentioned one made of a Volkswagen van.
Later my friend told me that there's a VW pinhole right here in Richmond. Now I need to see it.
The official largest pinhole camera, Draper said, is constructed out of an old jet hanger, two stories high and four wide.
Even with my new-found pinhole knowledge, I couldn't get my head around that one.
But I don't need to, either. For a supremely non-scientific type like me, it's enough that I now know that I could make a pinhole camera from one of my old oatmeal boxes.
It's not likely to happen, but it could be terrific conversational fodder with someone someday.
And if science isn't all about someone, someday, what the hell is it about?
10x Sugar: The New Face Powder
I love beignet mornings at Louisiana Flair.
Everyone coming in the door has that expectant look on their face, the one that says, "Oh, boy, fried dough and blueberry sauce!"
Everyone leaving has traces of confectioner's sugar on their lips or chin or shirt. Three kids at the front table today had big white rings around their mouths, evidence of beignets enjoyed in large bites.
A guy came to get some juice from the cold case next to me and held the door open a bit longer than necessary.
"I should hold it open like that all day," he told me laughing. "Wouldn't you like that?" Yes, I would.
Of course, I could have picked a seat further from the beignet-frying, but I get too much pleasure watching the trays of endless dough balls dwindle as they are dropped into the hot oil and come out golden brown.
My only complaint with beignet Wednesday is getting there before the dough is all gone.And with Nate about to close up shop for good, I intended to get there while there was still dough.
I'd made plans to meet a friend there at 9:30 today, because Nate had reminded me that they almost always run out by 10:00.
And I don't get up at the crack of nine only to be disappointed.
No, my satisfaction comes from going from beignets to a meeting and having the guy I'm interviewing greet me by telling me there's something white on my cheek.
And maybe that's slightly better than having him tell me there's a dribble of blue on my chin.
Just one of the hazards of a Wednesday interview.
Everyone coming in the door has that expectant look on their face, the one that says, "Oh, boy, fried dough and blueberry sauce!"
Everyone leaving has traces of confectioner's sugar on their lips or chin or shirt. Three kids at the front table today had big white rings around their mouths, evidence of beignets enjoyed in large bites.
A guy came to get some juice from the cold case next to me and held the door open a bit longer than necessary.
"I should hold it open like that all day," he told me laughing. "Wouldn't you like that?" Yes, I would.
Of course, I could have picked a seat further from the beignet-frying, but I get too much pleasure watching the trays of endless dough balls dwindle as they are dropped into the hot oil and come out golden brown.
My only complaint with beignet Wednesday is getting there before the dough is all gone.And with Nate about to close up shop for good, I intended to get there while there was still dough.
I'd made plans to meet a friend there at 9:30 today, because Nate had reminded me that they almost always run out by 10:00.
And I don't get up at the crack of nine only to be disappointed.
No, my satisfaction comes from going from beignets to a meeting and having the guy I'm interviewing greet me by telling me there's something white on my cheek.
And maybe that's slightly better than having him tell me there's a dribble of blue on my chin.
Just one of the hazards of a Wednesday interview.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Burgers with The Great Unknown
Folk on, Steady Sounds.
Once again, my neighborhood record store was hosting an early show (6:30) with no price tag. Happily the crowd was bigger than at the last one, including several friends and musicians.
The inimitable Jonathan Vassar led the charge with his repertoire of sad songs. When he asked for requests, I suggested happy songs, but, as I already knew, there are no such songs in his repertoire.
Luckily there are plenty of heartfelt songs about family, places and memories, all satisfying.
Philly's The Great Unknown played next, coming from an interview at WRIR and an afternoon at the river ("It's okay to swim in your river, right? Cause we would never swim in ours in Philly!").
Formerly a quartet and now a trio, these guys have beautifully harmonious voices, accompanied by guitar, upright bass and drum.
They sang a new song, a song that used lyrics written by school children and two songs on which the audience was asked to sing along. We did our best.
After the show, the band was looking for some company, so four of us suggested Patrick Henry's (hey, it was $3 burger night) for some food, drink and conversation (RVA as good host).
We pulled two tables together to accommodate the additional two who joined us, got a terrific server (who just happened to write a webzine) and began getting to know each other with the aid of beer, Coke and, for some of us, Patron.
The problem with burger night at Patrick Henry's is not the burgers (easily one of the most flavorful cheap burgers in town) but the array of options. Pineapple compote? Hot pepper jelly? Hmmm...
After the hilarious ordeal of ordering, made all the more so because someone would order, then hear the next person's choice and second guess their own order, we began noticing the music.
It was all over the place, but in a good way. The Shins, Van Morrison, classic blues, Beach Boys, the music spurred many music tangents, including one about the inanity of Van Halen vocals.
But we also had great conversation about Cuba and its future, Gabriel Garcia Marquez and other must-read authors, and goat-milking (the band having had their first experience doing so this morning).
One of the benefits of so much chatter was that none of us could inhale our burgers immediately, despite being starved by that point.
Two enormous baskets of "community" fries took a beating, but only after our burgers were history. We were that kind of hungry.
By then the smoking had started, infiltrating clothes and hair, as it inevitably does at Patrick Henry's.
We hung on for another hour, comparing shows and talking about the Listening Room, which they had played to great acclaim this past April. I expect them to wow again tomorrow night at Sprout.
Getting up to go, a girl at a nearby table told me how much she liked my skirt. I didn't tell her it had been chosen for its thin fabric, brief length and breezy nature, not as a fashion statement.
Walking outside was like walking into an oven and while I didn't complain about the heat, my driver did. Guys never seem to tolerate summer warmth as well as girls.
What a difference a skirt makes.
Once again, my neighborhood record store was hosting an early show (6:30) with no price tag. Happily the crowd was bigger than at the last one, including several friends and musicians.
The inimitable Jonathan Vassar led the charge with his repertoire of sad songs. When he asked for requests, I suggested happy songs, but, as I already knew, there are no such songs in his repertoire.
Luckily there are plenty of heartfelt songs about family, places and memories, all satisfying.
Philly's The Great Unknown played next, coming from an interview at WRIR and an afternoon at the river ("It's okay to swim in your river, right? Cause we would never swim in ours in Philly!").
Formerly a quartet and now a trio, these guys have beautifully harmonious voices, accompanied by guitar, upright bass and drum.
They sang a new song, a song that used lyrics written by school children and two songs on which the audience was asked to sing along. We did our best.
After the show, the band was looking for some company, so four of us suggested Patrick Henry's (hey, it was $3 burger night) for some food, drink and conversation (RVA as good host).
We pulled two tables together to accommodate the additional two who joined us, got a terrific server (who just happened to write a webzine) and began getting to know each other with the aid of beer, Coke and, for some of us, Patron.
The problem with burger night at Patrick Henry's is not the burgers (easily one of the most flavorful cheap burgers in town) but the array of options. Pineapple compote? Hot pepper jelly? Hmmm...
After the hilarious ordeal of ordering, made all the more so because someone would order, then hear the next person's choice and second guess their own order, we began noticing the music.
It was all over the place, but in a good way. The Shins, Van Morrison, classic blues, Beach Boys, the music spurred many music tangents, including one about the inanity of Van Halen vocals.
But we also had great conversation about Cuba and its future, Gabriel Garcia Marquez and other must-read authors, and goat-milking (the band having had their first experience doing so this morning).
One of the benefits of so much chatter was that none of us could inhale our burgers immediately, despite being starved by that point.
Two enormous baskets of "community" fries took a beating, but only after our burgers were history. We were that kind of hungry.
By then the smoking had started, infiltrating clothes and hair, as it inevitably does at Patrick Henry's.
We hung on for another hour, comparing shows and talking about the Listening Room, which they had played to great acclaim this past April. I expect them to wow again tomorrow night at Sprout.
Getting up to go, a girl at a nearby table told me how much she liked my skirt. I didn't tell her it had been chosen for its thin fabric, brief length and breezy nature, not as a fashion statement.
Walking outside was like walking into an oven and while I didn't complain about the heat, my driver did. Guys never seem to tolerate summer warmth as well as girls.
What a difference a skirt makes.
Slipping Out of the Heat and Into Lunch
Invitations to a "leisurely ladies' lunch" don't come my way every day.
This one arrived toward the end of my beach week from a good friend who wanted to nail down Tuesday for our overdue rendezvous.
Could there be a better place to linger over a long lunch, gossip and talk relationships than Secco on a sultry afternoon?
The radio was saying that with the heat index, it felt like 105 degrees outside, but with the curtains drawn, it was cool and lovely inside. The vintage soul music on the stereo only made it cooler.
We went against the European grain and ordered Barboursville Reserve Viognier in a nod to our efforts to assess and enjoy more Virginia wines.
I don't know who had more dirt to share, but we did so sotto voice since the bar had only three other customers at that point and we didn't want to bother them with our trivial little tales.
Taking the time to study the menu, I saw that Secco's prix-fixe lunch is an amazing deal at a mere ten bucks and wondered why I'd never tried it.
Oh, well, I've been late to the party before.
First I enjoyed a salad of mixed and peppery field greens with a lemon/thyme vinaigrette. Light and lovely.
My rosemary roasted pork panino had spicy plum chutney and just the right amount of chevre and was accompanied by those addicting fried chickpeas, which the wine list had recommended as the ideal pairing with our Viognier (true that).
The prix-fixe dessert was the vanilla bean pizzelli with chocolate hazelnut ice cream, making for a gelato sandwich as far removed from Good Humor as can be imagined.
I shared my gelato with my gluten-intolerant friend who didn't seem to miss the pizzelle one little bit.And, the fact is, on a day like today, it's all about the ice cream anyway.
Well, that and the kind of stories where, as my friend put it, "You don't know whether to laugh or cry."
Splitting another glass of the Virginia grape, we opted for the former.
Because there's no crying at a leisurely ladies' lunch.
This one arrived toward the end of my beach week from a good friend who wanted to nail down Tuesday for our overdue rendezvous.
Could there be a better place to linger over a long lunch, gossip and talk relationships than Secco on a sultry afternoon?
The radio was saying that with the heat index, it felt like 105 degrees outside, but with the curtains drawn, it was cool and lovely inside. The vintage soul music on the stereo only made it cooler.
We went against the European grain and ordered Barboursville Reserve Viognier in a nod to our efforts to assess and enjoy more Virginia wines.
I don't know who had more dirt to share, but we did so sotto voice since the bar had only three other customers at that point and we didn't want to bother them with our trivial little tales.
Taking the time to study the menu, I saw that Secco's prix-fixe lunch is an amazing deal at a mere ten bucks and wondered why I'd never tried it.
Oh, well, I've been late to the party before.
First I enjoyed a salad of mixed and peppery field greens with a lemon/thyme vinaigrette. Light and lovely.
My rosemary roasted pork panino had spicy plum chutney and just the right amount of chevre and was accompanied by those addicting fried chickpeas, which the wine list had recommended as the ideal pairing with our Viognier (true that).
The prix-fixe dessert was the vanilla bean pizzelli with chocolate hazelnut ice cream, making for a gelato sandwich as far removed from Good Humor as can be imagined.
I shared my gelato with my gluten-intolerant friend who didn't seem to miss the pizzelle one little bit.And, the fact is, on a day like today, it's all about the ice cream anyway.
Well, that and the kind of stories where, as my friend put it, "You don't know whether to laugh or cry."
Splitting another glass of the Virginia grape, we opted for the former.
Because there's no crying at a leisurely ladies' lunch.
Up in the Air
I got lucky on my solo mission tonight.
Which is to say that after addressing a week's worth of missed work and unattended chores, I wanted out even if no one was expressing any interest in the pleasure of my company..
For my pre-theater dinner I chose Pescado's, welcoming the blast of air conditioning when I walked in. I may not use it, but some days, I can appreciate it.
Likewise, I could appreciate the soup of the day, a watermelon gazpacho with a tomato/mango emulsion and a generous cucumber/jalapeno/mint drizzle.
The sweetness of the melon was tempered by the tomato but it was the subtle-but-there heat of the jalapeno that made for a wonderful contrast with the soup's cool flavors.
That and a glass of Vinho Verde did much to lower my body temperature and make me forget about the sweltering heat outside.
One of the owners came in and joined me for a bowl of the soup after I raved about it. Coincidentally, he'd been down at the beach only a few miles from me last week.
Which got us to talking about beach restaurants/bars and before we knew it, the bartender was telling us about her years as a server down there at one of the most renowned meat market bars.
Everyone's got a beach story, it seems, just some more sordid than others.
Because I had plans, I had to move on to dinner in the middle of discussing a beach bartender we both knew. I decided the fish tacos were sounding good tonight.
Seared dorado filled corn tortillas along with pico de gallo, local micro-greens, pickled red onion, and tomato/jalapeno sauce. On the side were their excellent coconut black beans, which I could eat everyday.
By the time I finished stuffing myself, it was showtime so I paid up and traveled the short distance to Firehouse Theater.
Tonight was the last night of the 9th Annual Festival of New American Plays.
Showing was "Somebody's Daughter" by Chisa Hutchinson, the story of a Chinese-American student and her Chinese-American guidance counselor trying to muddle through the consequences of culturally sanctioned gender bias.
The staged reading sang with energy and although there were four Asian roles and only one Asian actor, it totally worked.
Perhaps most interestingly, the subplot about the Chinese guidance counselor and her African-American boyfriend was played out in the front row tonight where a Chinese theater student sat with his African-American girlfriend.
He admitted that his family reacted just as the character's had in dealing with him dating a non-Asian.
My seatmate was VCU theater professor and director Barry Bell, whose wife was in the production, and who, like any good theater pro, questioned me on the origins of my love for theater.
Not wanting to over-share I didn't tell him I eschew television, but instead said how I'd been taken occasionally as a child and become a fanatic in college, partially due to easy access to Kennedy Center tickets from my part-time job.
As lame as that sounds, I saw more theater in college than any theater student I knew. And once I was hooked, I just never let it go.
I have a friend who used to call me "Miss First Nighter" back in the nineties. I think she meant it as a compliment.
At the talkback afterwards, the audience was enthusiastic about seeing the play produced, although opinions varied about the casting. Apparently finding ethnic actors is no easy job in Richmond, but some people felt it was non-negotiable.
On my way to the lobby, I ran into a friend and man-about-town who usually kneels and kisses my hand when he sees me. I find it charming.
Tonight he embraced me in a bear hug, lifting me completely off the ground as he did so.
I can't tell you the last time a guy scooped me up so that my feet left the floor. I found out tonight what a loss that is.
He's taken, but surely he's not the only guy capable of sweeping me off my feet.
That much I know.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Back in the Saddle Again
Not every puppet show ends in death, but you can pretty much count on it with Huckiddy Puppets.
For my first night back, I couldn't have asked for a better way to jump back into things than with a show at Gallery 5. It was puppetry, it was music and it was three blocks from home.
A nice crowd was forming when I arrived and music was being DJ'd courtesy of Sara Gosett, which always guarantees stellar vintage pop. I won't even mention the adorable mod '60s dress she had on.
Among the gems she played were Nancy Sinatra, the Hollies and, my personal favorite, an Indonesian cover of "Dizzy." Oh, yes she did.
Richmond's best flamenco guitarist Frankzig opened the show with three songs showcasing his flying fingers, evocative singing and rhythmic foot stomping. Even with not a drop of Spanish blood in me, I always love seeing him perform.
When the puppet show began, it was with a group of local talents for musical accompaniment. Ed Trask was on drums, Jessica Blanks on violin, Tom Brickman on bass and Chris Ramming on guitar.
The show, put on by the brother/sister team of Chris Milk Hulbert and Cat Spur Hulbert, was about, what else, a brother and sister.
Tonight's plot centered on the sister trying to find the brother, only to learn that he has run away to escape people.
But a Huckiddy puppet show is not your mother's puppet show. When she finds him hiding out, she demands to know where he's been.
"I bugged the f**k out," he admits.
"That's rude as shit," she admonishes him. "It sounds all hip, but it's really rude and hurtful." The puppet language may be updated, but the sibling sentiment is timeless.
And what mother would approve of a puppet of a male body part who keeps suggesting lewd things?
A long intermission followed the first act and then two members of Zac Hryciak and the Jungle Beat took the stage.
Zac, looking sharp in a Spinal Tap t-shirt, and Jessica, minus her violin, said they were going to play a bunch of new songs and then immediately qualified it by saying, "Oh, but we've actually played this one before."
It didn't matter. When you've got a voice as impressive as Zac's and backing vocals as pretty as Jessica's, it's all good, old or new.
The audience responded with great enthusiasm, making me wonder if some people might be hearing them for the first time.
After yet another intermission, Frankzig came back and the crowd welcomed him warmly, now knowing what to expect.
Finally, the feuding brother and sister's antics resumed. Turns out that the reason Huckle, the brother, had escaped was because he was an agoraphobic hobo, a phrase which got used to great hilarity several times.
As things were winding down, sister F'funia explained family dynamics to her thick-headed brother.
"That's what families are about. You love each other until you can't stand it anymore. Then you go away.Then you come back and do it again."
That's wisdom out of the mouths of big-lipped puppets.
Despite sharing sibling wisdom, Huckle ends up dead after a loud bang because of fireworks. So all ends normally for a Huckiddy puppet show.
And for me, life returns to normal with an evening of music, humor, art and universal truths.
Absent ocean soundtrack aside, it's good to be back.
For my first night back, I couldn't have asked for a better way to jump back into things than with a show at Gallery 5. It was puppetry, it was music and it was three blocks from home.
A nice crowd was forming when I arrived and music was being DJ'd courtesy of Sara Gosett, which always guarantees stellar vintage pop. I won't even mention the adorable mod '60s dress she had on.
Among the gems she played were Nancy Sinatra, the Hollies and, my personal favorite, an Indonesian cover of "Dizzy." Oh, yes she did.
Richmond's best flamenco guitarist Frankzig opened the show with three songs showcasing his flying fingers, evocative singing and rhythmic foot stomping. Even with not a drop of Spanish blood in me, I always love seeing him perform.
When the puppet show began, it was with a group of local talents for musical accompaniment. Ed Trask was on drums, Jessica Blanks on violin, Tom Brickman on bass and Chris Ramming on guitar.
The show, put on by the brother/sister team of Chris Milk Hulbert and Cat Spur Hulbert, was about, what else, a brother and sister.
Tonight's plot centered on the sister trying to find the brother, only to learn that he has run away to escape people.
But a Huckiddy puppet show is not your mother's puppet show. When she finds him hiding out, she demands to know where he's been.
"I bugged the f**k out," he admits.
"That's rude as shit," she admonishes him. "It sounds all hip, but it's really rude and hurtful." The puppet language may be updated, but the sibling sentiment is timeless.
And what mother would approve of a puppet of a male body part who keeps suggesting lewd things?
A long intermission followed the first act and then two members of Zac Hryciak and the Jungle Beat took the stage.
Zac, looking sharp in a Spinal Tap t-shirt, and Jessica, minus her violin, said they were going to play a bunch of new songs and then immediately qualified it by saying, "Oh, but we've actually played this one before."
It didn't matter. When you've got a voice as impressive as Zac's and backing vocals as pretty as Jessica's, it's all good, old or new.
The audience responded with great enthusiasm, making me wonder if some people might be hearing them for the first time.
After yet another intermission, Frankzig came back and the crowd welcomed him warmly, now knowing what to expect.
Finally, the feuding brother and sister's antics resumed. Turns out that the reason Huckle, the brother, had escaped was because he was an agoraphobic hobo, a phrase which got used to great hilarity several times.
As things were winding down, sister F'funia explained family dynamics to her thick-headed brother.
"That's what families are about. You love each other until you can't stand it anymore. Then you go away.Then you come back and do it again."
That's wisdom out of the mouths of big-lipped puppets.
Despite sharing sibling wisdom, Huckle ends up dead after a loud bang because of fireworks. So all ends normally for a Huckiddy puppet show.
And for me, life returns to normal with an evening of music, humor, art and universal truths.
Absent ocean soundtrack aside, it's good to be back.
Sunday Supper in the Peanut Capital
Allow me to state the obvious. The last day at the beach always comes too soon.
This year especially that was true because, for the first time in over a decade, I stayed one week instead of two and it seemed to be over in the blink of an eye.
By the time I woke up this morning, I had only enough time for one activity other than packing the car. My daily walk was scrapped for a dip in the water.
You'd be surprised how many other people were enjoying the surf with me at 9 a.m. on a Sunday morning, but given the water temperature, it was understandable.
Finally dragging myself out of the waves, I dutifully got dressed, although minimally.
The hardest part of post-beach week is adjusting to a bathing suit no longer being the ensemble of the day, all day, every day.
Heading up the road, I did the usual juggling of emotions. It's tough to give up hearing the ocean 24/7 and having endless time to read and indulge myself.
But there's never enough culture down there for me and I miss the energy of Richmond, not to mention a reliable internet signal.
The drive home up the back route is always a pleasant one, especially knowing that others are willing in sit in traffic on 64 looking at endless nothingness while I have the charm of small towns (Zuni) and business signs ("GLOCK PISTOL SALE").
Today I fell prey to the alluring billboards ("Since 1929!") of the venerable Virginia Diner and stopped for lunch with the Sunday mix of vacationers and locals.
Although they're known for their fried chicken, I'd had yard bird yesterday, so I defaulted to local pig and ordered three big homemade biscuits piled high with Virginia ham, with sides of collards and black-eyed peas with stewed tomatoes.
My server tried to interest me in sweet tea, but my Washington, D.C. birth makes that a beverage I can't stomach. I was definitely in the minority, though.
The ham was salty, the greens had plenty of tang and the black-eyed peas tasted like my Richmond grandmother's (although the biscuits were not as good as hers).
Meanwhile, the couple next to me took hands, closed their eyes and said grace before diving into their food. They said they were natives who loved the Sunday buffet at the Diner.
Fearful that I'd fall asleep at the wheel after my late night and a heavy lunch, I'd decided against the buffet despite the temptation of limitless fried chicken.
On Sundays, I guess, that's the benefit of living in Wakefield. A fatty meal and then an afternoon nap.
Oh, wait, I did that all last week at the beach.
And let me tell you, I will miss it.
This year especially that was true because, for the first time in over a decade, I stayed one week instead of two and it seemed to be over in the blink of an eye.
By the time I woke up this morning, I had only enough time for one activity other than packing the car. My daily walk was scrapped for a dip in the water.
You'd be surprised how many other people were enjoying the surf with me at 9 a.m. on a Sunday morning, but given the water temperature, it was understandable.
Finally dragging myself out of the waves, I dutifully got dressed, although minimally.
The hardest part of post-beach week is adjusting to a bathing suit no longer being the ensemble of the day, all day, every day.
Heading up the road, I did the usual juggling of emotions. It's tough to give up hearing the ocean 24/7 and having endless time to read and indulge myself.
But there's never enough culture down there for me and I miss the energy of Richmond, not to mention a reliable internet signal.
The drive home up the back route is always a pleasant one, especially knowing that others are willing in sit in traffic on 64 looking at endless nothingness while I have the charm of small towns (Zuni) and business signs ("GLOCK PISTOL SALE").
Today I fell prey to the alluring billboards ("Since 1929!") of the venerable Virginia Diner and stopped for lunch with the Sunday mix of vacationers and locals.
Although they're known for their fried chicken, I'd had yard bird yesterday, so I defaulted to local pig and ordered three big homemade biscuits piled high with Virginia ham, with sides of collards and black-eyed peas with stewed tomatoes.
My server tried to interest me in sweet tea, but my Washington, D.C. birth makes that a beverage I can't stomach. I was definitely in the minority, though.
The ham was salty, the greens had plenty of tang and the black-eyed peas tasted like my Richmond grandmother's (although the biscuits were not as good as hers).
Meanwhile, the couple next to me took hands, closed their eyes and said grace before diving into their food. They said they were natives who loved the Sunday buffet at the Diner.
Fearful that I'd fall asleep at the wheel after my late night and a heavy lunch, I'd decided against the buffet despite the temptation of limitless fried chicken.
On Sundays, I guess, that's the benefit of living in Wakefield. A fatty meal and then an afternoon nap.
Oh, wait, I did that all last week at the beach.
And let me tell you, I will miss it.
Alone Again, Naturally
Current read: "Showman: The Life of David O. Selznick" by David Thomson/1992
Best song randomly heard: "Don't Believe in Love" by Dido/2008
We had visitors all afternoon but they were friends of my guest.
I was welcoming, then I napped on the beach, we ate a fried chicken and fruit lunch and then I read. Meanwhile, they played catch-up, got burnt in the sun and drank beer.
For a day that began as cold, very foggy (the piers were invisible) and sunless, the afternoon boasted blue skies, bright sun and temperate water. It was a lovely last day.
When the visitors pulled out, my friend wasn't far behind. She's more disciplined person than I could be. You'll not find me giving up a last night in an oceanfront room; falling asleep to the sound of the ocean is a non-negotiable indulgence of mine.
After that departure, I got properly cleaned up and headed up the beach to the Ocean Boulevard patio. I had never sat oceanside and listened to the live music, so tonight was the night to correct that.
With a chair and table and a view of AR, the singer, I was able to enjoy the last hour and a half of daylight and my last night beachside instead of inside.
Thirst-quenching came in the form of Loredona Viognier with a beautifully floral nose and nice fruit. Maye it was because it was the last night, but that glass disappeared like water.
Helping my mood were the dulcet tones of the singer playing his heart out to a) a 40th birthday party for a noisy bunch of six women and b) a girl's night out for a group of seven. They never once clapped until I began doing so. Very telling.
Dinner was surf and turf: Price Edward Island mussels steeped in sake and pickled ginger with julienned veggies, followed by Sicilian veal meatballs with parsley linguine, mushrooms, capers, roasted red peppers and natural jus, making for an interesting contrast of flavors.
To accompany my meal and in a nod to my recent read. I selected the 2008 Robert Mondavi Cabernet Sauvignon, velvety and with the dark fruit I expected.
Knowing that it was the first vintage after the winemaker's death gave it a special significance now that I know all the sordid history behind the winery and the family..
As I was eating dinner and enjoying the singer's voice and ocean breezes, a guy approached me and asked me to join his group of locals, but I politely declined.
My server came over and offered me some bug spray and while I hadn't been the least bit bothered by mosquitoes, I sprayed my legs generously, figuring she knew more than I did.
Ten minutes later, the singer said he was being eaten alive by bugs. Good move on my server's part for saving me from that.
The singer's repertoire was varied, encompassing John Mayer, Smashing Pumpkins, Radiohead and finally finishing with Bon Iver's "Skinny Love." He had me all along.
I talked with a couple from Maryland who were in town to celebrate his birthday and had been out beach house-shopping all day. We talked about the drive down and beauty of the Varina-Enon bridge.
They were amazed that I was at the beach by myself.
Once they moved inside to eat, the locals adamantly insisted I join their group of transplants, which included a Georgian who drew out her vowels like honey dripping (Jim became "Gee-im"), a former Wyndam-dweller of all things, a Norfolker by birth and a woman from the hills of North Carolina.
They, too, were fascinated by me being out by myself on vacation and wanted to adopt me for all future outings. I didn't have the heart to tell them that this was my final foray of the week.
Eventually A.R. joined us after his last set and, small world that it is, discovered that we'd been to a lot of the same shows, especially at the Norva (Band of Horses, Interpol, Imogene Heap). You just never know what you'll have in common with a stranger.
But, unlike him, my father was never a session musician for Lou Reed (a conversation starter if ever there was one).
Which means I have to find other ways to make my mark in social situations.
Lately it seems like just being out by myself is making me appealing to people. Sure, it's probably just a sympathy or curiosity thing, but sometimes that's enough.
As we prepared to leave after hours of chatter, I thanked the last two of the group about insisting I join them.
"Well, you are a hottie," Jim ("Gee-im") said before he and his wife hugged me good night.
So much for the sympathy theory.
And I'm okay with that tonight.
Best song randomly heard: "Don't Believe in Love" by Dido/2008
We had visitors all afternoon but they were friends of my guest.
I was welcoming, then I napped on the beach, we ate a fried chicken and fruit lunch and then I read. Meanwhile, they played catch-up, got burnt in the sun and drank beer.
For a day that began as cold, very foggy (the piers were invisible) and sunless, the afternoon boasted blue skies, bright sun and temperate water. It was a lovely last day.
When the visitors pulled out, my friend wasn't far behind. She's more disciplined person than I could be. You'll not find me giving up a last night in an oceanfront room; falling asleep to the sound of the ocean is a non-negotiable indulgence of mine.
After that departure, I got properly cleaned up and headed up the beach to the Ocean Boulevard patio. I had never sat oceanside and listened to the live music, so tonight was the night to correct that.
With a chair and table and a view of AR, the singer, I was able to enjoy the last hour and a half of daylight and my last night beachside instead of inside.
Thirst-quenching came in the form of Loredona Viognier with a beautifully floral nose and nice fruit. Maye it was because it was the last night, but that glass disappeared like water.
Helping my mood were the dulcet tones of the singer playing his heart out to a) a 40th birthday party for a noisy bunch of six women and b) a girl's night out for a group of seven. They never once clapped until I began doing so. Very telling.
Dinner was surf and turf: Price Edward Island mussels steeped in sake and pickled ginger with julienned veggies, followed by Sicilian veal meatballs with parsley linguine, mushrooms, capers, roasted red peppers and natural jus, making for an interesting contrast of flavors.
To accompany my meal and in a nod to my recent read. I selected the 2008 Robert Mondavi Cabernet Sauvignon, velvety and with the dark fruit I expected.
Knowing that it was the first vintage after the winemaker's death gave it a special significance now that I know all the sordid history behind the winery and the family..
As I was eating dinner and enjoying the singer's voice and ocean breezes, a guy approached me and asked me to join his group of locals, but I politely declined.
My server came over and offered me some bug spray and while I hadn't been the least bit bothered by mosquitoes, I sprayed my legs generously, figuring she knew more than I did.
Ten minutes later, the singer said he was being eaten alive by bugs. Good move on my server's part for saving me from that.
The singer's repertoire was varied, encompassing John Mayer, Smashing Pumpkins, Radiohead and finally finishing with Bon Iver's "Skinny Love." He had me all along.
I talked with a couple from Maryland who were in town to celebrate his birthday and had been out beach house-shopping all day. We talked about the drive down and beauty of the Varina-Enon bridge.
They were amazed that I was at the beach by myself.
Once they moved inside to eat, the locals adamantly insisted I join their group of transplants, which included a Georgian who drew out her vowels like honey dripping (Jim became "Gee-im"), a former Wyndam-dweller of all things, a Norfolker by birth and a woman from the hills of North Carolina.
They, too, were fascinated by me being out by myself on vacation and wanted to adopt me for all future outings. I didn't have the heart to tell them that this was my final foray of the week.
Eventually A.R. joined us after his last set and, small world that it is, discovered that we'd been to a lot of the same shows, especially at the Norva (Band of Horses, Interpol, Imogene Heap). You just never know what you'll have in common with a stranger.
But, unlike him, my father was never a session musician for Lou Reed (a conversation starter if ever there was one).
Which means I have to find other ways to make my mark in social situations.
Lately it seems like just being out by myself is making me appealing to people. Sure, it's probably just a sympathy or curiosity thing, but sometimes that's enough.
As we prepared to leave after hours of chatter, I thanked the last two of the group about insisting I join them.
"Well, you are a hottie," Jim ("Gee-im") said before he and his wife hugged me good night.
So much for the sympathy theory.
And I'm okay with that tonight.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Drink Up, Me Hearties
Current read: "A Bess Streeter Aldrich Treasury" by B.S.A./1933
Best song randomly heard on the radio: "Waiting in Vain" by Bob Marley/1977
Before I perished from lack of musical experience, I convinced my guest to accompany me out for music.
We brought cheese, wine and chairs to Roanoke Island for an outdoor concert at Festival Park. The North Carolina Symphony was doing a program entitled "Pirates!" and I figured why the hell not?
On arrival, it was obvious that we were two of hundreds who had reached that same conclusion. Despite a forecast of possible thunderstorms, the grounds were packed with music lovers.
I love the stage at Festival Park because the backdrop is glass, so throughout a performance, the audience can see the Sound as well as any boats or lights on it. Tres scenic.
We spread out our grapes and glasses and enjoyed our repast while taking note of the crowd passing us by. Vacationers and locals of all shapes and ages moseyed by as we munched and drank.
Conductor William Henry Curry brought his sense of humor with him for the show, periodically introducing bad jokes as preludes to music.
Where do pirates eat breakfast? I-Hop.
The musical program covered a wide swath of pirate-related music, including "Pirates of Penzance," "The Flying Dutchman," "Captain Blood" and "Peter Pan."
Since I hadn't seen the movies, I had no familiarity with "Pirates of the Caribbean" or "Hook" although they seemed to be crowd pleasers. There was even a singalong sea chantey.
What struck me most was that this was my first time hearing a full symphony play outside. The usually enormous sound dissipated in the warm and humid night air in a way it never could within the hard walls of a concert hall.
In the parlance of someone with no musical vocabulary, it was the softest sounds I've ever heard from a symphony and I'm not talking about volume.
The funniest joke of the evening had to be explained to some in the audience, but we laughed out loud.
How do pirates know they exist?
They think, therefore they argh.
Yea, yea, but do you know any better pirate jokes?
After an intermission walk down to the Sound and an evening under the windblown clouds, we pointed the car back to the ocean in search of an outdoor nightcap.
Rundown Cafe, barely a quarter mile from the cottage, provided the Herrudura and Red Stripe/Blue Moon we required to sit on the outside bar deck and discuss the kind of distractions that make a person forget her beach umbrella and binoculars.
I think, therefore I know the importance of capturing the long view.
Best song randomly heard on the radio: "Waiting in Vain" by Bob Marley/1977
Before I perished from lack of musical experience, I convinced my guest to accompany me out for music.
We brought cheese, wine and chairs to Roanoke Island for an outdoor concert at Festival Park. The North Carolina Symphony was doing a program entitled "Pirates!" and I figured why the hell not?
On arrival, it was obvious that we were two of hundreds who had reached that same conclusion. Despite a forecast of possible thunderstorms, the grounds were packed with music lovers.
I love the stage at Festival Park because the backdrop is glass, so throughout a performance, the audience can see the Sound as well as any boats or lights on it. Tres scenic.
We spread out our grapes and glasses and enjoyed our repast while taking note of the crowd passing us by. Vacationers and locals of all shapes and ages moseyed by as we munched and drank.
Conductor William Henry Curry brought his sense of humor with him for the show, periodically introducing bad jokes as preludes to music.
Where do pirates eat breakfast? I-Hop.
The musical program covered a wide swath of pirate-related music, including "Pirates of Penzance," "The Flying Dutchman," "Captain Blood" and "Peter Pan."
Since I hadn't seen the movies, I had no familiarity with "Pirates of the Caribbean" or "Hook" although they seemed to be crowd pleasers. There was even a singalong sea chantey.
What struck me most was that this was my first time hearing a full symphony play outside. The usually enormous sound dissipated in the warm and humid night air in a way it never could within the hard walls of a concert hall.
In the parlance of someone with no musical vocabulary, it was the softest sounds I've ever heard from a symphony and I'm not talking about volume.
The funniest joke of the evening had to be explained to some in the audience, but we laughed out loud.
How do pirates know they exist?
They think, therefore they argh.
Yea, yea, but do you know any better pirate jokes?
After an intermission walk down to the Sound and an evening under the windblown clouds, we pointed the car back to the ocean in search of an outdoor nightcap.
Rundown Cafe, barely a quarter mile from the cottage, provided the Herrudura and Red Stripe/Blue Moon we required to sit on the outside bar deck and discuss the kind of distractions that make a person forget her beach umbrella and binoculars.
I think, therefore I know the importance of capturing the long view.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Red, Red Wine and Rainbows
Current read: "The House of Mondavi" (yes, still)
Best song randomly heard: "That's Some Dream" by Good Old War/2010
After being threatened with an impending thunderstorm by the Beach Patrol, we got a few drops, some darkened skies and all of a sudden, a sparkling rainbow curved over the ocean's horizon.
It was so colorful, so perfectly arched over the end of the water as to be a cartoon rainbow on a My Little Pony lunchbox.
But I'd never seen a rainbow on the horizon, so I sat on the porch and admired it until it faded away.
By then it was happy hour, so I pulled out a birthday gift from last year of a 2008 M. Chapoutier Les Vignes de Bali Haut, a red blend with big, meaty tannins and a lovely cherry nose.
I'd been holding on to it since last year because it was recommended to be best drunk between 2010 and 2014. There's no substitute for time when it comes to some things.
2011 from the porch of a beach house seemed practically ideal and, once it opened up a bit, suited my guest and me to a "T."
And you have to admire a winemaker who uses Braille on his labels for the benefit of his blind wine lovers.
Thanks to BR, the good friend who gifted me with this beautiful wine in the first place. FYI, we raised glasses to you and your generosity.
But big red wine only got us so far before we headed to the neighborhood wine bar for a bite to eat. The very Southern couple who ceded their stools to us did so with the most drawn-out vowels you ever heard.
We switched from France to Lebanon with the Chateau Muser "Jeune" Rouge, a wine we've enjoyed previously at Secco.
The bar staff seemed seriously challenged tonight, so everything moved slowly and required reminders. It didn't matter to us because we had nowhere else to be and loads to talk about.
I loved the variety of ingredients in the Seven Lettuce salad: field greens, toasted pistachios, goat cheese, red onions, caramelized red grapes, Indian curry oil and a creamy pistachio dressing.
Just as savory was the N.C. BBQ Skillet, a melange with North Carolina-style pulled pork barbecue, housemade bread and butter pickles (a personal favorite), slaw, sweet apple jam and cornbread. The salty pig complemented each of the other flavors beautifully.
The couple next to us provided a romantic tableau, with him touching her face, tracing her lips and the two of them talking from about six inches apart. Ah, love.
At the far end of the bar, a shaggy surfer dude type did his shallow best to impress the girls near him, with frequent checking of his phone in case they didn't pan out. Ah, lust.
When it came time for dessert, we were lucky enough to score the last dish of the chocolate-covered peanut chocolate ice cream.
Ocean Boulevard is known for their homemade ice creams and sorbets and this creamy, high fat chocolate version was loaded with the dipped nuts.
It finished us off and we rolled the short distance home in the warm, humid night air.
My friend arrived back at the cottage to find an unexpected message from her main squeeze who only days ago left on a three-month cross-country motorcycle trip.
Him calling might have given her even more pleasure than the ocean rainbow.
With no such luck (or main squeeze) on my part, I'm going to have to go with the rainbow as today's surprise highlight.
But tomorrow, who knows what the universe might drop in my lap? I'm as open as a My Little Pony lunchbox during lunch period.
There's no substitute for time when it comes to the surprising things.
Best song randomly heard: "That's Some Dream" by Good Old War/2010
After being threatened with an impending thunderstorm by the Beach Patrol, we got a few drops, some darkened skies and all of a sudden, a sparkling rainbow curved over the ocean's horizon.
It was so colorful, so perfectly arched over the end of the water as to be a cartoon rainbow on a My Little Pony lunchbox.
But I'd never seen a rainbow on the horizon, so I sat on the porch and admired it until it faded away.
By then it was happy hour, so I pulled out a birthday gift from last year of a 2008 M. Chapoutier Les Vignes de Bali Haut, a red blend with big, meaty tannins and a lovely cherry nose.
I'd been holding on to it since last year because it was recommended to be best drunk between 2010 and 2014. There's no substitute for time when it comes to some things.
2011 from the porch of a beach house seemed practically ideal and, once it opened up a bit, suited my guest and me to a "T."
And you have to admire a winemaker who uses Braille on his labels for the benefit of his blind wine lovers.
Thanks to BR, the good friend who gifted me with this beautiful wine in the first place. FYI, we raised glasses to you and your generosity.
But big red wine only got us so far before we headed to the neighborhood wine bar for a bite to eat. The very Southern couple who ceded their stools to us did so with the most drawn-out vowels you ever heard.
We switched from France to Lebanon with the Chateau Muser "Jeune" Rouge, a wine we've enjoyed previously at Secco.
The bar staff seemed seriously challenged tonight, so everything moved slowly and required reminders. It didn't matter to us because we had nowhere else to be and loads to talk about.
I loved the variety of ingredients in the Seven Lettuce salad: field greens, toasted pistachios, goat cheese, red onions, caramelized red grapes, Indian curry oil and a creamy pistachio dressing.
Just as savory was the N.C. BBQ Skillet, a melange with North Carolina-style pulled pork barbecue, housemade bread and butter pickles (a personal favorite), slaw, sweet apple jam and cornbread. The salty pig complemented each of the other flavors beautifully.
The couple next to us provided a romantic tableau, with him touching her face, tracing her lips and the two of them talking from about six inches apart. Ah, love.
At the far end of the bar, a shaggy surfer dude type did his shallow best to impress the girls near him, with frequent checking of his phone in case they didn't pan out. Ah, lust.
When it came time for dessert, we were lucky enough to score the last dish of the chocolate-covered peanut chocolate ice cream.
Ocean Boulevard is known for their homemade ice creams and sorbets and this creamy, high fat chocolate version was loaded with the dipped nuts.
It finished us off and we rolled the short distance home in the warm, humid night air.
My friend arrived back at the cottage to find an unexpected message from her main squeeze who only days ago left on a three-month cross-country motorcycle trip.
Him calling might have given her even more pleasure than the ocean rainbow.
With no such luck (or main squeeze) on my part, I'm going to have to go with the rainbow as today's surprise highlight.
But tomorrow, who knows what the universe might drop in my lap? I'm as open as a My Little Pony lunchbox during lunch period.
There's no substitute for time when it comes to the surprising things.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
In Training to Fry Fish
My visitors can't wait to immerse themselves in the beach life once they arrive.
Today's friend pulled up, brought in her bag, beach towels and home-grown produce and said, "Okay let's go to John's!"
For those not stepped in years of Outer Banks vacations, John's is a low-slung concrete dive with fish sandwiches, burgers and about forty different types of milkshakes. For old-schoolers, they even have malteds.
So we joined the throngs waiting to place their orders in the hot sun of the asphalt parking lot. The few scattered wooden picnic tables held others already waiting for their orders.
You have to see the mass of humanity at John's to appreciate how it appeals to everyone: young, old, rich, poor, white-bread and ethnic.
Happily, we got our order in fairly quickly, but were warned first that the wait for food was a solid half hour. As my friend told the cashier,"I just spent three hours driving here, so what's another thirty minutes?"
A sign in the window clarified the reason why: "Sorry for the wait. We are training today."
We found a bench in the shade and proceeded to watch the theater of the parking lot, noting that even when we were sixteen, we never had the bodies that some of these girls have. Must be all the hormones they've ingested since birth. Or superior DNA.
When our name was finally called, we grabbed our bag and shakes and hightailed it back to the cottage.
Eating John's beach grub may be a vacation tradition, but eating it in the midday heat of a parking lot with idling cars all around is most definitely not.
Besides, while we'd been gone, a beautiful breeze had materialized from the south, so lunch on the back porch overlooking the ocean was a far more enjoyable way to go.
I'd gotten the rockfish and she the dolphin, both on long crusty rolls slathered with tartar sauce under tomato and lettuce. My rockfish was perfectly fried and generously portioned.
We'd agreed to share a box of onion rings, made all the more satisfying for the coating of grease on the bottom with bits of breading scattered around.
Our giant milkshakes, always the most popular items on John's menu, were as thick and chocolatey as ever. That's never changed.
Afterwards, we sat down to read for a while before acknowledging to each other that it was nap time. A John's lunch pretty much thickens the blood to the thickness of paste.
Half an hour later, revived and only a bit groggy, we took to the beach for a walk, only to be stopped by a member of the beach patrol saying that a thunderstorm was coming so the beach had to be cleared.
Walking back, my friend started laughing. "I love that I've only been here a few hours and we've already eaten at John's, napped, read and walked on the beach!"
That's the thing; jumping into this lifestyle is a snap.
It's switching back to reality when you leave that poses the challenge.
Today's friend pulled up, brought in her bag, beach towels and home-grown produce and said, "Okay let's go to John's!"
For those not stepped in years of Outer Banks vacations, John's is a low-slung concrete dive with fish sandwiches, burgers and about forty different types of milkshakes. For old-schoolers, they even have malteds.
So we joined the throngs waiting to place their orders in the hot sun of the asphalt parking lot. The few scattered wooden picnic tables held others already waiting for their orders.
You have to see the mass of humanity at John's to appreciate how it appeals to everyone: young, old, rich, poor, white-bread and ethnic.
Happily, we got our order in fairly quickly, but were warned first that the wait for food was a solid half hour. As my friend told the cashier,"I just spent three hours driving here, so what's another thirty minutes?"
A sign in the window clarified the reason why: "Sorry for the wait. We are training today."
We found a bench in the shade and proceeded to watch the theater of the parking lot, noting that even when we were sixteen, we never had the bodies that some of these girls have. Must be all the hormones they've ingested since birth. Or superior DNA.
When our name was finally called, we grabbed our bag and shakes and hightailed it back to the cottage.
Eating John's beach grub may be a vacation tradition, but eating it in the midday heat of a parking lot with idling cars all around is most definitely not.
Besides, while we'd been gone, a beautiful breeze had materialized from the south, so lunch on the back porch overlooking the ocean was a far more enjoyable way to go.
I'd gotten the rockfish and she the dolphin, both on long crusty rolls slathered with tartar sauce under tomato and lettuce. My rockfish was perfectly fried and generously portioned.
We'd agreed to share a box of onion rings, made all the more satisfying for the coating of grease on the bottom with bits of breading scattered around.
Our giant milkshakes, always the most popular items on John's menu, were as thick and chocolatey as ever. That's never changed.
Afterwards, we sat down to read for a while before acknowledging to each other that it was nap time. A John's lunch pretty much thickens the blood to the thickness of paste.
Half an hour later, revived and only a bit groggy, we took to the beach for a walk, only to be stopped by a member of the beach patrol saying that a thunderstorm was coming so the beach had to be cleared.
Walking back, my friend started laughing. "I love that I've only been here a few hours and we've already eaten at John's, napped, read and walked on the beach!"
That's the thing; jumping into this lifestyle is a snap.
It's switching back to reality when you leave that poses the challenge.
Postcard From the Edge
Current read: "The House of Mondavi" by Julia Flynn Siler/2007
Best song randomly heard: "Love Your Way" by Psychedelic Furs/1982
My guests have left and what am I to do with myself?
Well, being the responsible sort on occasion, I first sat down and wrote out an assignment.
And then suddenly remembering that I am on vacation, I did an about face and did what I could to make myself attractive enough to go out and face the world. At the beach, it doesn't take much.
The rain had just begun, along with an occasional flash of lightening and approaching thunder.
So I could stay in the cottage alone to watch Mother Nature's display or risk going out in the serious weather and see what happened.
Guess which way I went.
A little over half a mile away, the crowd at Ocean Boulevard welcomed me in. Many people were just finishing up dinner when I arrived, but a stool was found for me and I immediately had company.
After ordering some Martin Codax Albarino (hay and honeysuckle, yum), I found a bar stool and was pulled into conversation with a group from Cleveland. Yes, as in Ohio, but I maintained an open mind.
The two guys who started talking to me turned out to be far more interesting than I could have hoped for. One was a gym teacher and the other designed and built sports fields.
Sports fields, I asked? Yes, like baseball, football and even volleyball courts were what he designed. He'd even written three books on the subject of turf grass management for university classes.
As I learned, there's even a degree available in that subject. No more Future Farmers of America, these guys have degrees in sports turf management. We're talking at places like Ole Miss and VA Tech.
And while I can be impressed with an unusual career choice, I was bowled over to learn that my new friend was also a member of Left End, a hard rock band that once opened for the Eagles.
He told me of '70s gigs where they played for 20,000 people. He told me of being part of the local bands featured at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
As these Ohioans drank beer, I moved on to Hullabaloo Old Vine Zinfandel, rich, peppery and almost 15%. Go ahead, judge me.
I met a guy from Dallas who tried to convince me that I liked Dallas, but after multiple visits, I know better.
We did discuss how frggin' flat it is and I had to offer props to the Nasher. Beyond that, he might as well have been speaking Swahili for all I believed him. But he tried hard.
The beginnings of a storm had morphed into a full-on weather event with a major lightening hit in the back parking lot (the Left End guitarist and I witnessed a direct hit that resembled a fire ball and caused the bar's register to cease working). No one was going anywhere.
As the mood became more festive (the hail! the rain! the wind!), people who had ceased drinking took it up once more. Me, I just moved on to more of the same.
I somehow became designated the resident expert on where to eat, drink and sightsee on the Outer Banks, so I provided opinions on whatever was asked of me. The Ohioans began to act like I was some sort of oracle.
Eventually, the rain slackened and it seemed possible to head home.
About that time a Delaware resident sat down next to me and began posing all kinds of questions. I must look far more knowledgeable than I actually am.
We chatted for a while before I decided that I needed to get home, not because I had guests (I don't) but because I'd had enough of strangers and was curious to see if I'd heard from any friends or loved ones.
And because all good beach nights end up with wine on the back porch staring at (and listening to) the ocean.
Sometimes I have good company and sometimes, like tonight, I wish for it. I must need a new guest.
Takers?
Best song randomly heard: "Love Your Way" by Psychedelic Furs/1982
My guests have left and what am I to do with myself?
Well, being the responsible sort on occasion, I first sat down and wrote out an assignment.
And then suddenly remembering that I am on vacation, I did an about face and did what I could to make myself attractive enough to go out and face the world. At the beach, it doesn't take much.
The rain had just begun, along with an occasional flash of lightening and approaching thunder.
So I could stay in the cottage alone to watch Mother Nature's display or risk going out in the serious weather and see what happened.
Guess which way I went.
A little over half a mile away, the crowd at Ocean Boulevard welcomed me in. Many people were just finishing up dinner when I arrived, but a stool was found for me and I immediately had company.
After ordering some Martin Codax Albarino (hay and honeysuckle, yum), I found a bar stool and was pulled into conversation with a group from Cleveland. Yes, as in Ohio, but I maintained an open mind.
The two guys who started talking to me turned out to be far more interesting than I could have hoped for. One was a gym teacher and the other designed and built sports fields.
Sports fields, I asked? Yes, like baseball, football and even volleyball courts were what he designed. He'd even written three books on the subject of turf grass management for university classes.
As I learned, there's even a degree available in that subject. No more Future Farmers of America, these guys have degrees in sports turf management. We're talking at places like Ole Miss and VA Tech.
And while I can be impressed with an unusual career choice, I was bowled over to learn that my new friend was also a member of Left End, a hard rock band that once opened for the Eagles.
He told me of '70s gigs where they played for 20,000 people. He told me of being part of the local bands featured at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
As these Ohioans drank beer, I moved on to Hullabaloo Old Vine Zinfandel, rich, peppery and almost 15%. Go ahead, judge me.
I met a guy from Dallas who tried to convince me that I liked Dallas, but after multiple visits, I know better.
We did discuss how frggin' flat it is and I had to offer props to the Nasher. Beyond that, he might as well have been speaking Swahili for all I believed him. But he tried hard.
The beginnings of a storm had morphed into a full-on weather event with a major lightening hit in the back parking lot (the Left End guitarist and I witnessed a direct hit that resembled a fire ball and caused the bar's register to cease working). No one was going anywhere.
As the mood became more festive (the hail! the rain! the wind!), people who had ceased drinking took it up once more. Me, I just moved on to more of the same.
I somehow became designated the resident expert on where to eat, drink and sightsee on the Outer Banks, so I provided opinions on whatever was asked of me. The Ohioans began to act like I was some sort of oracle.
Eventually, the rain slackened and it seemed possible to head home.
About that time a Delaware resident sat down next to me and began posing all kinds of questions. I must look far more knowledgeable than I actually am.
We chatted for a while before I decided that I needed to get home, not because I had guests (I don't) but because I'd had enough of strangers and was curious to see if I'd heard from any friends or loved ones.
And because all good beach nights end up with wine on the back porch staring at (and listening to) the ocean.
Sometimes I have good company and sometimes, like tonight, I wish for it. I must need a new guest.
Takers?
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
A Mortician's Warning
There's something to be said for beer and brats after breakfast.
For the guests' last day here, we decided to start with a tour of the brewery and butchery at the Weeping Radish.
Bavarian-born owner Ollie led us on an hour plus tour of the enormous building, impressing everyone with his passion for local sourcing, artisan food and drink and the endless headaches of running a business that is actually multiple enterprises (brewing, farming, butchery, retail, restaurant).
His dry wit and extensive knowledge added much to our enjoyment of the tour.
Their emphasis on side-streaming (using all parts of every process or animal) means there is absolutely no waste to anything they do.
The runoff water from beer-making is used to water vegetable gardens. Steam from the brewery is piped into the smoker for heat in the cured meat production.
By the time we got to the room where all the sausages hung, we were pretty hungry from the aroma of meat that hung in the air.
Moving over to the brewpub, we began with flights of beer. True, I'm no beer drinker, but I was intrigued enough by Ollie's emphasis on local and preservative-free to give a flight a chance.
The Radler mixed their OBX Kolsch with homemade German-style lemonade for a German version of a British shandy. Not bad, if a tad sweet.
I most wanted to try the IPA 25 because they are the first North Carolina brewery to use North Carolina hops. But because hop-growing is traditionally a West Coast endeavor, these hops grown near Asheville are young.
And here's where I actually learned something. Young hops lean more toward floral where older hops are more bitter. I'm a young hop type, I discovered.
This IPA 25 had the most beautiful nose and the taste was without that characteristic bitterness which has kept me from finding a beer I can drink. This one I could.
The others in the flight made the beer drinkers happy, but weren't for me, although I'm crazy about their housemade root beer.
And the house-made sausages I knew I loved. I had the beer brat on a pretzel roll which amounted to a doubly good sandwich. Spread with their house hot grainy mustard and sauerkraut, it was easily the best $7 lunch ever.
Worth mentioning was the sauerkraut, fermented in-house in French oak barrels used for twenty years for winemaking. This was sauerkraut that could win over even diehard sauerkraut haters with its tantalizing sourness.
One guest had the andouille garlic sausage I had so enjoyed last year and the other a BLT using their own bacon (so impressive that she bought a pound to take home).
Savoring our nitrate-free, preservative-free, locally grown meats and beer, we were reminded of the last story Ollie had told us on the tour.
Talking to a mortician in Manteo recently, the guy, a third generation mortician, had told Ollie that back in his father and grandfather's days, "They used to have to bury bodies in less than two days in the South. These days we can wait much longer because the bodies are so full of preservatives."
I aspire to be as perishable as my beer brat and IPA were at lunch today...not that I intend to be buried.
Or dead any time soon.
For the guests' last day here, we decided to start with a tour of the brewery and butchery at the Weeping Radish.
Bavarian-born owner Ollie led us on an hour plus tour of the enormous building, impressing everyone with his passion for local sourcing, artisan food and drink and the endless headaches of running a business that is actually multiple enterprises (brewing, farming, butchery, retail, restaurant).
His dry wit and extensive knowledge added much to our enjoyment of the tour.
Their emphasis on side-streaming (using all parts of every process or animal) means there is absolutely no waste to anything they do.
The runoff water from beer-making is used to water vegetable gardens. Steam from the brewery is piped into the smoker for heat in the cured meat production.
By the time we got to the room where all the sausages hung, we were pretty hungry from the aroma of meat that hung in the air.
Moving over to the brewpub, we began with flights of beer. True, I'm no beer drinker, but I was intrigued enough by Ollie's emphasis on local and preservative-free to give a flight a chance.
The Radler mixed their OBX Kolsch with homemade German-style lemonade for a German version of a British shandy. Not bad, if a tad sweet.
I most wanted to try the IPA 25 because they are the first North Carolina brewery to use North Carolina hops. But because hop-growing is traditionally a West Coast endeavor, these hops grown near Asheville are young.
And here's where I actually learned something. Young hops lean more toward floral where older hops are more bitter. I'm a young hop type, I discovered.
This IPA 25 had the most beautiful nose and the taste was without that characteristic bitterness which has kept me from finding a beer I can drink. This one I could.
The others in the flight made the beer drinkers happy, but weren't for me, although I'm crazy about their housemade root beer.
And the house-made sausages I knew I loved. I had the beer brat on a pretzel roll which amounted to a doubly good sandwich. Spread with their house hot grainy mustard and sauerkraut, it was easily the best $7 lunch ever.
Worth mentioning was the sauerkraut, fermented in-house in French oak barrels used for twenty years for winemaking. This was sauerkraut that could win over even diehard sauerkraut haters with its tantalizing sourness.
One guest had the andouille garlic sausage I had so enjoyed last year and the other a BLT using their own bacon (so impressive that she bought a pound to take home).
Savoring our nitrate-free, preservative-free, locally grown meats and beer, we were reminded of the last story Ollie had told us on the tour.
Talking to a mortician in Manteo recently, the guy, a third generation mortician, had told Ollie that back in his father and grandfather's days, "They used to have to bury bodies in less than two days in the South. These days we can wait much longer because the bodies are so full of preservatives."
I aspire to be as perishable as my beer brat and IPA were at lunch today...not that I intend to be buried.
Or dead any time soon.
The Best Beach Guest
Current read: "Conversations with Katherine Anne Porter" by Enrique Hank Lopez/1981
Best song randomly heard: "40 Dogs (Like Romeo and Juliet)" by Bob Schneider/2009
Good beach guests come in all shapes and sexes, but it's difficult to find one who provides everything I want in one person.
It's a bonus to have someone who wants to walk on the beach with me in the mornings. It's great to have someone who starts thinking "happy hour" around the same time I do.
But it's almost impossible to find someone who wants to hear about, much less discuss, what I'm reading.
Every year, I bring down a year's worth of accumulated reading, hoping to get to most of it. And I usually do given the amount of free time I have here.
And, inevitably, the most interesting thing happens as I plow through my stack of unrelated books. Connections begin to show themselves.
Totally random people or events show up in multiple reads and I find myself eager to share this information with someone who might find it as fascinating as I do.
Yesterday's book "Bad Girls" contained a chapter about a concubine who made herself invaluable to the explorer Cortes as a translator and accomplice.
Today's book about the writer Katherine Anne Porter mentioned her friendship with the erratic Hart Crane, who, pre-suicide, planned to write an epic poem about the conquest of Mexico and dramatically feature Cortes.
Frankly, I hadn't thought about Cortes since sixth grade Social Studies, when we learned about all the great explorers (Ponce de Leon! Amerigo Vespucci! Vasco de Gama!), so seeing Cortes mentioned twice struck me as conversation-worthy. But with whom?
Don't get me wrong. My current guests have been great fun, but they wouldn't be interested in such a geeky topic.
I did finally get them motivated to go out to eat, though, and we chose a place new to us all, the Bad Bean Tacqueria barely three miles away.
What I had heard was that they made everything themselves and, as it turned out, quite well.
There were five different house made salsas to choose from, they made their own guacamole, the fish was locally caught, the beef brisket done in house, the pork and chicken smoked out back. You get the idea.
And while Mexi-Cali restaurants are not usually known for their wine choices, we were more than pleased with the Acrobat Pinot Gris from the oh-so-green King Estate Winery in Oregon.
Tasting of apples with a hint of pepper, it was to be an ideal choice for the fish in my future.
Our server tried to talk us into dessert, but beer and wine won out over sweets as we discussed whether or not to go out for music tonight.
Like I said, they're fun guests, but not my ideal match. But then, what are the chances there's a beach guest who'll listen to me geeking out over what I'm reading and be interested in seeing a late music show?
To quote my Richmond grandmother, "Slim to none and Slim just left town."
A girl can dream, can't she? And where better to do so than on a porch swing overlooking the ocean?
Best song randomly heard: "40 Dogs (Like Romeo and Juliet)" by Bob Schneider/2009
Good beach guests come in all shapes and sexes, but it's difficult to find one who provides everything I want in one person.
It's a bonus to have someone who wants to walk on the beach with me in the mornings. It's great to have someone who starts thinking "happy hour" around the same time I do.
But it's almost impossible to find someone who wants to hear about, much less discuss, what I'm reading.
Every year, I bring down a year's worth of accumulated reading, hoping to get to most of it. And I usually do given the amount of free time I have here.
And, inevitably, the most interesting thing happens as I plow through my stack of unrelated books. Connections begin to show themselves.
Totally random people or events show up in multiple reads and I find myself eager to share this information with someone who might find it as fascinating as I do.
Yesterday's book "Bad Girls" contained a chapter about a concubine who made herself invaluable to the explorer Cortes as a translator and accomplice.
Today's book about the writer Katherine Anne Porter mentioned her friendship with the erratic Hart Crane, who, pre-suicide, planned to write an epic poem about the conquest of Mexico and dramatically feature Cortes.
Frankly, I hadn't thought about Cortes since sixth grade Social Studies, when we learned about all the great explorers (Ponce de Leon! Amerigo Vespucci! Vasco de Gama!), so seeing Cortes mentioned twice struck me as conversation-worthy. But with whom?
Don't get me wrong. My current guests have been great fun, but they wouldn't be interested in such a geeky topic.
I did finally get them motivated to go out to eat, though, and we chose a place new to us all, the Bad Bean Tacqueria barely three miles away.
What I had heard was that they made everything themselves and, as it turned out, quite well.
There were five different house made salsas to choose from, they made their own guacamole, the fish was locally caught, the beef brisket done in house, the pork and chicken smoked out back. You get the idea.
And while Mexi-Cali restaurants are not usually known for their wine choices, we were more than pleased with the Acrobat Pinot Gris from the oh-so-green King Estate Winery in Oregon.
Tasting of apples with a hint of pepper, it was to be an ideal choice for the fish in my future.
All that sunning and reading had given us an appetite, so we started with a plate of black bean nachos which got high points for its use of queso blanco instead of cheese and the addition of pickled onions, which added an unexpected and delicious sweetness to a traditionally salty dish.
For dinner, I had fish tacos in flour tortillas made with local mahi mahi and dressed with my choice, the salsa of the day, a smoked tomatillo/pepper with medium heat. The fish's fresh taste was matched only by how well-seasoned it was.
One guest had the enormous sweet pepper and bean burrito, as heavy as a brick, and she chose the mild salsa fresca. The big eater had the beef brisket tacos with the killer tomato/habanero sauce. I was impressed with the brisket after only one bite.
Our server tried to talk us into dessert, but beer and wine won out over sweets as we discussed whether or not to go out for music tonight.
I thought I made a good argument for seeing Hoots and Hellmouth, but they voted me down.
Like I said, they're fun guests, but not my ideal match. But then, what are the chances there's a beach guest who'll listen to me geeking out over what I'm reading and be interested in seeing a late music show?
To quote my Richmond grandmother, "Slim to none and Slim just left town."
A girl can dream, can't she? And where better to do so than on a porch swing overlooking the ocean?
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Let Freedom Ring
Current read: "Bad Girls" by Jan Stradling/2008
Best song randomly heard: "Bad Reputation" by Freedy Johnston/1994
Nothing says July Fourth like alcohol and explosives, to quote one of my guests today.
That said, AAA was correct; clearly fewer people traveled for the fourth this year because usually the beach is crawling with day trippers on Independence Day and today it was business as usual, at least on our stretch of beach.
The first full day of vacation always involves overindulging in food and napping and today was no different.
After a breakfast with an obscene amount of local sausage (Griffin's of Williamston, NC), I headed up the beach for my daily walk, knowing full well I'd see a stars and stripes bikini on a body on which it did not belong.
I did. Commentary withheld because this is the land of the free.
I was surprised at how much narrower the beach has gotten north of the pier, but there were just as many dedicated joggers up there as always.
No doubt they see me as a lollygagger with my meandering walking; half the time I'm walking at the water's edge to get wet plus I have a tendency to stop and chat with anyone who tries to talk me up.
Joggers don't pause.
I clocked in with not one, but two (half-hour) naps today, but was bested by a guest who napped for two and a half hours before grabbing a beer and joining us on the beach.
Discussion revolved around relationships and, although none of us are in one at the moment, all of us have aspirations as well as advice to offer the others on where they need to be.
Summer sun and happy hour make people bold about what they say on vacation.
A different kind of satisfaction arrived when I finished yesterday's book about the making of "Apocalypse Now" written by Coppola's then-wife.
Her descriptions of the problems caused by the stifling heat of the Philippines, the challenges of using military helicopters to make a movie (sometimes they had to leave to attend to the civil war in the south) and her disintegrating marriage were told in matter-of-fact snippets as she attempted to make a documentary about the making of the movie.
Book number one, done.
By the time we finished eating dinner on the breezy porch, it was time to take up our positions on the beach for watching the fireworks, glad that the rain had held off.
Besides the two major displays at the piers on either side of us, dozens of budding arsonists were setting off smaller shows up and down the beach.
The problem is always which way to watch; it's a little like a tennis game, first right and then left and try not to miss anything.
The good news is that we heard neither screams nor sirens.
Afterwards, we sat on the porch sipping Keswick Vineyards Monticello, a late season viognier dessert wine, with chunks of Lindt extra dark chocolate (85% cocoa) and watching the smoke from the fireworks hang in the densely humid air.
Explosives over and alcohol imbibed, we'd done what we needed to in order to properly celebrate this important day.
The naps and relationship talk were pure gravy.
Best song randomly heard: "Bad Reputation" by Freedy Johnston/1994
Nothing says July Fourth like alcohol and explosives, to quote one of my guests today.
That said, AAA was correct; clearly fewer people traveled for the fourth this year because usually the beach is crawling with day trippers on Independence Day and today it was business as usual, at least on our stretch of beach.
The first full day of vacation always involves overindulging in food and napping and today was no different.
After a breakfast with an obscene amount of local sausage (Griffin's of Williamston, NC), I headed up the beach for my daily walk, knowing full well I'd see a stars and stripes bikini on a body on which it did not belong.
I did. Commentary withheld because this is the land of the free.
I was surprised at how much narrower the beach has gotten north of the pier, but there were just as many dedicated joggers up there as always.
No doubt they see me as a lollygagger with my meandering walking; half the time I'm walking at the water's edge to get wet plus I have a tendency to stop and chat with anyone who tries to talk me up.
Joggers don't pause.
I clocked in with not one, but two (half-hour) naps today, but was bested by a guest who napped for two and a half hours before grabbing a beer and joining us on the beach.
Discussion revolved around relationships and, although none of us are in one at the moment, all of us have aspirations as well as advice to offer the others on where they need to be.
Summer sun and happy hour make people bold about what they say on vacation.
A different kind of satisfaction arrived when I finished yesterday's book about the making of "Apocalypse Now" written by Coppola's then-wife.
Her descriptions of the problems caused by the stifling heat of the Philippines, the challenges of using military helicopters to make a movie (sometimes they had to leave to attend to the civil war in the south) and her disintegrating marriage were told in matter-of-fact snippets as she attempted to make a documentary about the making of the movie.
Book number one, done.
By the time we finished eating dinner on the breezy porch, it was time to take up our positions on the beach for watching the fireworks, glad that the rain had held off.
Besides the two major displays at the piers on either side of us, dozens of budding arsonists were setting off smaller shows up and down the beach.
The problem is always which way to watch; it's a little like a tennis game, first right and then left and try not to miss anything.
The good news is that we heard neither screams nor sirens.
Afterwards, we sat on the porch sipping Keswick Vineyards Monticello, a late season viognier dessert wine, with chunks of Lindt extra dark chocolate (85% cocoa) and watching the smoke from the fireworks hang in the densely humid air.
Explosives over and alcohol imbibed, we'd done what we needed to in order to properly celebrate this important day.
The naps and relationship talk were pure gravy.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Exodus From the City
Current read: "Notes" by Eleanor Coppola/1979
Best random song heard: "In Between Days" by the Cure/1985
Today was the start of my annual beach vacation, so I've shifted camp three hours south with hopes of finding good food and music here in between reading and sleeping.
I always look forward to the trip down Route 460 because no matter how many years I drive it, I always notice different things.
Like the roadside sign that said, "Phone from car" on a pole over a low-mounted public telephone. Here I thought pay phones were disappearing and yet there's one conveniently placed so the driver need not even get out of his car.
Unless he's driving an SUV and then he'd have to hang out the window to his waist to reach the low-slung receiver. Actually, I'd like to see that.
Near downtown Ivor (an oxymoron if ever there was one), I saw a sign saying "Scales, Shower, Stuckey's."
I saw no evidence of any of those things in the lot where the sign was, but they must have been there at one time, beckoning to sweaty, hungry truckers.
There was a sign for the Isle of Wight Wedding Chapel, should the urge to marry overcome you on the way to or from the beach (it didn't).
In a nod to 21st century patriotism, I saw a house decorated with four of those giant blow-up figures (dogs and elephants), all with hats of red, white and blue stars and stripes.
They flanked an enormous blow-up flag incapable of blowing in the breeze.
Passing the sign for the Hampton Roads Beagle Club next to a cornfield, I did a silent salute to my dearly departed beagle.
When our caravan finally stopped for lunch, it was at the Coinjock Marina Restaurant on the Intercoastal Waterway.
We opted to eat on the deck where signs noted, "Do NOT feed the dogs. They are on a diet!" The one chihuahua we did see was not only overweight but had such long toenails it appeared she'd never walked on concrete.
Our server overheard us discussing the tripling of the toll on the Chesapeake Expressway and immediately offered a "shortcut" that would only take ten minutes but save us the $6 next time.
Her route involved turning at any number of Wawa's and 7-11s and sounded best left for locals. But it was a nice gesture nonetheless.
We watched boats go by and people take off on jet skis (including one guy who couldn't hook the last fastener on his life jacket because of his belly) slowly, so as not to cause a wake in the current-less water which changes direction with the wind.
Meandering down the road after lunch, we stopped for produce at the smallest stand we could find, scoring watermelon, North Carolina peaches that had just arrived yesterday, Silver Queen corn and, best of all, freshly shelled butterbeans. No beach vacation is complete without them.
Between getting settled in at the cottage, spending time on the beach just as everyone else was leaving and savoring a simple supper on the porch, I didn't even crack my first beach book until well after the over-eager neighbors finished setting off (illegal) fireworks around 10:00.
So I failed at my first day of beach reading. What's the point of being at the beach besides the view and the sound of the ocean, if not to be reading non-stop?
I'll try to do better tomorrow.
Best random song heard: "In Between Days" by the Cure/1985
Today was the start of my annual beach vacation, so I've shifted camp three hours south with hopes of finding good food and music here in between reading and sleeping.
I always look forward to the trip down Route 460 because no matter how many years I drive it, I always notice different things.
Like the roadside sign that said, "Phone from car" on a pole over a low-mounted public telephone. Here I thought pay phones were disappearing and yet there's one conveniently placed so the driver need not even get out of his car.
Unless he's driving an SUV and then he'd have to hang out the window to his waist to reach the low-slung receiver. Actually, I'd like to see that.
Near downtown Ivor (an oxymoron if ever there was one), I saw a sign saying "Scales, Shower, Stuckey's."
I saw no evidence of any of those things in the lot where the sign was, but they must have been there at one time, beckoning to sweaty, hungry truckers.
There was a sign for the Isle of Wight Wedding Chapel, should the urge to marry overcome you on the way to or from the beach (it didn't).
In a nod to 21st century patriotism, I saw a house decorated with four of those giant blow-up figures (dogs and elephants), all with hats of red, white and blue stars and stripes.
They flanked an enormous blow-up flag incapable of blowing in the breeze.
Passing the sign for the Hampton Roads Beagle Club next to a cornfield, I did a silent salute to my dearly departed beagle.
When our caravan finally stopped for lunch, it was at the Coinjock Marina Restaurant on the Intercoastal Waterway.
We opted to eat on the deck where signs noted, "Do NOT feed the dogs. They are on a diet!" The one chihuahua we did see was not only overweight but had such long toenails it appeared she'd never walked on concrete.
Our server overheard us discussing the tripling of the toll on the Chesapeake Expressway and immediately offered a "shortcut" that would only take ten minutes but save us the $6 next time.
Her route involved turning at any number of Wawa's and 7-11s and sounded best left for locals. But it was a nice gesture nonetheless.
We watched boats go by and people take off on jet skis (including one guy who couldn't hook the last fastener on his life jacket because of his belly) slowly, so as not to cause a wake in the current-less water which changes direction with the wind.
Meandering down the road after lunch, we stopped for produce at the smallest stand we could find, scoring watermelon, North Carolina peaches that had just arrived yesterday, Silver Queen corn and, best of all, freshly shelled butterbeans. No beach vacation is complete without them.
Between getting settled in at the cottage, spending time on the beach just as everyone else was leaving and savoring a simple supper on the porch, I didn't even crack my first beach book until well after the over-eager neighbors finished setting off (illegal) fireworks around 10:00.
So I failed at my first day of beach reading. What's the point of being at the beach besides the view and the sound of the ocean, if not to be reading non-stop?
I'll try to do better tomorrow.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Plunk Phunk at the Dell
Only once have I seen a performer with more than 25 albums to his credit and that was last fall's terrific Al Green show, here.
But at tonight's Dogwood Dell show, Plunky Branch of Plunky and Oneness came close with an even 25 albums to his name.
And I didn't have to pay a dime to see him or drive to Charlottesville. No disrespect to Al, of course; he was well worth both and I'd do it again. But you see my point.
The crowd was huge when I arrived at the Dell and continued to grow throughout intermission. I'm sure that had something to do with this being Plunky's 30th appearance at the Dell.
In fact, he said that his group, along with the Larry Bland Choir, were the first black acts to integrate the Dell stage. That information got a huge round of applause from the adoring crowd. I know I was impressed.
And that crowd included some sharp-dressed men, let me tell you. My favorite had on a powder blue beret, a Hawaiian shirt of the same blue, coral and various greens, celery green slacks and two tone green and taupe shoes. He was something to behold (and I did).
As was the performance. Despite 40 years in the music business, Plunky still has the enthusiasm that, well, Al Green does.
I suppose there's something about getting to your 60s and still making music that keeps a man happy and motivated.
Taking the audience on a musical journey through Richmond, NYC and Paris, Plunky's nine-piece (all clad in white while himself wore a colorful orange and black ensemble) "took it back," covering Stevie Wonder and Chuck Brown ("If he's the godfather of go-go, I'm the grandfather") in a wide-ranging jam.
The three backup singers contributed considerably to the soulful sound and even occasionally did solos as they swayed in time.
Plunky encouraged the crowd to sing along, clap along or dance. "You know, if you want to have a good time, you have to move something."
I didn't see anyone who wasn't moving something.
As the evening got funkier, Plunky explained that "Funk is in the spaces between the notes." He branded his version as "Original Plunk phunk" and there was a lot of head-nodding when he said that.
Not surprising for a man who started playing African music in 1973 and has continued to evolve ever since.
As the snappy monochromatically dressed man sitting next to me asked rhetorically midway through the first set, "Can you dig it?"
I certainly could. Even white girls start moving something when the music's right.
And Plunky and Oneness were right on.
But at tonight's Dogwood Dell show, Plunky Branch of Plunky and Oneness came close with an even 25 albums to his name.
And I didn't have to pay a dime to see him or drive to Charlottesville. No disrespect to Al, of course; he was well worth both and I'd do it again. But you see my point.
The crowd was huge when I arrived at the Dell and continued to grow throughout intermission. I'm sure that had something to do with this being Plunky's 30th appearance at the Dell.
In fact, he said that his group, along with the Larry Bland Choir, were the first black acts to integrate the Dell stage. That information got a huge round of applause from the adoring crowd. I know I was impressed.
And that crowd included some sharp-dressed men, let me tell you. My favorite had on a powder blue beret, a Hawaiian shirt of the same blue, coral and various greens, celery green slacks and two tone green and taupe shoes. He was something to behold (and I did).
As was the performance. Despite 40 years in the music business, Plunky still has the enthusiasm that, well, Al Green does.
I suppose there's something about getting to your 60s and still making music that keeps a man happy and motivated.
Taking the audience on a musical journey through Richmond, NYC and Paris, Plunky's nine-piece (all clad in white while himself wore a colorful orange and black ensemble) "took it back," covering Stevie Wonder and Chuck Brown ("If he's the godfather of go-go, I'm the grandfather") in a wide-ranging jam.
The three backup singers contributed considerably to the soulful sound and even occasionally did solos as they swayed in time.
Plunky encouraged the crowd to sing along, clap along or dance. "You know, if you want to have a good time, you have to move something."
I didn't see anyone who wasn't moving something.
As the evening got funkier, Plunky explained that "Funk is in the spaces between the notes." He branded his version as "Original Plunk phunk" and there was a lot of head-nodding when he said that.
Not surprising for a man who started playing African music in 1973 and has continued to evolve ever since.
As the snappy monochromatically dressed man sitting next to me asked rhetorically midway through the first set, "Can you dig it?"
I certainly could. Even white girls start moving something when the music's right.
And Plunky and Oneness were right on.
I'll Have What She's Having
I took a trip down Memory Lane for the sake of supporting the Byrd Theater Foundation.
The fifth in their series of "Contemporary Classics," today's showing featured "When Harry Met Sally," a film I had seen only once and that was a very long time ago.
And while I could quibble with the use of "contemporary," the movie gets props for its cultural impact, so evident from a vantage point of 22 years.
We're talking about the film that introduced the concept of high and low maintenance women. Surely both types have always existed, but what did they used to call them? I have no idea.
Another contribution we now take for granted was the notion of a "transitional person" for segueing from relationship to relationship. Could it be just an updated term for a "rebound relationship?" I wondered.
The period details stood out as strikingly as if it had been a 1950s film. Sally's big hair and masculine business suits, all the land lines, the blue CRT screens, a diner meal with dessert for $6.90. Definitely the Reagan years.
One good thing that was obvious was that while the script was primarily written by Nora Ephron, both director Rob Reiner and Billy Crystal clearly had input into the dialog, making for realistic viewpoints from both sexes on the difficulty of male/female friendships as well as love.
"How long do you like to be held after sex? All night, right? See, that's your problem. Somewhere between 30 seconds and all night is your problem."
Over the years, I have had many discussions with male friends about friendship issues and most have acknowledged that even in the most circumspect friendships, the sexual part is always simmering somewhere just below the surface.
It hasn't stopped me from having mostly male friends and even a few who have never, ever tried to cross that line with me, usually because they're happy in their love life. But they're in the minority.
But in the movie, the two friends eventually end up in love and that's when the romantic dialogue kicks into high gear.
"I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible."
Lines like that are why language geeks go to romantic comedies in the first place.
That and we dearly want to save the Byrd Theater.
The fifth in their series of "Contemporary Classics," today's showing featured "When Harry Met Sally," a film I had seen only once and that was a very long time ago.
And while I could quibble with the use of "contemporary," the movie gets props for its cultural impact, so evident from a vantage point of 22 years.
We're talking about the film that introduced the concept of high and low maintenance women. Surely both types have always existed, but what did they used to call them? I have no idea.
Another contribution we now take for granted was the notion of a "transitional person" for segueing from relationship to relationship. Could it be just an updated term for a "rebound relationship?" I wondered.
The period details stood out as strikingly as if it had been a 1950s film. Sally's big hair and masculine business suits, all the land lines, the blue CRT screens, a diner meal with dessert for $6.90. Definitely the Reagan years.
One good thing that was obvious was that while the script was primarily written by Nora Ephron, both director Rob Reiner and Billy Crystal clearly had input into the dialog, making for realistic viewpoints from both sexes on the difficulty of male/female friendships as well as love.
"How long do you like to be held after sex? All night, right? See, that's your problem. Somewhere between 30 seconds and all night is your problem."
Over the years, I have had many discussions with male friends about friendship issues and most have acknowledged that even in the most circumspect friendships, the sexual part is always simmering somewhere just below the surface.
It hasn't stopped me from having mostly male friends and even a few who have never, ever tried to cross that line with me, usually because they're happy in their love life. But they're in the minority.
But in the movie, the two friends eventually end up in love and that's when the romantic dialogue kicks into high gear.
"I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible."
Lines like that are why language geeks go to romantic comedies in the first place.
That and we dearly want to save the Byrd Theater.
The Truth About Cover Bands
We found the perfect happy hour spot.
There was a couch for the two of us to sit on. We paid retail not restaurant prices for the wine and cheese.
And the music was a mix of vintage '80s and '90s classics that never let up, a foreshadowing of what was to come later in the evening.
My girlfriend and I met at Olio, where we kicked off happy hour as the first customers of the evening.
Choosing the Bodegas Montecillo Verdemar Albarion was a no-brainer. Its fruity nose was exceeded only by its big, beautifully rounded mouthfeel.
Deciding on cheese was more challenging, so we narrowed it down to a few in the stinky family.
The chef then asked how much we wanted to spend (we kept it economical) and assured us she'd make a cheese plate from that.
What arrived at our table was a cheese feast.
The Taleggio, French Pierre Robert with creme fraiche (as obscenely rich as good butter), English cheddar and French raw milk Fourme D'Ambert (a creamy bleu) with country pate, cornichons, various sizes of olives and grilled bread slices was truly impressive.
It was as comfortable as being at one of our homes, but with a far better variety of food and wine to choose from.
We girltalked and ate for two hours and still never finished all the food on that plate.
"We're coming back here," she said as we prepared to leave with full bellies.
Great ambiance, a view of the Main Street passersby (like the guy who walked by with an unzipped fly, only to return to the window to zip it up) and well-priced vino and victuals make for an unbeatable combination.
Afterwards, I took my car home so I could begin the artwalk on the night with the most daylight of all the First Fridays.
The crowds were a tad lighter than usual, but bands were performing on the street and vendors were set up everywhere.
Quirk's new show "Supper" featured table settings by Chris Milk, Christopher Jagmin, Tina Frey and Melody Gulik, each distinctive in its own way.
Jagmin's lunch setting was all about numbers on the dishes with office supplies (rubber bands, pencil shavings, push pins) as "food."
Gulik's table and the TV in front of it were covered in moss and plant matter for beautiful, if unusable, furniture.
In the front gallery, local artist Kenneth Chase's "Shop Show" featured collages on wood blocks, some of them painted, too. I felt myself begin to covet one of the very reasonably priced pieces, always a dangerous thing.
After a stop at ADA Gallery's show "Bovasso! Bovasso! Bovasso!" with whimsical and colorful new work by Nina Bovasso, I headed to Gallery 5 for the "Under the Covers" show.
No original material tonight.
I walked in just moments before the Pretend Pretenders began playing. Onstage, star guitarist Paul Ivey spotted me buying my ticket and said, "Karen's here" as if anyone cared.
Lead singer Allison Apperson repeated, "Karen's here" and from there they went into "Brass in Pocket" and took us through" "Kid," "Stop Your Sobbing," and "Back on the Chain Gang."
They did a superb job with the material (I love seeing a bass player slap a bass) and the crowd was wildly appreciative, dancing and singing along. Great songs, great voice, great playing.
The Green Hearts played next, doing "badass power pop" according to the show poster. What that meant was a lot of hard and fast old songs like "Starry Eyes" and "Rock and Roll Girl."
Lead singer Paul Ginder, with his magnificent new chops, did a great job carrying the energy of the songs.
Then Zepp Repplica (two P's, both words) took the stage in their impossibly tight pants and look-alike wigs to rock the faces off of the sweaty crowd.
Having seen them before, I knew how eerily similar they sound to the real thing, but most of the people I knew, as well as strangers, had never witnessed the veracity of their performance.
These twenty-somethings have seriously studied their Led Zeppelin history. Songs are note-perfect, vocals reach Plant-like pitch and mannerisms are nailed.
More than one person asked me afterwards why these guys aren't doing this professionally. Maybe they will. Likewise, several acknowledged how hard it was going to be to follow them onstage.
The Sweater band, a Weezer tribute, had that privilege. And while I can appreciate Weezer, I'm far from an aficionado of the band.
In fact, earlier in the evening, I'd asked musician Prabir why 30-somethings consider Weezer so god-like.
What followed was a 30-something's dissertation about the brilliance of the song writing and the technical skill of the guitar playing.
I recall something about the breadth of sounds Rivers Cuomo is able to coax from his electric guitar and that's about it. Frankly, I think it's because it was high school music for thirty-somethings.
But the Sweater Band fed into those people and soon there was rabid dancing and shouts of "WEE-ZER!" after every song.
I feared for my sandal-clad feet because of the large drunk guy dancing so boisterously right in front of me.
The band was smart, though, and began taking requests directly from the fanatics. It's a great way to shut people up.
And while I knew some material like "Buddy Holly" and of course "The Sweater Song," I couldn't commit like the diehards did.
Near the end of their set, I said my goodnights to nearby friends, including the one who was about as big a fan as me ("I traded my first Weezer album for Prodigy," he admitted sheepishly) and walked outside to say more goodnights there.
For all the cover band haters out there, you guys missed a seriously entertaining evening. They may not have been the real thing, but they were close.
Sometimes close counts in more than just hand grenades and horseshoes. Sometimes it's just good fun.
There was a couch for the two of us to sit on. We paid retail not restaurant prices for the wine and cheese.
And the music was a mix of vintage '80s and '90s classics that never let up, a foreshadowing of what was to come later in the evening.
My girlfriend and I met at Olio, where we kicked off happy hour as the first customers of the evening.
Choosing the Bodegas Montecillo Verdemar Albarion was a no-brainer. Its fruity nose was exceeded only by its big, beautifully rounded mouthfeel.
Deciding on cheese was more challenging, so we narrowed it down to a few in the stinky family.
The chef then asked how much we wanted to spend (we kept it economical) and assured us she'd make a cheese plate from that.
What arrived at our table was a cheese feast.
The Taleggio, French Pierre Robert with creme fraiche (as obscenely rich as good butter), English cheddar and French raw milk Fourme D'Ambert (a creamy bleu) with country pate, cornichons, various sizes of olives and grilled bread slices was truly impressive.
It was as comfortable as being at one of our homes, but with a far better variety of food and wine to choose from.
We girltalked and ate for two hours and still never finished all the food on that plate.
"We're coming back here," she said as we prepared to leave with full bellies.
Great ambiance, a view of the Main Street passersby (like the guy who walked by with an unzipped fly, only to return to the window to zip it up) and well-priced vino and victuals make for an unbeatable combination.
Afterwards, I took my car home so I could begin the artwalk on the night with the most daylight of all the First Fridays.
The crowds were a tad lighter than usual, but bands were performing on the street and vendors were set up everywhere.
Quirk's new show "Supper" featured table settings by Chris Milk, Christopher Jagmin, Tina Frey and Melody Gulik, each distinctive in its own way.
Jagmin's lunch setting was all about numbers on the dishes with office supplies (rubber bands, pencil shavings, push pins) as "food."
Gulik's table and the TV in front of it were covered in moss and plant matter for beautiful, if unusable, furniture.
In the front gallery, local artist Kenneth Chase's "Shop Show" featured collages on wood blocks, some of them painted, too. I felt myself begin to covet one of the very reasonably priced pieces, always a dangerous thing.
After a stop at ADA Gallery's show "Bovasso! Bovasso! Bovasso!" with whimsical and colorful new work by Nina Bovasso, I headed to Gallery 5 for the "Under the Covers" show.
No original material tonight.
I walked in just moments before the Pretend Pretenders began playing. Onstage, star guitarist Paul Ivey spotted me buying my ticket and said, "Karen's here" as if anyone cared.
Lead singer Allison Apperson repeated, "Karen's here" and from there they went into "Brass in Pocket" and took us through" "Kid," "Stop Your Sobbing," and "Back on the Chain Gang."
They did a superb job with the material (I love seeing a bass player slap a bass) and the crowd was wildly appreciative, dancing and singing along. Great songs, great voice, great playing.
The Green Hearts played next, doing "badass power pop" according to the show poster. What that meant was a lot of hard and fast old songs like "Starry Eyes" and "Rock and Roll Girl."
Lead singer Paul Ginder, with his magnificent new chops, did a great job carrying the energy of the songs.
Then Zepp Repplica (two P's, both words) took the stage in their impossibly tight pants and look-alike wigs to rock the faces off of the sweaty crowd.
Having seen them before, I knew how eerily similar they sound to the real thing, but most of the people I knew, as well as strangers, had never witnessed the veracity of their performance.
These twenty-somethings have seriously studied their Led Zeppelin history. Songs are note-perfect, vocals reach Plant-like pitch and mannerisms are nailed.
More than one person asked me afterwards why these guys aren't doing this professionally. Maybe they will. Likewise, several acknowledged how hard it was going to be to follow them onstage.
The Sweater band, a Weezer tribute, had that privilege. And while I can appreciate Weezer, I'm far from an aficionado of the band.
In fact, earlier in the evening, I'd asked musician Prabir why 30-somethings consider Weezer so god-like.
What followed was a 30-something's dissertation about the brilliance of the song writing and the technical skill of the guitar playing.
I recall something about the breadth of sounds Rivers Cuomo is able to coax from his electric guitar and that's about it. Frankly, I think it's because it was high school music for thirty-somethings.
But the Sweater Band fed into those people and soon there was rabid dancing and shouts of "WEE-ZER!" after every song.
I feared for my sandal-clad feet because of the large drunk guy dancing so boisterously right in front of me.
The band was smart, though, and began taking requests directly from the fanatics. It's a great way to shut people up.
And while I knew some material like "Buddy Holly" and of course "The Sweater Song," I couldn't commit like the diehards did.
Near the end of their set, I said my goodnights to nearby friends, including the one who was about as big a fan as me ("I traded my first Weezer album for Prodigy," he admitted sheepishly) and walked outside to say more goodnights there.
For all the cover band haters out there, you guys missed a seriously entertaining evening. They may not have been the real thing, but they were close.
Sometimes close counts in more than just hand grenades and horseshoes. Sometimes it's just good fun.
Friday, July 1, 2011
J-Ward ♥ Guerrilla Dining.
I did it again only this time I got to pick the alley.
The pop-up restaurant I'd so enjoyed a couple of weeks ago materialized just across the street from my apartment after I recommended a prime Jackson Ward spot for the festivities.
The organizers welcomed me back enthusiastically but how could I resist a guerrilla meal barely two houses from home?
Surely they knew I'd show.
Like last time, the five-dollar price tag covered a cocktail, main dish and dessert.
As a bonus, there was also a salad tonight.
The evening's cocktail could have been a Karen mix.
Reposado tequila that had been infused with habanero and jalapeno was mixed with cucumber sour mix and cilantro and served with half a salted rim.
To those with no tolerance for a bit of heat, it was hot.
In my opinion, it was beautifully balanced with cool cucumber smoothing out the peppers' heat.
Dinner tonight was shrimp and yellow corn grits with diced local tomatoes, green onions, mushrooms and locally salt-cured Thai bird chilis.
The chilis' spice infused the grits, making for a much hotter mouthfeel than the cocktail.
I devoured it.
A small grill took care of the cooking requirements as the crowd continued to grow when neighbors got wind of the goings-on.
One guy walked up and said, "Hi, I'm your neighbor. Can I share this car hood with you?"
He must have been enjoying himself because soon he went to call his friends and alert them to the fun.
As I ate my savory shrimp and grits, I met the occupants of a nearby house and heard tales from their corner.
A guy I met last time arrived, sans girlfriend, and marveled again at my lack of cellphone, even telling his friend.
She, too, marveled. "That's awesome!"
I was surprised at how many people had read my post about the last dinner.
One guy said he'd missed the last one but my description was so vivid that he'd made sure he didn't miss this one.
As a bonus, one of my very favorite summer dishes is panzanella and it was also on tonight's menu.
The food talent makes (excellent) bread and today some of their sourdough was used as croutons with local tomatoes, garlic, onions, basil and olive oil for a refreshing salad that epitomized summer.
Meanwhile, the occupants of the nearest house got wind of the activities in their own backyard and joined the party.
Sadly for them, they had just consumed an enormous burrito meal, but they were able to sip cocktails like pros.
Our houses practically face each other and this was the first time we'd met, so it was fun to talk midnight movies and late night museums with them.
Tonight's main entertainment came from the very recently-installed graffiti prevention box.
Mounted high on an alley-facing pole, it detects motion and flashes lights while yelling at the potential perpetrators.
It's completely obnoxious and I think it will probably drive the nearest neighbors batty.
Besides, I have to think my tax dollars could be better used.
Dessert tonight was a sourdough pancake with strawberries, mint and honey (I think) and even people who couldn't eat their dinner somehow managed to polish off an entire bowl of dessert.
Funny how that works.
Toward the end, the bartender offered second drinks to any takers and I couldn't think of a good reason to pass up another given my affection for teuila, especially given my proximity to home, sweet home.
The organizers already asked if I knew of another appropriate alley and my only question was whether it could be another one in my neighborhood.
Yes, it could, they said.
Score!
With a little planning, I might be able to suggest a different Jackson Ward location at least every other time.
Seems like the ideal place for a locavore restaurant to pop up every now and then.
We're the new dining destination, haven't you heard?
The pop-up restaurant I'd so enjoyed a couple of weeks ago materialized just across the street from my apartment after I recommended a prime Jackson Ward spot for the festivities.
The organizers welcomed me back enthusiastically but how could I resist a guerrilla meal barely two houses from home?
Surely they knew I'd show.
Like last time, the five-dollar price tag covered a cocktail, main dish and dessert.
As a bonus, there was also a salad tonight.
The evening's cocktail could have been a Karen mix.
Reposado tequila that had been infused with habanero and jalapeno was mixed with cucumber sour mix and cilantro and served with half a salted rim.
To those with no tolerance for a bit of heat, it was hot.
In my opinion, it was beautifully balanced with cool cucumber smoothing out the peppers' heat.
Dinner tonight was shrimp and yellow corn grits with diced local tomatoes, green onions, mushrooms and locally salt-cured Thai bird chilis.
The chilis' spice infused the grits, making for a much hotter mouthfeel than the cocktail.
I devoured it.
A small grill took care of the cooking requirements as the crowd continued to grow when neighbors got wind of the goings-on.
One guy walked up and said, "Hi, I'm your neighbor. Can I share this car hood with you?"
He must have been enjoying himself because soon he went to call his friends and alert them to the fun.
As I ate my savory shrimp and grits, I met the occupants of a nearby house and heard tales from their corner.
A guy I met last time arrived, sans girlfriend, and marveled again at my lack of cellphone, even telling his friend.
She, too, marveled. "That's awesome!"
I was surprised at how many people had read my post about the last dinner.
One guy said he'd missed the last one but my description was so vivid that he'd made sure he didn't miss this one.
As a bonus, one of my very favorite summer dishes is panzanella and it was also on tonight's menu.
The food talent makes (excellent) bread and today some of their sourdough was used as croutons with local tomatoes, garlic, onions, basil and olive oil for a refreshing salad that epitomized summer.
Meanwhile, the occupants of the nearest house got wind of the activities in their own backyard and joined the party.
Sadly for them, they had just consumed an enormous burrito meal, but they were able to sip cocktails like pros.
Our houses practically face each other and this was the first time we'd met, so it was fun to talk midnight movies and late night museums with them.
Tonight's main entertainment came from the very recently-installed graffiti prevention box.
Mounted high on an alley-facing pole, it detects motion and flashes lights while yelling at the potential perpetrators.
It's completely obnoxious and I think it will probably drive the nearest neighbors batty.
Besides, I have to think my tax dollars could be better used.
Dessert tonight was a sourdough pancake with strawberries, mint and honey (I think) and even people who couldn't eat their dinner somehow managed to polish off an entire bowl of dessert.
Funny how that works.
Toward the end, the bartender offered second drinks to any takers and I couldn't think of a good reason to pass up another given my affection for teuila, especially given my proximity to home, sweet home.
The organizers already asked if I knew of another appropriate alley and my only question was whether it could be another one in my neighborhood.
Yes, it could, they said.
Score!
With a little planning, I might be able to suggest a different Jackson Ward location at least every other time.
Seems like the ideal place for a locavore restaurant to pop up every now and then.
We're the new dining destination, haven't you heard?
Eating Ecuadorian
The universe has been offering up the best kind of little surprises to me over the past month, all of which continue to encourage the hopeless optimist in me.
But enough about that. Walking over to Ghostprint Gallery for their preview of Catherine Brooks' "To Blave," I ran into a friend from the Camel on the street.
I was going from whence he'd just come and he warned me, "It's an amazing show."
Brooks' stunning works, many of them oil on Masonite, were remarkable for their visual clarity, mythological references and recurring motifs (brambles, keys, clouds).
The first two pieces in the show were of a striking-looking woman and only after the artist was pointed out to me did I realize that they were self-portraits. Talent and beauty; must be nice.
A couple of pieces used old books (an H.G. Wells and a "Rudiments of Arithmetic") to showcase jewelry and figures in oil, acrylic and collage.
As one who loves to buy local art (Brooks went from Richmond to L.A., but she's back), I was thrilled to see limited edition unframed prints available for a mere $45. That's affordable local art.
The most visually stunning piece in the show was a mixed media piece called "Isis and Nemo" and was done as a kind of a large-scale jigsaw puzzle.
Smaller pieces of the puzzle were separate and trailing off to one side, while the major part of the piece had interlocking faces, hands and a skull.
"That should be in the Virginia Museum," one woman noted to me and I couldn't argue. It had real presence and would make quite a statement in the 21st century gallery.
Leaving the crowded gallery after running into several friends and chatting, I strolled down to Bistro 27 for a dinner rendezvous.
Tonight I had been invited to share an Ecuadorian meal with the Brazilian chef.
A recent conversation about our shared love of offal had reminded him of a memorable meal a friend from Ecuador had made for him.
"Come back Thursday and I'll make it. We'll eat it together," he'd promised. I felt lucky to have been asked, but maybe he just doesn't know another tripe lover. Whatever the reason, I wasn't missing it.
When I arrived, the dining room was completely full, so I spent time drinking Vinho Verde and chatting with the bartender, which led to some curious topics ("I can't wait to see how you write THAT up in the blog," he laughed) on subjects which needn't be shared.
Meanwhile, the chef kept telling me, "It's almost ready" from the kitchen. Fine, I read a magazine; I read the Post food section. I talked to strangers and was happily occupied.
By the time the kitchen had slowed enough for the chef to join me, we were both starving.
The dish, guatita, is a beef tripe stew with potato peanut sauce and served with white rice. It is considered an excellent hangover cure, not that we needed it for that.
No, it was the four-plus hours that the stew had simmered that made it so distinctive.
The small pieces of tripe were melt-in-your-mouth tender and the rich peanut sauce got a kick from a few dashes of Matouk's Salsa Calypso, a very hot sauce.
With both chunks of potato and rice, there was plenty of starch to set off the richness and heat of the dish.
The unique flavor was addictive and I kept eating until there was nothing but rice left on my plate. Even the Chef's rice disappeared, but then, he's a guy and had just finished a fourteen-hour shift.
Three guys sitting near us were offered a taste. One took it and said he was repulsed by the peanut butter taste. The other two made faces and wouldn't touch it.
And yet, if they'd tasted it, I can say with certainty that they'd never have known, much less cared, that it was beef tripe. In any case, the loss was theirs.
They redeemed themselves only slightly when a group of women came in and asked for an escort to their car. All three were quick to walk the skittish women the short distance to the lot.
As the chef and I discussed then, food and how adventurous people are about food can be a major factor when it comes to the laws of attraction.
I can't imagine being attracted to a timid eater type any more than I can imagine being attracted to a couch potato.
I'll take my potatoes in my guatita, thank you very much.
And I can walk myself to my car, no matter where it's parked. Maybe tripe makes you brave.
But enough about that. Walking over to Ghostprint Gallery for their preview of Catherine Brooks' "To Blave," I ran into a friend from the Camel on the street.
I was going from whence he'd just come and he warned me, "It's an amazing show."
Brooks' stunning works, many of them oil on Masonite, were remarkable for their visual clarity, mythological references and recurring motifs (brambles, keys, clouds).
The first two pieces in the show were of a striking-looking woman and only after the artist was pointed out to me did I realize that they were self-portraits. Talent and beauty; must be nice.
A couple of pieces used old books (an H.G. Wells and a "Rudiments of Arithmetic") to showcase jewelry and figures in oil, acrylic and collage.
As one who loves to buy local art (Brooks went from Richmond to L.A., but she's back), I was thrilled to see limited edition unframed prints available for a mere $45. That's affordable local art.
The most visually stunning piece in the show was a mixed media piece called "Isis and Nemo" and was done as a kind of a large-scale jigsaw puzzle.
Smaller pieces of the puzzle were separate and trailing off to one side, while the major part of the piece had interlocking faces, hands and a skull.
"That should be in the Virginia Museum," one woman noted to me and I couldn't argue. It had real presence and would make quite a statement in the 21st century gallery.
Leaving the crowded gallery after running into several friends and chatting, I strolled down to Bistro 27 for a dinner rendezvous.
Tonight I had been invited to share an Ecuadorian meal with the Brazilian chef.
A recent conversation about our shared love of offal had reminded him of a memorable meal a friend from Ecuador had made for him.
"Come back Thursday and I'll make it. We'll eat it together," he'd promised. I felt lucky to have been asked, but maybe he just doesn't know another tripe lover. Whatever the reason, I wasn't missing it.
When I arrived, the dining room was completely full, so I spent time drinking Vinho Verde and chatting with the bartender, which led to some curious topics ("I can't wait to see how you write THAT up in the blog," he laughed) on subjects which needn't be shared.
Meanwhile, the chef kept telling me, "It's almost ready" from the kitchen. Fine, I read a magazine; I read the Post food section. I talked to strangers and was happily occupied.
By the time the kitchen had slowed enough for the chef to join me, we were both starving.
The dish, guatita, is a beef tripe stew with potato peanut sauce and served with white rice. It is considered an excellent hangover cure, not that we needed it for that.
No, it was the four-plus hours that the stew had simmered that made it so distinctive.
The small pieces of tripe were melt-in-your-mouth tender and the rich peanut sauce got a kick from a few dashes of Matouk's Salsa Calypso, a very hot sauce.
With both chunks of potato and rice, there was plenty of starch to set off the richness and heat of the dish.
The unique flavor was addictive and I kept eating until there was nothing but rice left on my plate. Even the Chef's rice disappeared, but then, he's a guy and had just finished a fourteen-hour shift.
Three guys sitting near us were offered a taste. One took it and said he was repulsed by the peanut butter taste. The other two made faces and wouldn't touch it.
And yet, if they'd tasted it, I can say with certainty that they'd never have known, much less cared, that it was beef tripe. In any case, the loss was theirs.
They redeemed themselves only slightly when a group of women came in and asked for an escort to their car. All three were quick to walk the skittish women the short distance to the lot.
As the chef and I discussed then, food and how adventurous people are about food can be a major factor when it comes to the laws of attraction.
I can't imagine being attracted to a timid eater type any more than I can imagine being attracted to a couch potato.
I'll take my potatoes in my guatita, thank you very much.
And I can walk myself to my car, no matter where it's parked. Maybe tripe makes you brave.
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