Clipped Corners and Green Tambourines

Funny how life teases you.

Stopping at the light at Williamsburg Road and Main Street while coming back from the East End this morning, I spotted two middle-aged women at the base of the steps to Taylors Hill Park, aka Taylors Hell.

Not surprisingly, they were looking up at all those steep steps with trepidation, like they were willing their feet to start the ascent. Good luck, ladies.

Meanwhile, I get home to a message from Mac suggesting we begin our walk in Church Hill today for a change. So we take the 26th Street steps down and get on the Capital Trail, taking it along the Low Line, past Great Shiplock Park and over to the recently refurbished Sugar Pad.  It's there that Mac asks if I want to turn around soon because her plan is to return via Taylors Hell, I mean Hill, and those bloody steps.

Which, incidentally, in 33 years of living in Richmond, I have never climbed. But it's the unlikelihood of having looked at those women contemplating the steps just an hour earlier that makes me realize that nothing's ever truly random.

Mac warns me that once she starts up the steps, she doesn't stop because of how difficult it is to convince her legs to start up again. I don't doubt it. Even the people coming down the steps look pained, although it may be that they climbed up them first.

Fortunately, we're only going in one direction. Although I won't deny that it's a steep climb, midway up it occurred to me that it felt a lot like climbing a lighthouse - which I love for the views - minus the curved route. Just when your legs are saying they'd prefer not to go any higher, you reach another landing and another set of steps.

And it's not like we don't do hill work every time we walk the pipeline walkway, because being at river level means climbing 3/4 of a mile straight uphill - only having to deal with a short set of steps on Capital Hill - in order to return to Broad Street and head west. But inclines are one thing and steps quite another.

And for the record, we didn't so much as pause.

Once we'd conquered the hill, we walked back through Chimborazo Park, alongside Tricycle Gardens to admire the bounty of the produce and past a 19th century drug store built with a "clipped corner," a phrase we learned only because of the historical sign.

Mere diversions to distract us from our complaining leg muscles.

All I can say is, I'm pretty sure we didn't look anywhere near as worried as those two women I'd seen earlier. But then, Mac and I are walking fools pros.

The universe was still playing with me when I showed up at Holmes' digs before going to dinner at Acacia. I knocked, no answer. A neighbor sitting on her porch a few doors down told me they'd just gone out and maybe I should text them. Explaining that I have no cell phone, she offered to call Holmes for me and leave a message.

Fifteen minutes later, still no word, so she insisted on calling him again. Turns out they'd been worried about Crabcake Week crowds at Acacia, so they'd headed over to snag a table. I dutifully got in my car and drove to meet them before they downed the first bottle of Langlois Cremant de Loire Brut Rose.

I barely made it and when I did, the bartender immediately asked if he should ice down a second bottle. With these two? Good idea.

Again eating for the cause - the Alliance for the Chesapeake Bay - tonight's crabcake was a sandwich, notable for the sliced housemade bread and butter pickles that gave the jumbo lump crabcake a sweet crunch that I loved. Given that it came after fried deviled eggs with pimento cheese and a stellar salad loaded with slices of Edwards country ham over Romaine, shaved Parmesan and herbed croutons with a Parmesan peppercorn dressing, it was a miracle I could enjoy it as much as I did.

The inevitable listening party followed at Holmes' man cave, tonight with a focus on 45s dredged up from some deep basement shelf Beloved and I had never been privy to before. What amazed me was what pristine condition they were all in, as if they'd been in a vault since the MTV days.

When Beloved came across the Lemonpipers' bubblegum-sounding "Green Tambourine," a debate about the one hit wonder ensued. I stayed out because frankly, I was a kid in 1967 and knew nothing about the song. But upon hearing it, I felt sure it had to have been a really early use of reverb.

Play [play, play, play, play]...my green tambourine.

Other 45 gems included Todd Rundgren's "Hello, It's Me," Neil Diamond's "Solitary Man" and the Jagger/Bowie collaboration "Dancing in the Streets,"which Beloved swore she'd never heard before. She got most excited when she came across Dan Hartman's "I Can Dream About You," which came from the "Streets of Fire" movie, which I never saw but sure got a lot of airplay.

To Holmes, it resembled nothing so much as a Paul Carrick song, but then he's a big Paul Carrick fan. To me, it just sounded like pure '80s: big hair, shoulder pads and dancing in clubs every weekend.

Given that so much of what we were listening to was straight out of the Carter and Reagan years and Beloved and I always want to know what year each single or album was from, Holmes came up with a dating system on the spot. When I inquired about a 45 of REM's "Fall On Me," he answered with, "Orwell plus two," a system that only works for the book-literate and math-capable.

Which we mostly were at that point. "Why can't it be Friday night?" Beloved wailed at one point as we agonized over how many more records we could play before they ought to go to bed.

Hello, it's me on a Tuesday night. Maybe not a night for dancing in the streets, but not a night to be a solitary man (or woman), either.

I say when a girl climbs Taylors Hell for the first time, she's entitled to stay up as late as she wants. Sore legs be damned.

Just Like Me

My day was a three-act play, with only the briefest of intermissions.

Act 1: The server is not responding

I may be a Luddite, but I at least live in a world of connectivity. My octogenarian parents, who do have cell phones, mind you (unlike me), are also at the mercy of some rinky dink Northern Neck internet provider that could only be classified as intermittent at best.

They're used to this, probably because they were still on a dial-up connection into the Obama administration, but I'm not. So when I got down there for my annual visit to complete and e-file their taxes, you can imagine my frustration to find that the internet is missing in action,

Apparently what they do when this happens is call the provider, whose pre-recorded message informs them that service will be spotty for the next few hours. Mom and Dad take this in stride. "It always goes out when there's bad weather," Mom says, as if this is a legit explanation.

And by bad weather, we're talking breezy and occasional rain showers, so nothing catastrophic.

Since I can't do what I came to do, I spend the morning on other requests like baking oatmeal raisin cookies, mending a hole in Mom's favorite cardigan and organizing kitchen cabinets. Finally, after lunch the Internet returns and taxes can not only be filed, but accepted by the IRS before the possibility of another government shutdown descends.

But because I had to wait until afternoon to begin doing taxes, it's late afternoon before I hit the road back to Richmond for my final foray to the Environmental Film Fest.

Act 2: Al Gore was right

Arriving back in J-Ward at 5:20 for a documentary that began at 6 meant a sprint to get cleaned up before grabbing an umbrella and walking over to Cabell Library for Leonardo diCaprio's passion project, "Before the Flood."

I arrived with five minutes to spare. As you might expect, the room was full of people already alarmed about global warming rather than people who needed a cinematic slap in the face to realize how quickly things are going to get dire.

Like how by 2040, it'll be possible to sail over the North Pole. How the ice there used to be hard and dark blue and is now pale blue with the consistency of ice cream.

For closer-to-home concerns, there was Miami, where the city is currently involved in massive project to raise streets and install pumps to rid roadways of the seawater which currently rises through the city's drains to regularly flood the streets.

And while a shift to solar power seems like a no-brainer, both China and India are making more progress on that front than the U.S. Island nations contribute the least to global warming's causes yet feel its effects most. Oh, and once again, a reminder that raising cows is the most inefficient use of land so we all need to cut back on meat.

Probably most shocking was the make-up of Congress in 2016: 38 climate deniers in the Senate and 131 in the House. We pay these people to be ignorant?

Let's just say that by the time I left Cabell, I had accepted that Greenland is going to go away, along with most of Florida and Norfolk, which represents an enormous security risk for the country given the naval base there.

Walking home after a day of waiting for Internet and being reminded that life as we know is on the way out had me ready to climb into bed and call it a night.

Except that ten minutes after I got home, the phone rang. Holmes and Beloved were en route to Acacia and didn't I want to join them for dinner in 20 minutes?

Act 3: RSVP for one

Another quick change of clothes and I too was headed to Acacia, where I found them at the bar already sipping pink bubbles. When I asked the bartender what we were drinking, his response was, "Chateau Langlois Cremant de Loire Brut Rose, the same thing you guys drank the last couple of times you were here."

So we're creatures of habit, apparently.

Since we'd gotten a late start, we jumped right into appetizers: white anchovies with grilled Romaine, radicchio and Forme d'Ambert (because Beloved can't go to Acacia and not have them), crab fritters studded with lump crabmeat and deep fried deviled eggs. A nice light start, in other words.

The occasion for the Tuesday celebration was that it was Beloved's first day back at work, albeit abridged to a four hour workday, since she broke her elbow back in late December. While she'd been in a cast and then bandage, they'd not done their usual dining out. Holmes said his credit card bill had dropped precipitously while she just wanted to be among the living and eating well again.

The bartender regaled us with his theories on dogs (puppyhood is key) while giving an enthusiastic thumbs-up to our dinner selections: a Wagyu cheesebuger that made Beloved moan with pleasure, pork schnitzel that Holmes declared the best he'd ever had in Richmond, bar none and my market fish special of grilled flounder with a beet and arugula side salad.

Usually we linger, but Acacia was clearing out, so we did, too, landing back at Holmes' man cave for molten chocolate cake, some unexpected and perfectly lovely Francoise Chidaine le Chenin d'Ailleurs Brut and a listening party that began with Elvis Costello solely because that was where his last solo listening party had ended.

Usually he does the record selection with input and requests from the womenfolk, but I waited until he was in the loo to peruse his collection on my own. Almost immediately, I made a stealth find, namely "The Way We Were" soundtrack and pulled it out. He's no Streisand fan but she and I are and he'd never mentioned having this album, much less played it for us.

The album/movie resonated for both of us because we'd been young when we'd seen it but recalled how it had destroyed us with its story of two people who fell in love but ultimately couldn't be together. Back when we first saw it, neither of us had had enough life experience to realize that sometimes that's how life pans out so it had upset us. Scarred us, even.

Tonight it was just a treat to hear, as much for classic songs Beloved immediately recognized by name - "Red Sails in the Sunset" and "Wrap Your Troubles in Dreams" - as for the three interpretations of the heart-tugging theme song. Oh, Hubbel.

Holmes tried to top that by pulling out the "Local Hero" soundtrack done by Mark Knopfler, but it was a whole different animal, albeit a satisfyingly 1983 one.

The big score was a compilation album called "The Best of '66," full of originals and covers, some of which defied belief. Why would anyone allow the Brothers Four to cover "Help?" Most egregious of all was the New Christy Minstrels' soul-less take on Nancy Sinatra's "These Boots are Made for Walking," which had not an iota of sexiness left in it despite the lyrics.

When I made a request for the soundtrack to "Hair," Holmes pivoted in his bar stool extracting the album from behind two others on a shelf directly behind his head. The man has hundreds of albums and he somehow knew exactly where this one was.

I'd wanted to hear "Good Morning, Starshine" but our group was unimpressed by Lynn Kellogg's version, leading Holmes to dub this "The Night of the Covers." On the other hand, "Aquarius" by Ronnie Dyson played just fine.

My favorite part of the 1968 album? That the song "Black Boys," sung in the original cast by Diane Keaton (news to me), bears a dedication to Governor George Wallace. Well done, kids.

At midnight, we realized we needed to bring this party to a close, but since Beloved doesn't go to work now until 2:00, we relented and put on more music. Finally at 1:15, we put on our grown-up pants and shut off the turntable for the night.

Total non-sleeping time spent at home today: an hour and 15 minutes, a new record.

But that's okay, intermissions are for amateurs. When old records call, I'm ready for my close-up.

Too Much Champagne is Just Right

If I was in charge of planning holiday celebrations, they would all include Champagne and eggnog.

But that's probably the bubbly and nog talking.

Our sole original intent was to make it to the Acacia Mini Bubbles dinner for three courses and three variations on the most festive of wines. Pru and Beau had both signed on for whatever the night held, with Beau (the non-bubbles fan), promising to show up with an open mind. While he's not as quick to have his head turned by sparkling wine as we are, he at least approaches these dinners with a willingness to have his mind changed.

And, truly, what more could a woman ask of a friend (or lover) than an open mind?

Driving to Acacia, Beau chose an unusual route that stranded us twice between double-parked cars on still snow-packed Mulberry Street, where Pru lived for many years. Some of our best friendship memories involve me going to Mulberry Street, where I'd scoop her up - planned or unplanned - and we'd have an adventure, many of them involving dancing.

Those halcyon, unemcumbered times are fondly referred to as the Mulberry Days and always spoken in a reverential tone. In fact, Beau slowed the car in respect as we drove on to Acacia.

As the front-of-the-house manager (and wife of the chef) greeted us, I couldn't help but be impressed with her attire: a t-shirt listing out the various forms of bubbly - Lambrusco, Cava, Prosecco, Cremant - with the most important, "Champagne," spelled out in silver sequins, a gift from her husband. Finishing it off was a ballerina-length black tulle skirt that turned the clever t-shirt into the most festive of attire.

When Pru noted that she had the same skirt, I couldn't resist suggesting that she wear it on New Year's Eve. If ever a girl can get away with tulle, it's at bubbly events or the turn of the calendar.

Moving on to more important matters, it should be noted that as always, Acacia's food offerings were superb.

Beginning with Azienda Agricola Brancher Prosecco di Valdobbiandene Superiore Extra Dry, we were immersed in sparkling wine. Accompanying the wine with its hint of residual sugar was smoked salmon atop a cauliflower pancake and topped with pickled onion, capers, egg dust and a dollop of creme fraiche.

Yet again proving the power of pairings, none of us were raving about the Prosecco until the fattiness of the creme fraiche obliterated the sweetness and made the Prosecco shine. Pru immediately dubbed it a perfect brunch sipper, reminding me of that Noel Coward quote, "Why do I drink Champagne for breakfast? Doesn't everyone?"

Not often enough, no.

As an added bonus, wine rep Brandon became our hero after announcing that mankind should drink as much sparkling wine as possible and that Champagne is his favorite beverage, bar none.

He then went on to extol the beauty of the Prosecco region and assured us it was still an uncrowded oasis for bubbly lovers (note to self).

While devouring that tasty course, conversation turned to the long-term prospects of Pru and Beau, a couple who have known each other for 35 years. When the subject of Pru tiring of Beau came up, he noted that she would have to pry him out of her life with a crowbar.

"Like a barnacle," he explained, sublimating his manhood to the metaphor and cracking me up.

Next up was pure decadence: crab fritters atop braised cabbage with Surry sausage in a creamy truffle sauce. With this, Brandon had paired Mont Marcal Cava Brut Rosado, thus satisfying my love of bubbles and Rose in one fell swoop.

The exquisite and oh-so mid-Atlantic pairing of crab and pig made all three of us inordinately happy because, let's face it, the combination is about as Virginia as you can get. When I wished that this combination could become an entree, Beau reminded me that it would be obscene to have any more of it.

So excess is bad now, right?

I parted ways with my friends when it came to the main course. My choice was sauteed rockfish over spaghetti squash under a blanket of clam chowder sauce, served with Larmandier-Bernier "Longitude" Blanc de Blanc, the pairing a symphony of whites and beiges.

The dynamic duo opted for braised beef short ribs over Yukon Gold potatoes with sauteed Swiss Chard made even more delicious for being paired with what Brandon described as "not like any other Champagne you've ever had," Andre Clouet Grand Cru Brut Rose.

Between the unexpected strawberry notes and creamy mouthfeel, it was completely seductive, the only problem being they each had glasses of it and I didn't. Being friends, however, I did get tastes. Of note was how well the wine paired with the Swiss Chard, of all things.

When it came time for dessert, a shared chocolate cremeux was sufficient because everyone was in the mood for liquid dessert.

For me, it was my own glass of that Andre Clouet Grand Cru Brut Rose, while Pru decided to do a speedball: a cup of French press coffee plus a bastardized Irish coffee (no Bailey's) that redeemed itself with a massive float of whipped heavy cream.

The non-Alpha male among us debated the liquor menu long and hard before deciding he wanted 15-year old Singleton, neat, please. Pru, in fine form two-fisting caffeine, leaned over and observed, "None of that octoroon whiskey for him," referring to the blended whiskeys.

Get enough quality alcohol in a person and she'll say anything.

Knowing the best way to keep Pru happy all winter, Beau placed an order for the Cava and the Brut Rose and, on that note, we headed out into the night. My suggestion of a final stop at a holiday bar seemed a festive way to wind things down, so we drove to Carytown to check out Miracle on Cary, the latest incarnation of the Jasper.

Seeing a line come out the door was almost a buzz kill, one I mitigated instantly by suggesting Christmas Session instead. While I've been to Rapp Session's holiday pop-up in the past, neither of them had and they were easily malleable agreeable by this point.

Beau is fond of saying that I always get my way, but I prefer to think that I just verbalize what others are thinking. And, yes, I'm still campaigning for that fried chicken and grower's Champagne party, my friend.

Regardless of how we'd ended up there, Christmas Session was the right choice, festive and low-key with only a half dozen other people around. Looking at the drink menu encased in a Christmas card, I opted for the Ebenezer, a potent blend of Mezcal, Hornitos Reposado, Agave, Cocchi Americano and Hellfire bitters while the happy couple each asked for a Rebel Without a Claus.

Because our friendship is based on tasting reciprocity, Beau and I each took one sip of our drinks before handing them off to be tasted by the other. Immediately we both knew we'd ordered the wrong drink and the switch was made.

The Rebel, a creamy blend of kettlecorn-infused rum, Frangelico, heavy cream, simple syrup and mole bitters in a coupe glass tasted like swanky eggnog and smelled like nutmeg, a combination I found irresistible, while he needed smokey, strong brown liquors with a giant ice cube.

Pru and I were on our second round of Rebels and feeling fine when Beau started snapping pictures of us under the strings of colored lights like we were subjects in a holiday magazine spread. We kept the theme going by ordering a final Rebel, which our affable server delivered with two sets of straws for ease of consumption.

Picture-taking brought up the subject of me not using photos on my blog - my recent picture of a snow penis on my car being a natural starting point - which I reminded them is impossible because the dated Blogger platform doesn't support photos beyond the main image and profile photo.

Words, people, I'm trying to use words to paint a picture, not pictures. Anyone can do that.

By the time we rolled out of Christmas Session, we'd outlasted all the selfie-taking groups from Rappahannock, heard enough holiday music for the rest of the season and topped off our evening of bubbly with multiple glasses of Christmas Past.

A girl couldn't ask for much more on a Wednesday night.

Except maybe to get home to a mailbox with a sweet card from Mr. Wright full of words that made my night, as well as a note from a local curator telling me, "I so appreciate your writing and the way you make information about something visual come alive."

And that, dear reader, is why you'll never see the photograph of the snow penis here. I've got enough to do just making my adventures come alive.

Tawdry and Forlorn Hope

A wine dinner is really just a good excuse to talk trash.

Acacia was the setting, Pru (in a faux fur coat) and Beau were my companions and all we were looking to do was enjoy three courses and talk ourselves silly.

Mission accomplished.

The first wine to be poured was Eola Hills Pinot Gris, a wine I first tasted nine years ago at the now-defunct Avalon, and every bit as tasty in its 2016 iteration. Or, as Pru so eloquently put it, "I could drink this wine with every meal," although she doesn't eat a lot of meals - certainly not my 3 squares a day plus snacks - so that's not as big a deal as it sounds.

Pairing it with butternut squash soup with creme fraiche and chives only made the Willamette Valley wine more attractive but as Harry, the wine rep, pointed out, Oregon knows does how to do Pinot Gris. Beau is just as savvy, deciding to order a case of it to accompany Pru's future meals.

I can't run into Harry without asking if he's still taking his daily outdoor shower and nothing could have made me happier than hearing that he is. That said, he has learned to run the water in the kitchen first before going outside to ensure that he doesn't have to wait, shivering, for the water to get hot

Let's just say I admire his devotion to al fresco showering. He cracked us up with a story about adjusting his shower times recently because of next door neighbors having a tree taken down and his not wanting to be seen by workmen high up in a tree overlooking his lathering. Talk about your shrinkage.

We were schooled by Harry that Forlorn Hope Wines had been started by a skateboarder named Matthew in an area near Sacramento. Their Chardonnay was paired with pasta carbonara with housemade black pepper pappardelle, cubes of bacon and Parmesan, a dish Pru declared to be "sooo good," but in reality was nothing like good.

It was downright obscene, the rich sauce clinging to every wide noodle.

While Beau claimed he could have eaten another plate of it, the womenfolk agreed that anyone who did would either be asleep or on the way to clogged arteries, so what would be the point? Still, no one left so much as a cube of bacon or scrap of pappardelle, either.

A discussion of compliments given turned out to be a revelation for Beau, who wasn't clear on the difference in complimenting an un-showered women in a sweatsuit and a woman who had spent two hours getting ready to go out. This led to a dialog about the pleasures of leisurely preparation - bathing, making up, dressing (which inevitably involves trying on multiple ensembles), accessorizing - preferably with an accompanying dressing drink and, at least in my case, good music.

Listening to the pearls of wisdom falling from our lips, Beau had a light bulb moment. "I'm really frightened about how close this is to my routine."

No shame in making an effort to impress, friend.

Of course, he wasn't always this way. It was only once he began seeing Pru, who saw his potential, that he took her advice about his hair and wardrobe. "I am the man you made," he said with not a little pride.

Given the "before" photo he showed me, he'd be the first to admit he was in need of some making.

We parted ways when it came to main courses, with me going for the swordfish medallions over sunchoke risotto with a side of radicchio and bleu cheese over sweet red pepper sauce, accompanied by Fableist Winery Zinfandel from Paso Robles. Kudos to the kitchen for the medallions since swordfish is easy to overcook, but just as impressive was the killer combination of radiccio with bleu cheese, sharp and rich at the same time.

The happy couple preferred the braised Moroccan lamb shank over pumpkin/tomato mash with crispy Brussels sprouts and lamb jus with Field Recordings Winery "Pets," which is their cutesy shorthand for Petite Syrah.

As it turned out, Pru wasn't fond of the Pets, not a problem for me since I've been to Field Recordings Winery and met Boomer, the winery dog, so we traded and everyone was happy.

With enough wine in our systems for everyone to feel merry, Pru began sharing how desperate she was for some time alone, away from everything - Queen B, contractors and endless manse chores. She went so far as to suggest she take a brief holiday by staying at Beau's place, conveniently located two doors down. Getting dramatic (she is, after all, a former thespian), she declared, hand to forehead, "I guess I could always stay at a Motel 6," to which I responded, what, with all the other tawdry occupants?

Not bloody likely.

Although dessert wasn't part of the wine dinner, the dynamic duo never passes up a chance for French press coffee, so I made do with chocolate cremeux while they mainlined caffeine and Pru had another glass of Pinot Gris. "Nobody doesn't like a wide-awake drunk," she opined.

You can't get this group together and not discuss communication at some point, or, more likely, often, because communication is the bedrock of relationships and Pru and I, at least, have strong feelings about sending mixed or unclear messages.

Citing the early days of their relationship, she asked if he even remembered what unclear messages had been in his early texts when he'd been trying to win her. "No," he admitted, "but I have them all saved." Of course he does. Beau is nothing if not a romantic at heart.

Other information gleaned tonight: Pru was traumatized as a teen by having her rabbit fur-lined jean jacket stolen at Skate Park; that what used to be known as "key parties" are now euphemistically called "lasagna parties" (although no one could tell me whether or not any actual lasagna was involved); and that as recently as last month, she'd been attempting to make sugar shards of glass dripping in blood for cupcakes.

You think you know a person...

And while you might expect that that would be the end of the conversation, instead Beau regaled us with stories of his roommate making fake blood with Karo syrup and leaving hand prints and drips from the apartment building entrance to their apartment door.

Some people's college memories are positively magical.

Although we'd originally talked about an afterparty at my place, plans were postponed because everyone has a busy day tomorrow. So instead, we lingered over the remaining wine and coffee, with Pru eager to remind us that no matter where we were, it's a guaranteed good time.

To prove it, she decreed it so. "We are a party! We are a menage!"

A trois, no less. I'm really frightened how people might take that. Wait, no, I'm not.

Giving the Peace Sign

The things you have to do at Thanksgiving.

When asked to fill out a foil "leaf" with what I was thankful for and hang it on a small brass tree, I reduced my gratitude to its simplest level: I am grateful for all the people who love me. And I am.

While I've always been thankful for devoted parents, siblings who can finish my childhood stories and friends who choose to spend time with me, this year's list got longer with the addition of Mr. Wright, a partner who not only braved the gauntlet of meeting my family, but talked me down after the madness ended.

Part of how he accomplished this, it should be noted, was by ensuring that the three mornings after Turkey Day all involved waking up on the water. Those who know me know that this is a sure-fire way to get me to my happy place.

Now that I think about it, I didn't get my usual pre-sisters stress zit, either, so maybe his presence in my life is working in myriad ways.

To prepare for the psychological demands of spending the day with family, I'd made a point to do my usual Thanksgiving Eve blowout with Holmes and Beloved.

Beginning at Acacia, where the vibe was low-key and quiet but the crab fritters, grilled mahi mahi and beet/feta salad (the latter so good it won over the beet-hating Holmes) and chocolate cremeux were stellar, and then at Holmes' man-cave, where we listened to countless records - Elvis Costello to the Zombies - our evening was devoted to toasting the ghosts of Thanksgivings past with Graham Beck Brut Rose.

It's a tradition that goes back to 2010 for the three of us and shows no signs of letting up, no matter where any of us wind up having our turkey.

Come Thanksgiving Day, we motored to the house of Sister #6, a true hostess with the mostess and it's not only because her celebrations involve her husband shucking Old Saltes for anyone who will slurp them, although I'll be honest, that is my favorite part of it all. I'd stand there chatting with him, slurping 3 or 4 oysters and then taking 3 shucked beauties up to my Dad before returning to do it all over again. And again.

Because the 30 family members in attendance were seated at four tables over three rooms, my sister had come up with a plan for FFF - that's forced family fun, a phrase I first learned on a bev nap - to shake things up. Someone would get up, plate and glass in hand, and tap someone else on the shoulder, thereby usurping their chair and changing the make-up of that table.

The purpose, she claimed, was for everyone to get a chance to sit at the table with my parents, but I'm not sure she ran that plan by them first. I know that by the time I got to the fourth table, everyone was either in a food coma or tired of talking, which is saying a lot for this group.

All I'm saying is, it can be exhausting to eat and drink for seven hours with family.

But Black Friday dawned in Deale, Maryland, a little town on the Chesapeake Bay that offered up a big marina and, after a drive through its nearly empty waterfront streets, a cozy lunch (because they'd stopped serving breakfast five minutes before we'd arrived) at the South Country Cafe, a place where the cashier calls you "hon" and a stack of housemade pies sat on a ledge near the door.

Carter's Creek provided the wake-up water-views come the weekend, along with the usual pleasures of small-town life in Irvington. A walk to the Local Cafe for a bagel meant seeing lots of visitors to the Tides Inn and Hope and Glory Inn out and about on inn bicycles, a holiday market going on at the Steamboat Museum and, promptly at noon, a steady rain that ensured a snug, indoor afternoon.

Best of all, I'd brought along one of my recent  library book sale finds, a petite blue edition of "The Playboy Interviews with John Lennon and Yoko Ono" from 1981, a book guaranteed to occupy me for as long as it took for Mr. Wright to gather reference materials for an upcoming course he's teaching.

From the executive editor's foreword to the interviewer's introduction, I was immediately taken with these extensive conversations between John, Yoko and the Playboy writer because Lennon was willing to talk about everything. In fact, that had been the starting point for the book because the magazine interview couldn't include a fraction of what the couple had shared over multiple interviews and it was such good stuff.

That said, after reading for less than two hours, I pulled that chenille blanket over me and took a rainy day nap the likes of which can only be explained as sleeping out the final vestiges of Thanksgiving Day stress.

Post-rain, we headed to the Quays, an upscale Irish pub, meaning the fried fish fillets were mahi mahi and served over rice/quinoa instead of with chips, but also the sort of place where an appetizer of Dublin rolls (corned beef and cabbage in eggroll wrappers) arrived long after our entrees and not that far ahead of some pretty tasty butterscotch bread pudding.

Northern Neck charm or clueless management? You make the call.

From there, we only had to cross the hall to Walkabout Creek, where a DJ was onstage, lights were flashing and the locals were just getting cranked up for some serious Saturday night dancing, first to country, then to pop and hip-hop, and fortunately, with enough classic soul thrown in to get us up there, too.

Everybody dance now.

Today dawned so warm and sunny that all indoor activity was suspended so we could make the most of such late-November splendor. My walk took me across the grounds of the Dog and Oyster Winery and through their back 40, depositing me on the main drag which, as I quickly leaned, meant waving to every Sunday driver that passed.

While Mr. Wright assures me that in my short, pink athletic skirt, no one was going to take me for a local, I am nonetheless working on getting just the right Northern Neck wave mastered.

That and 79 cents will get me a copy of the Rappahannock Record at the gas station.

Down at the dock, the creek was muddy from yesterday's rain and the tide so high that it felt like we were on a boat. While checking the oyster garden float, we found it full of pine needles but no bivalves because apparently a storm had broken the frame and released the bottom.

Mr. Wright was the brilliant one who suggested that maybe a new oyster reef will form with the escapees, perhaps just beside the dock for easy shucking and slurping. If so, it'll give me one more thing to be thankful for next year.

Not that I need anything more given how good I have it these days. Like Reba McEntire said, "I have a lot to be thankful for. I am healthy, happy and I am loved."

Finally, the trifecta. Now if I could just nail how to wave to passing trucks, I wouldn't ask for anything more.

Two by Two

What's with the sudden urge to pair up?

Before the night was over, I had one friend telling me the lengths her ex went to for her birthday - calls, a dinner invitation, flowers, a book of photographs of their relationship before he dumped her in a text -  and another friend laying out the series of steps required before he marries his main squeeze.

Did Noah send out another ark memo that didn't get to me?

We made the bartender at Acacia our fourth because we were the sole occupants of the bar and he was loquacious and witty. The only problem was he couldn't join us in enjoying Chateau Langlois Cremant de Loire, but at least he had a fat tip in his future.

During a discussion of the pleasure of eating duck, my friend asks him if he likes garlic butter. With a roll of his eyes, the barkeep responds, "I like oxygen, too." In other words, duh.

That kind of witty.

They must have been kindred souls, I'm thinking, because it takes a certain kind of man to offer a new acquaintance a pocket protector. And not even one that he had with him, just one that he had languishing at home somewhere, left over from college. Granted, the bartender did have four pens neatly lined up in his shirt pocket, a disaster waiting to happen. Not improbably, a conservation about pens spewing ink into white pockets ensued, complete with the barkeep's memories of a leaky pen ruining his R.O.T.C. uniform shirt in high school.

Some traumas you never get over.

They bonded over Russel Crowe and Denzel Washington movies, which pretty much left the womenfolk out of the conversation entirely. I tried to stay relevant by mentioning "BlackkKlansman" so we could talk about Denzel's son's talent, but they merely acknowledged me and moved on

Because we had the bartender's undivided attention, we could be as nosy as we liked. Talking about the benefits - wine at cost - and drawbacks - little playtime - of working every night the restaurant is open, he regaled us with his off-duty antics. Seems this past Sunday, that meant starting with bourbon and ginger upon waking up, a miscalculation that landed him back in bed by 8:30 that evening.

It's a marathon, not a sprint, son. Like the t-shirt I saw on the pot-bellied guy at the grocery store yesterday, "You can't drink all day if you don't start in the morning." That's some Confucius wisdom right there.

But he was also kind enough to share his current favorite wine, Riebeek Cellars Cape Rose, a ridiculously easy drinking pink that made our brains default to sunny days and porch afternoons. After pouring us glasses to taste, he acknowledged, "I never buy fewer than five bottles at a time," showing wisdom beyond his years.

Nor could our newfound friend join us in eating through the menu, although conversation revealed that he'd already done as much on his own. Now it was our turn.

So. Much. Food.

Crab fritters, fried oysters, white anchovies with Fourme d'Ambert. A salad of greens, apples, golden raisins and cashews in celery vinaigrette, just so I could live with myself. Entrees of rockfish, mahi mahi with roasted cauliflower and crispy potatoes and, my choice, rockfish collar with Brussels sprouts and mushrooms in a cilantro sauce, all nodded to the chef's talent with the bounty of the sea.

The manager stopped by to say hello and her outfit caught the attention of those of us who like retro fashion. A tan suede jumper over a cream turtleneck with dark brown suede boots was not only mod and Fall-like, but reminded my friend of an outfit she'd had in 1967. For me, it looked like something I'd aspired to in junior high.

Either way, we sent her off with effusive compliments about the look, even if Fall dressing does depress me.

So. Many. Layers. And it's only October.

Once we got the bartender dishing on problematic customers. we heard about those who order outrageous cocktails ("I'll have a Grateful Dead") and then when the bartender asks what's in it, have no idea. "You don't know and you're ordering it?" he asks them incredulously. Nope.

Our most serious discussion involved the differences for his generation versus ours in terms of what's attainable, a conversation that included debating trade schools versus college and how out of reach what his parents strove for was for him as an adult. I was feeling his pain right up until he said he and his girlfriend make $95K between them and after that I just had to question their budgeting skills.

Let's put it this way, when I told him how much I make, his eyes about bugged out of his head.

But nibbling on chocolate cremeux, sipping Cremant from a second bottle and listening to techno music, I couldn't help but acknowledge that life, especially mine, is good.

One highlight of the evening came not from the bartender but from my girlfriend, who pulled out a Baggie with a selection of old photographs from her 1987 group trip to Paris that showed her as a young woman, along with her best friend and the art professor she was secretly pining for.

But personal history aside, what caught my eye was how arresting her photographs were simply because she has such an artistic eye. One taken from her room at the Hotel de Lima shows a neatly parked street, the quaint old buildings receding into the distance. The composition is so perfect it would sell as a postcard.

All I could see, though, was how very different the Paris of 1987 was from the Paris I saw for the first time in 2016. Her Paris had only a fraction of the cars and people and none of them were looking at phones.

Another showed the nearby skyline through the leaded outlines of a rose window at Notre Dame. But my favorite showed her on the roof of a building as she stood behind a massive stone gargoyle "scratching" its back, the city spread out before her with the Eiffel Tower looming in the distance. She's smiling optimistically like she's having the time of her life.

Little did she know it would be another 25 years before she found the love of her life. Fortunately, there's wine, garlic butter and oxygen to keep a girl occupied until that finally happens and she qualifies to board the Ark.

In the meantime, whatever works.

To Say and Do Whatever I Please

You want to spend a long holiday weekend in town? I'm your girl.

Make no mistake, if I'd gotten an invitation to the beach or river, I'd have been gone. But years gone by have also taught me the pleasures of staying in town when so many people are gone. Easy parking, half empty restaurants, leisurely pace. It's Richmond as a different animal.

Not to brag or anything, but if I'd been eager to show off the range of what Richmond has to offer, I'm not sure I could have done a finer job of doing so.

Friday night started at Hardywood for the Shangri-Lords, because a holiday weekend is best rung in with a man singing lead on girl group songs. Midway through their set, as I was admiring the matching go-go boots and stellar dance moves of the female back-up singers, a man approached me tentatively, saying, "Karen?"

Joe? That's how we wound up seated at a table with the former dean of VCU's art school and his wife, with both of the guys reveling in hearing the soundtrack of their youth. It was also, oddly enough, the second night in a row that I heard a cover of Leslie Gore's "You Don't Own Me."

C'mon, what are the chances?

Next came a stop at Carytown Gyro, which replaced Doner Kebab - a long-time fave of Mac's and mine - and while the chicken shawarma had good flavor, they don't make their own pita and the difference was disappointing. It was justa  few doors down to Garden Grove Brewing and Urban Winery for a couple of glasses of their Vidal Blanc/Chardonnay blend (which they don't bottle, an interesting side note) and a chance to enjoy the Brazilian music of Quatro na Bossa.

Unlike every other place this weekend, Garden Grove was mobbed with talkers who made hearing singer Laura Anne's beautiful voice challenging at best, so we left when the set ended. Who's so uncouth they talk loudly over such transcendent music anyway?

Saturday began with a pipeline walk before moving on to the ICA for artist Paul Rucker's talk about his exhibit, "Storm in the Time of Shelter," of colorfully patterned KKK robes and hoods and the array of lynching and anti-black memorabilia in the cases around the gallery. He was a forceful speaker on the topic of systemic and institutionalized racism, challenging the mostly white crowd on how well they knew their history.

Answer: rather poorly. But his talk was rich in commentary about the realities of race in this country circa 2018, just the kind of talk that makes white people uncomfortable. The kind of talk Mac and I seek out for that every reason.

We followed heavy talk with bagels at Nate's Bagels, notable because unlike every other visit, it was all but empty. But Nate was there and stopped to chat before heading home to his real family and leaving his bagel crew to carry on without him. And while they were out of everything bagels (holiday weekend, you know) we managed with one onion bagel and one rosemary and sea salt bagel instead.

On the plus side, I now know what something besides an everything bagel at Nate's tastes like. I've been called a creature of habit for good reason.

To fully embed a come-here into the myriad pleasures of Richmond, thrifting was also required. A stop at the Clothes Rack not only introduced a newcomer to its bargain pricing, but also provided a fitted summer wardrobe. Let's face it, we've got months of shorts-wearing weather left. The Hall Tree netted only a couple of shirts, but they were winners.

I like to remind people that recyclers do it over and over again.

Acacia offered proof positive that half the city was missing when we showed up at prime dinnertime and easily found stools at the bar, unheard of on a normal Saturday. We celebrated the first 24 hours of our extended play weekend with multiple glasses of Mimi Bulles Rose and an entire dinner (well, except for the chocolate cremeux) that had begun life in the sea: a salad of smoked salmon, cucumber, pickled onion, hard egg, radish and lettuces in a lemon dill vinaigrette, fresh caught rockfish over a luscious summer salad of heirloom tomatoes and greens in balsamic and shrimp, linguine and spinach in an obscene garlic butter sauce.

When we walked out, Cary Street was just this side of dead. On a Saturday night, mind you.

Come Sunday, we packed up an Ellwood Thompson picnic and headed to the mountains, namely King Family Winery, so that the newbie could see his first polo game. Situated under one of the few shade trees, we sipped King Family Viognier and watched riders taking their horses up and down the enormous field to score goals.

Only the obnoxious sound of an air horn marking the start and end of each chukka marred the idyllic setting at the foot of several mountains. By the time we broke camp, the staff was busy setting up for a wedding on the lawn and no doubt a glorious summer party afterward.

Polo-watching can be exhausting, which is why we only went two blocks for dinner. Tiny Victory, the colorful new Fillipino restaurant on Broad, welcomed us with a dish of shisito peppers, sweet corn on the cob, watermelon radishes and burnt honey.

Next came kinilaw of snapper with coconut, citrus and red onion, elevated with a thick shmear of avocado inside the bowl's edges. I swiped every bite of snapper with avocado as I brought it out of the bowl and then used the crispy shrimp chips to get the rest. We closed out the meal with pancit, a mixture of rice noodles, mushroom XO, Napa cabbage, spicy pickled carrot and crispy garlic that got raves from the healthy eater across from me. Me, I was already full from the first two courses.

Also, really glad to have a restaurant in that space again, given its proximity to my apartment.

Sunday meant a trip to the VMFA to see "Howardena Pindell: What Remains To Be Seen," a fascinating exhibition by a black, activist artist about whom we knew nothing. Located in two separate places in the museum, the show was enormous. Here was a woman who'd never been shy about exploring the intersection of racism, violence, feminism, slavery and exploitation since the '60s and doing it using unconventional materials like glitter, talcum powder, postcards and chads, in some cases, chads she'd taken the time to number.

Her attention to detail and the sheer amount of time her pieces took set her apart from other abstractionists of that era.

And while we'd gone to see her show, both of us were captivated by the small show of works on paper, "The Precisionist Impulse." Drawings, photographs, watercolors and prints, most - but not all - made between the World Wars showed a decidedly neo-Cubist bent and attraction to modern urban subjects such as architecture, infrastructure and mechanics.

When you talk about the benefits of a world-class museum in your home town (besides the absinthe drip upstairs at Amuse, still my favorite place to unwind at the VMFA), one of them has to be happening on a small, unexpected show (or work of art) that you hadn't come to see. It's like finding an extra Christmas gift tucked away once you start clearing out all the balled-up wrapping paper. Oh, look, something else for me?

Keeping to the theme started with Paul Rucker and continued through Howardena Pindell, "BlackkKlansman" seemed like a natural. Sure, I'd seen it, but I'd also left knowing I wanted to see it again, so here was my chance.

No surprise, Movieland wasn't the least bit crowded for a late afternoon Labor Day show, so when better for my partner-in-crime to see Spike Lee's latest? Much as I appreciated the film on many levels when Mac and I first saw it, I knew there was plenty I'd missed.

Not to mention plenty I wanted to see a second time, including that wonderful dance scene set to the Cornelius Brothers and Sister Rose's "Too Late to Turn Back Now." Thank you, Spike Lee, for allowing the scene to unfold languorously and not as a quick cut.

Walking out, a woman in front of me summed up her impressions. "Spike Lee always teaches you something, doesn't he?" Indeed he does.

Once out of the theater, we must have sat in the car for at least a quarter of an hour, talking about the film: how it had been made, how it must have begun shooting before the Charlottesville incidents that close out the film even happened, how much the film concerned prejudice against Jews as well as blacks.

We met the challenge of finding an open restaurant on Labor Day by heading directly to My Noodle, which was mobbed. Our table was all but on top of the table of the couple next to us, but we can ignore practically anyone with chopsticks flying into plates of broccoli and chicken in black bean sauce.

Back in the Ward, it was obvious that cars and their owners were back in the city, even if things were still a bit quiet. We figured everyone was hunkered down, gearing up for work or the upcoming school year.

Not us. Instead, we got settled on my balcony for a night devoted to listening to cover albums - "Bleeker Street: Greenwich Village in the '60s," Shawn Colvin's "Cover Girl" and "If I Were A Carpenter," a '90s take on the music of the Carpenters. Overhead, puffy little clouds stayed visible in the night sky and an occasional breeze rewarded us with reasons to linger.

And if this Labor Day weekend in town was about anything, it was about the lingering. Why go when staying is this pleasurable?

That's a rhetorical question, by the way.

I Don't Know, But I Been Told

Hey, hey, Mama, said the way you move
Gonna make you sweat, gonna make you groove

I have stopped working for the day. I've showered and the radio rewards me by playing a live version of Led Zeppelin's "Black Dog" recorded in 1973 at Madison Square Garden.

Outside, it's overcast because we're between showers for the fourth day in a row. I don't mind because it feels very beachy to me with constantly changing skies, winds and fronts. Walking the pipeline in a steady, warm rain made for a pretty wonderful morning.

The moment "Black Dog" comes on, though, I'm back in my high school cafeteria and it's blaring loudly from the jukebox. Because of course a school cafeteria had a jukebox in 1973. If I recall correctly, we didn't have a single lunch hour that it didn't get played - and, mind you, the song was already a couple years old then - but I never got tired of hearing it.

And while I didn't own a single Led Zeppelin album (still don't), I suggested to my then-boyfriend that we get tickets for their upcoming show at Alexandria Roller Rink. "Nah, they'll never be able to recreate their sound live," he said, dismissing my suggestion out of hand. I acquiesced because  I wasn't a big Led Zep fan, although I think the incongruity of a band like that at a roller rink spoke to me even then.

How could it not have been great/weird/awful/fascinating to experience?

While in college, I worked in a bookstore under a manager who was maybe a dozen years older than me. One slow evening, we got to talking about music and dancing. Both he and his wife loved to dance and still did so often, while my generation, he pointed out, didn't dance, we just stood around and listened to music.

Given the hard-rocking bands of the day - Yes, Jethro Tull, the Who - I'm not sure we had much choice. Dancing was uncool, old fashioned, stigmatized even.

But now that I heard "Black Dog" on the radio, I also know more about the song, namely that bassist John Paul Jones deliberately wrote it with a winding riff and complex rhythm changes so it could not be danced to.

And people question why disco had to come into being? C'mon, we were a generation starved for  music we could dance to. We took what we could get.

One thing that hasn't changed in the intervening decades is getting together to listen to records with friends. It was so commonplace in my youth that there are entire artists' catalogs I never bothered purchasing because so many of my friends owned them. Why buy Jackson Brown, Steely Dan or the Police when everyone I knew could play them for me?

Now when I go to listening parties, there's a good dinner first. Tonight's was at Acacia with Holmes and Beloved and a couple of bottles of Langlois Chateau Cremant de Loire Brut Rose (because, to quote Pru, "Why would we ever leave the Loire?"). When the sommelier opened the delicate and dry pink bubbles for us, he shared not only that it's a personal favorite of his, but that the vineyards are associated with Champagne Bollinger.

All I can say is, more, please.

The most amusing moment arrived when our young server came to open the second bottle. Unlike the first, which had been uncorked with barely a sigh, the second let off a resounding pop and from across the room, the sommelier raised his eyebrows at her noisy opening. "He's gonna kill me," she joked.

There are various ways to tell that we're smack in the middle of the summer - the absence of VCU students, the ease of parking - but none so clear cut as being in a half-full restaurant that is usually slammed every night they're open. I know, I know, everyone's at the ocean or the river, but for now we had to settle for eating from those places.

Beginning with Ruby Salt oysters and cucumber soup, we moved on to white anchovies made obscene with the richness of fourme d'ambert, pine nuts, grilled radicchio and romaine in a creamy garlic dressing. Beloved orders them every single time we go to Acacia and Holmes and I benefit by getting a taste or two out of her.

Neither of them could resist the siren song of Acaia's specialty, sauteed velvet softshells from Urbanna, served with asparagus, cream corn polenta and tomato bacon gravy, while I tucked into grilled mahi mahi accompanied by a mesclun salad loaded with heirloom tomatoes and goat cheese.

Over desserts of chocolate cremeaux with sea salt caramel ice cream and pound cake, they regaled me with highlights and photographs of their recent trip to Solomon's Island to celebrate Beloved's birthday. Just looking at the pictures, I could see how relaxed and happy they'd been to get away.

When we finally headed back to Holmes' hideaway, it was still early enough for a full-blown record listening party. Laying on the bar from a former evening was a square of paper with a handwritten message: "Scream now!" Neither Holmes nor Beloved recalled why it had been necessary to write such a message.

But he did make sure we knew that it was national tequila day before dropping the needle on Todd Rundgren's 1973 album, "A Wizard, A True Star." I love me some Todd.

When we do these listening parties, the starting artist is inevitably decided during the phone call between Holmes and me to set up the evening. In this case, when I called him, he answered the phone by saying, "This is Holmes," to which I responded, "Hello, it's me." Right away, we both know Todd Rundgren would launch the listening festivities.

We were soon far down a rabbit hole because on this album, he does a medley of Curtis Mayfield's "I'm So Proud," Smokey Robinson's "Ooh, Baby, Baby," the Delphonics' "La La Means I Love You" and "Cool Jerk," a song they knew but couldn't recall who'd originally done it. Don't look at me, I only knew the GoGos version from 1982's "Vacation"

Now that Holmes has softened his position on cell phones, Beloved is allowed to look things up if he deems it worthy of research. Turns out that a band called the Capitols had released it in 1966  on the - wait for it - Karen Records label. Who knew?

As much as we enjoyed Todd, where Holmes really bowled us over was with an album I hadn't even heard of: Joni Mitchell's "Miles of Aisle," a double live album from 1974 recorded when she toured behind "Court and Spark" (although there's only one C&S song on it) with the L.A. Express. Her voice was exquisite, not yet ruined by cigarettes, whiled the live versions offered new takes on classic songs. I wouldn't have thought I could like "Turn Me On, I'm a Radio" better live, but I was wrong.

"And this is just the songs that she'd written by 1974!" Holmes said incredulously.

I never owned any Joni Mitchell until a few years ago for the simple reason that I didn't need to. Everyone had Joni Mitchell when I was young and she got played a lot everywhere. What an innocent petunia I was. Only now do I realize that I must own all the Joni Mitchell.

Because sometimes I'm the one hosting the listening parties. And should you come across a note here or there, I can assure you it won't say, "Scream now!" Talk now?

Melodrama for Spinsters

"Maybe you should just become a lesbian."

I expected several things from my Wednesday night out with Pru - a nice dinner, an award-winning movie, Tootsie Rolls, plenty of girl talk - but not a suggestion that I switch teams.

We arrived at Acacia to find the bar full up, so we made do in chairs. "I know you prefer the bar, but this way we can talk face to face instead of side by side," she cajoled as we headed to a nearby table. The only problem with the table, we discovered, was that the server was tall and our seats were low, and frequently his questions and comments landed somewhere imperceptible over our heads.

Pru's poison of choice was a Monkey Shoulder ("Which is different than a monkey on your back, that's drugs," she joked) while I sipped a jewel-toned elixir of beet juice, sage and citrus that the barman had concocted for me after a request for something complicated yet sassy.

Yet again I succumbed to the bar menu, seduced by the market fish, tonight rockfish, and a stellar salad of mixed greens, matchsticks of Granny Smith apples, golden raisins and tons of cashews dressed in a celery seed vinaigrette that amplified the salad's flavors rather than drowning them in dressing. As always, the rockfish was cooked to perfection and a side of toothsome brussels sprouts finished out the meal.

It was over dinner that Pru again steered the conversation to my personal life, accusing me of flipping my priorities from what she'd last heard they were. As I reminded her, you don't know what you're willing to compromise on until you try and fail.

Responding to her suggestion that I try batting for the other team, I expressed reservations. "Oh, they have solutions for that!" she assured me. Like with so many other things, she has far more experience in certain arenas than I ever will.

And one of the arenas she'll let me mention is classic film. Appalled when I admitted that I'd never seen the Ingrid Bergman/Charles Boyer masterpiece "Gaslight," she immediately volunteered to join me for the Byrd's screening, part of their film noir series this month.

As I assured her, I know what the term "gaslighting" means, and even the source of the term, I just hadn't seen the actual film (based on a play) from which it had sprung. Thank heavens the Byrd is there to raise my cultural literacy as often as it does.

Given that there was a good-sized crowd there tonight, I'm betting that I wasn't the only "Gaslight" virgin in house. We slid into our seats moments before an Amazon-sized woman sat down directly in front of Pru, but we weren't shy about grabbing our popcorn and moving a few rows down in front of them.

Seeing Ingrid Bergman at 29 was especially compelling since I'd just seen her just last week in "Autumn Sonata," filmed when she was 63, and I don't care how beautiful you are (and she was) or how well you take care of yourself, there's a world of difference between how you look at those ages.

Add to that incredible beauty her Oscar-winning performance and it was a given that she was going to be part of the reason I was entranced by "Gaslight," with its moody lighting and shadowy cinematography. For obvious reasons, I didn't tell Pru, but my only frame of reference for Charles Boyer was an "I Love Lucy" episode, so I was unprepared for what he could convey with those hooded eyelids and apathetic looks.

I was totally caught up in the story when somebody's phone began ringing and finally the guy two rows in front of us silenced it but continued texting (ping! ping!), the phone's light sending up an obnoxious beacon to all of us around him. The guy sitting directly in front of us did his best to make him stop, exaggeratedly clearing his throat repeatedly, but the jerk took his time winding down his conversation.

To quote the Byrd's iconic litter promo, some people need parental guidance.

The movie ended so satisfyingly with the evil husband tied to a chair in the attic and our heroine toying with him like a mouse, brandishing a knife and showing him that two could play at being the psychological abuser. Nice twist for 1944.

We walked out talking about how it had taken me almost until the final scene to realize that the maid had been played by a very young Angela Lansbury, despite Pru having commented during the opening credits, "Oh! I forgot Angela Lansbury was in this."

Honestly, I didn't even recognize her. 

That failure on my part only made it more pathetic when we were walking out and I spotted a poster for an upcoming screening of "The Big Lebowski," mentioning oh-so casually that I'd never seen that, either.

Fortunately, I hear the Byrd has solutions for that, too.

Hot Blooded

It's not the heat, it's the sweat. Mine.

A person could be forgiven for seeking out conditioned air when it's 99 degrees outside and her apartment is 96. What I'm trying to say is, I felt no shame in starting my evening out at 4:00.

My date picked me up in his air conditioned car so we could drive to an air conditioned theater and spend two glorious hours watching a work of art in the guise of a true story/offbeat love story/artist biopic, shot beautifully in Nova Scotia.

Honestly, it was so immersive I forgot where I was until a noise in the row behind us jolted me, reminding me of my present reality.

"Maudie" was glorious in every way a film should be and, once again, we got no further than the car (a/c on, naturally) before we launched our film discussion.

We were two optimists discussing how one person with everything stacked against her remained so quietly happy and hopeful.

The cinematography was magnificent (who knew the four seasons in such a stark, northerly place could be so photogenic?), matched only by the stellar performances of Sally Hawkins as the arthritic and talented painter Maud and Ethan Hawk as her taciturn, cranky employer-turned-husband Everett.

I can't speak for my date, but I do know that one point I realized that tears were rolling down my face and I hadn't even had the presence of mind to know they were coming, I was that wrapped up in what was unfolding in front of me.

All I can say is, I'm so glad I had a voluble and non-cranky companion for the film so we could parse it together - the humor, the metaphors, the symbolism - for the rest of the evening.

Too often, I see something fabulous and don't know a soul with whom I can discuss it. Could that streak finally be broken?

But I'd also heard my date's stomach growling during a quiet moment in the theater and restaurants are air conditioned, too, so off we went to Acacia where a friend who once wrote a haiku about me was guest bartending for the night.

Driving over, we saw a digital thermometer reading 100 degrees.

Anticipating just such a thing, Acacia had earlier sent out an email to those in the know, stating that in honor of triple digit heat, all bottles of wine were half off. Now there's a brilliant strategy.

I'm going to guess that all the other couples at the bar had been notified as well, giving a party feel to a sticky evening.

After the barkeep asked what we'd be drinking, he followed the question with another. "Rose?"

My companion shrugged, saying he could do Rose or bubbles. Since it was too hot to make choices, we opted for a bottle of Paul Direder Frizzante Rose, thereby killing two (alcoholic) birds with one stone.

Only problem was we were accidentally poured flutes of Anton Bauer Rose first before the error was noted. "Think of it as the gift of an apperitif!" the haiku writer joked. Or a bonus round, depending on your point of view.

Our Frizzante Rose arrived just in time for our entrees: mine of succulent rockfish with a salad of lettuces, cherry tomatoes and goat cheese in balsamic, and his of pan-roasted chicken (with a fried chicken "tender" atop it), green beans that tasted like they'd been picked from the garden this morning and a mac and cheese gratin to die for.

Behind us, the restaurant had filled up, the techno music was pumping and we felt like we were sitting in the cat bird seats, happily content with everything that had landed in front of us. A restaurant owner and his wife showed up and took the stools next to us, the better to enlarge the party vibe and hear about what DJs were playing where tonight.

Because it's never too hot to eat dessert, we soldiered through a peanut butter ice cream sundae with hazelnut ganache and pretzel bark and a second bottle of pink bubbles while discussing some of our past travel destinations. He'd done Sicily, I'd done Italy. He'd been to Thailand while I'd gone to South Africa. How much we both enjoy the beach off-season.

Actually, we talked about a lot more than that, so much so that the restaurant had all but cleared out by the time Frizzante Rose Deux kicked the bucket and we were forced out of the air conditioned pleasures of Acacia.

So we glistened a little making our way to the next air conditioned destination. Mirroring Maudie's optimism, we didn't mind much. After all, it's summer and we're supposed to be hot.

I don't mind a little sweat if you don't.

What's Done Can Not Be Undone

Just another summer evening that begins with a fool and ends with a severed head.

If I were going to get technical about it, the day got off to a fine start with a walk to the pipeline where we found a rock, took off our shoes and socks and proceeded to immerse body parts in the river to cool off.

It continued when we walked to Chapel Island along the Low Line, a first for my intrepid walking companion, taking advantage of shade anywhere we could find it. I was surprised to see that part of the island is now fenced off, maybe for the amphitheater construction, but not at all to my liking.

We came back through a completely deserted Capital Square, past the Convention Center, which reeked of cigar smoke, which always reminds me of my Dad's fondness for them when we were young.

Tonight kicked off at Acacia where the front door was open, the crowd was sparse and the wine was Paul Direder Gruner Veltliner. The barkeep informed me of his upcoming plans and the server and I discussed favorite routes for his runs and my walks.

Teasing our palates first with plum gazpacho under creme fraiche and chives was a lovely cool way to commence the meal. Although it made no difference because I knew I'd order it anyway, I inquired about the market fish and when the bartender said it was cobia, my date also jumped on board since he'd never had it.

I try not to judge.

We'd barely finished the soup when two cobias showed up, each sharing the plate with a wickedly good salad of mixed lettuces, the sweetest of heirloom cherry tomatoes, goat cheese and balsamic. Acacia never disappoints with fish anything on their menu.

As if I hadn't already broadened his horizons plenty with plum gazpacho and cobia, I couldn't resist putting a little icing on the cake with chocolate cremeux with, that's right, strawberry fool, that ambrosia-like combination of fruit and heavy cream that makes arteries harden and taste buds orgasm.

That we enjoyed it with glasses of Banyuls (aka fortified grenache and a liquid love letter to chocolate) only ensured the cremeux got the star treatment and that the supposed non-dessert eater matched me spoonful for spoonful.

If I'd wanted him eating out of the palm of my hand, he was there. But I didn't, I wanted spirited company for seeing "Macbeth" at Agecroft and he delivered that and more. I supplied the fans to keep us cool.

We managed front row seats to a sold out show, the better to see the actors spit and sweat and get a close look at the spurting blood. It didn't hit me, but it splattered the woman sitting next to me, a transplanted Texan with ties to the theater world.

And unlike traditional Shakespeare where men played all the roles, male and female, here women played some of the men's roles and vice versa, a refreshing change-up. Why shouldn't a large, bearded man with a bit of a lisp play one of the three witches in palazzo pants?

Since it was not only my date's first time experiencing Agecroft's Tudor majesty, but his first time seeing a play there (ditto the Texan and her husband who said he'd bought the tickets because he was the spontaneous one), so I was just glad that all the usual dazzling elements were in place: sunset, fireflies, small plane flying overhead, frogs croaking and an intermission walk through the gardens with a view of the silver-blue river.

And once Macbeth is finally killed, who wouldn't be impressed to see his severed head brought back onstage and put on a stake, causing blood to spurt for a yard in every direction.

I'd known it wasn't going to be easy topping strawberry fool, but a play that ends like a GWAR show does a pretty terrific job at it.

It only goes to show what can happen under a thunder moon. Or at least some of what happens.

In Search of Adventure

I know where I'm going, so are you coming with me?

Pshaw, I don't let a little thing like my date canceling on me at the last minute to change my course at the French Film Festival.

Besides, within moments, I had a replacement and a mere hour later, he was picking me up on our way to Acacia for dinner at the bar with a view of the gorgeous blue skies outside.

Keeping solely to the bar menu - a personal favorite for its quality to price ratio - we had red pepper soup, oxtail ravioli (him) and tonight's market fish, rockfish, with a beet, goat cheese and mesclun salad (me) complemented by Riesling and a drink doing a fine job passing for an Orange Julius (look it up, kids) sans the creamy milk component and with the frisson of Lindera farms tumeric vinegar on the finish. Killer stuff.

Since it wasn't terribly busy yet, I engaged two favorite barkeeps in conversation about the unusual show we were seeing tonight, how gay events always get co-opted by straight people and why chili may be the perfect food.

After the dining room began filling up and after polishing off an obscenely rich Nutella/almond dacquoise with vanilla mousse, fresh strawberries and creme fraiche sorbet, we moseyed over to the Byrd Theater for the main event.

To my surprise, since I'd just been there the night before, there was now a raised platform looming over the center section of seats, so we took seats on the side. Five minutes later, we moved again because my seat was like an airplane seat permanently set on recline and, besides the person behind me hating me, it wasn't much of a prime viewing position.

Soon, an announcement was made that if you couldn't see both boxes - one with a harp, the other with a piano - as well as the entire screen, you should move. As a bonus, the balcony was open, so we headed there.

Neither of us could recall ever having watched a show from the Byrd's balcony, so this was one cherry we were popping together.

We sat down upstairs just as an announcement was made to put your phones away. "You'll have plenty of time for pictures later, but no phones during the show!" Meanwhile, the woman next to me was on hers and the guy in front of us was on his.

We moved again to escape their glaring screens, this time to the center of the balcony's back row and wound up with incredible seats. View-wise, it was especially cool because the projector platform downstairs appeared to be the front row of the balcony from where we now sat.

The Byrd's manager Todd explained that all the sounds we'd be hearing tonight accompanying the Magic lantern show would be analog sounds made by the Wurlitzer's instruments and noisemakers. Cuing organist Bob Gulledge, they took us through sounds of thunder, birds, even a train pulling out of the station.

Magic lanterns are a simple type of slide projector and the triple magic lantern we were seeing tonight had been made in 1887, although simpler models went back as far as 1659. If knowing that blew our minds, I can't imagine how it must have felt to a 17th century denizen watching projections for the first time.

Our black-clad narrator sat in the box with the piano, setting the scene with his descriptive voice and spot-on acting of various characters.

The show began with a primer on magic lanterns (fascinating) before moving on to the adventures of "Robinson Crusoe" as told by gorgeous, detailed colored slides. When Crusoe's boat set sail, we heard the sounds of the ocean. When he reached the frozen north and saw igloos (textbook grade-school type igloos that looked like they came in a kit), we heard the wind howl and saw falling snow.

When he got to the New World and saw Native Americans, we heard war whoops, horses galloping and fire crackling on the plains. In Italy, Vesuvius erupted with the sound of hot lava and thunder roared from storms at sea while we saw bolts of lightening appear and disappear on the slides.

And, throughout the story, the harpist played a beautiful accompaniment, causing my companion to note, "I'm going to hire her to play in my bedroom at night." We'll check back and see how he does with that.

And while most of the slides appeared to be painted, several of insects were real insects between glass and accompanied by the sound of bees buzzing. When our hero took on building a fence, we heard the sound of saw.

Really, it was a master class in the range of the Mighty Wurlitzer organ.

And while the story had a vintage feel, they were enough contemporary tangents - our hero grows pot and has terrible nightmares - both on the slides and in the narrator's commentary, to wink at the fourth wall and remind us it was 2017.

A smoke machine was followed by what the narrator called pure spectacle, some funny, some merely eye candy, like the changing geometric shapes and liquid gel effects that would have been at home at a psychedelic rock show. And if we were agog, the effect 200 or 300 years ago must have been startling.

All in all, a thoroughly groovy experience unlike anything either of us had experienced before. Walking out, we immediately decided on more stimulation, landing at Saison's bar for post-show discussion and cocktails in a room that was at full-pitch Saturday night energy levels.

And, oh, the discussions we had over-sharing with each other for the next few hours over drinks in fanciful tiki glasses. I do know he's the first person to ever describe me as erudite, impish and frugal in the same breath.

When over-planning kills magic, a last minute date can be the very best kind. Merci for the memories, French Film Festival.

Star Roving

The musical arc of my evening hit the spot.

There was that delicious moment when I was sitting in my car, parked on Cary Street near Acacia (where I wasn't due for another ten minutes), watching headlights reflecting off the rain on the windshield, while discovering the first single in two decades for a 27-year old shoegaze band I've never even heard of.

And shoegaze, as we all know, is just a fancy term for music-from-a-cave and we all know how much I love my cave music.

Even better, it's a hall of mirrors. Specifically, it's an aural pastiche, clearly rooted in first wave shoegaze, yet showing decades of additional influences - as if it were a bunch of millennials worshipfully aping their dream pop elders - except being executed by original practitioners. Brilliant.

How great is it when you start the evening being given the gift of a band unknown to you when you left home? Little pleasures.

At Acacia, where I'm greeted by a wine rep eating dinner to support his childhood buddy, another wine rep who's actually doing a mini-wine dinner there tonight, the sound is funkier with the likes of Brothers Johnson's "Strawberry Letter 23" and Al Green. It's just the right vibe for the mild, damp evening.

A bottle of Domaine Rolet Cremant de Jura Rose arrives shortly after Holmes does.

Over Ruby Salt oysters, fried oysters over southern slaw and white anchovies topping marinated radicchio, forume d'ambert, pine nuts and romaine, Holmes solicits drink-making advice and I dig for back story. Turns out the Philly-born bartender went to college where I was born (GWU) and lived four blocks from where I did in Dupont Circle.

Small world. Where we differ are in his stints in Portugal, NYC, Berlin and New Orleans, information that inexplicably caused Holmes to ask if he'd moved out of NOLA in the middle of the night.

"I did many things in the middle of the night," the barkeep said with a twinkle in his eye. When I expressed surprise on learning about his Big Easy residency, he assured me he came from Bounce City.

"Oh, I met my husband at a bounce," he assures me. The hostess, standing nearby, asked me, "Didn't you see him on the dance floor at the Elbys?"

Obviously not or I'd recall his bouncing, I feel certain.

The bar menu netted me a lobster burger on brioche roll and let's just pause for a moment - shall we? - and appreciate a restaurant with a bar menu where something that sublime - chunks of lobster lightly spiced and bound (crabcake-style), smeared with lemon herb aioli - is served up with celery root slaw and a fresh-tasting green salad like it's no big deal.

Let me assure you, it is.

Meanwhile Holmes took advantage of the bar menu's fried chicken along with a side of panko-crusted mac and cheese and the artist had pasta with little neck clams. Dark chocolate flan with coffee caramel and sea salt inflicted the final damage.

Although he'd threatened to end the evening after dessert, we all knew we were going back to his man cave to listen to records until somebody pulled the work-in-the-morning card.

Tonight's treat was listening to 45s. Hell, just looking at the sleeves - Prince, Pretenders from a Bond movie, Phil Collins - was a  fascinating look at his eclectic taste.

We began with Bowie's "Blue Jeans" on blue vinyl and when I inquired if it had cost more because of its color, he shrugged. "It didn't matter 'cause I wanted it." Playing "Ashes to Ashes," he reminisced about a Bowie show at the Scope in '75. "There were people in pastel suits everywhere," he says.

Imagine having seen Bowie in '75. I can't even.

Since he's been in Richmond his whole life, I always learn historical tidbits from him and tonight's was about Back Alley Discs, a record store on Strawberry Street where now a real estate company occupies the building by the alley.

I spot a list of restaurants and inquire its purpose, only to hear that he was playing cruise director and it was possible places to entertain 30 family members after his Mom died. Rowland. Peter Chang. Amici. Mekong. Can Can.

"We were drunk when we made that list," I'm told. Sometimes it's better not to ask.

It's hilarious when he puts on the Tornados' "Telstar," that's right, a sci-fi-themed Top 40 song, for crying out loud. Holmes loves his sci-fi. Every time I say I need to leave, he puts on another song to suck me in.

Temptation follows temptation, but I stay only through Jackson Browne's "Doctor My Eyes," not because I'm a long-time Jackson Browne fan but because I came very late to him and after a lifetime of avoiding his music, I can now appreciate it.

Not to mention that it's later than it seems.

Setting the Example

We decided we're like Sumatran tigers: near extinction but with a colorful past.

"We" are two oldest children, he the first of five spanning 13 years and me the first of six in 8 years. That kind of oldest child pressure changes a person in dozens of unseen ways that only reveal themselves with time and the proper situation.

Yet a fellow oldest can spot you at fifty paces and we'd done just that.

In order to compare first born notes, we settled in for dinner on the patio at Acacia, where it was warm, yes, but with enough of a dry breeze to hint at September's intent to hang around. We had the patio to ourselves until a threesome appeared and were seated right next to us.

The young couple of the trio sounded like recent come-heres, with all kinds of recently-acquired insider information for the older visiting relative based on the five months they've lived here.

"Around here, restaurants better be good or poof! in six months, they're gone. This is a foodie town and Richmond takes their restaurants seriously," she told the visitor with all the authority of a newcomer.

She turned out to be a bit less adept with the wine list, giving the table over to their more-than-capable server with explicit instructions: "We don't want sweet." It took some convincing for her to believe that the server understood the preference.

It was a different story once they'd been served their first Gruner Veltliner, as they crowed and exclaimed over how she'd served them the best wine of their lives.

Meanwhile over at our table, we were comparing notes on similar childhoods, at least as remembered by two put-upon oldest children.

He recalled his parents' parties where overflowing ashtrays and martinis were the norm while my (slightly younger) parents hosted mint julep parties (the mint grown in our side yard) where everyone played the Newlywed Game and gave dirty answers.

Both of us remembered parents who constantly encouraged us to read, but we were less sure whether they still did so with younger siblings, given that discipline definitely got slacker with the passage of time. My parents used to explain it away by saying they were just tired by the time they got around to raising the little ones, but his folks had given him the same line.

No fair, the child in me still thinks. Get over it and eat, the hungry adult insists.

As pointed out by nearly everyone who walked by, it was a gorgeous night to eat outside.

Because it read like a shopping list of things I love, I began with a salad of arugula, cantaloupe, skin-on peaches (sliced thinly enough that I could enjoy four slices without my mouth itching), barley (my current grain obsession), cashew and lots of red onion with a honey anise vinaigrette.

The lovely salad was just my justification to tear into a large pan-roasted rockfish collar with fried corn arepas and mounds of avocado salsa for richness (not that the collar meat itself wasn't plenty obscene), but what the dish also provided was a stepping off point for discussion of all the Friday nights of our childhoods where both our over-sized families ate fish for dinner because our Dads shared a love of fishing regularly.

I gotta be honest, it isn't often you talk to someone who recalls a family freezer full of their father's catches of the day and admits to the deep-seated fear of disappointing the parents that only an oldest child knows from birth.

Friendships have been started with far less.

All That Glitters is Not Gold, It's Heat

You know what the problem with tonight was? No eunuchs.

It's not like dinner at Acacia wasn't fabulous because when isn't dinner at Acacia fabulous?

My chilled cucumber/avocado soup with creme fraiche tasted clean as a cuke and creamy as an avocado. I'd rank my tile fish collar (probably my favorite part of the fish) over summer succotash with curry sauce as the star of the table (and the epitome of the chef's mad skills with seafood), except each of my table mates would probably have made a case for their soft shells, their wahoo and their crab cake.

Sipping a refreshing beverage of Lindera farms strawberry vinegar, honey, mint and soda, I was comfortably cool, but one at our table was feeling a tad flushed (despite her Anton Bauer Zweigelt Rose), hardly an unusual occurrence.

What we needed, she thought, was someone to stand on either side of her at the table with  palm frond fans. My suggestion was that they be shirtless, wear harem pants and include peacock feathers in the fans.

"That's what this restaurant is missing! Eunuchs!" she exclaimed, metaphorically smacking her forehead with the realization.

Consider that this was prior to an explanation by another friend of why I shouldn't go more than three days without showering and you have some idea of the scintillating dinner conversation we enjoyed.

Seems her research turned up the rather gruesome sequence of personal deterioration that would ensue sans bathing: the first day, sweat, the second, bacteria and the third, mold.

Growing on one's body, mind you.

I suppose the best news was that because we had theater tickets, we lacked the time for a proper linger over dessert and after-dinner drinks or god knows how much lower the conversation might have degenerated.

It was our take two for Quill Theater's "Merchant of Venice" at Agecroft after being sent home last weekend due to the arrival of thunderstorms. Fortunately, a look at the weather just before leaving home had assured me there was no chance of any rain or storm activity until 9:45.

With any luck, we were hoping the play, which began at 7:30, would be finished by then.

But fish not with this melancholy bait

Of all Shakespeare's plays, "Merchant" is surely one I've seen the least often and probably last as done by this same company when they were called Henley Street. The rarity of productions can undoubtedly be attributed to the play's problematic treatment of Jews, making for an easy analogy with treatment of other religious groups today.

Love is blind

From the opening scenes, the play was strong, in large part due to the uncompromising yet sympathetic portrayal of Shylock, the moneylender, by Matthew Radford Davies, a handsome Shakespeare professor at Mary Baldwin.

I think it's safe to say that his students must leave his tutelage well schooled in the mechanics of total character immersion. Simultaneously, he conveyed the years of persecution he'd endured and the effects of it in his now-merciless need for revenge.

We have friends who practice merriment

Completely compelling as the production was, the sweat factor - at intermission, the heat index still registered at 101 degrees - necessitated fans of the hand-held and battery-powered varieties and copious amounts of water in order to stay alive, forget about comfortable.

Once again, tragically, we were suffering from a lack of eunuchs.

Let not the sound of shallow foppery enter

In fact, at intermission, I was questioned on my ability to exist in my un-air-conditioned apartment given the heat dome that's dominated Richmond the past week and a half.

"Does anyone check on you?" one friend inquired. "If you mummified up there, who would find you? Would anyone even know you were gone?" Negative.

Madame, you have bereft me of all words

Probably the most moving moment of the evening happened when Shylock gave his "I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions?" speech, which took place under a sky being lit up by lightening and which competed with the rumble of a train along the riverfront.

I never knew so young a body with so old a head

Now, here's the kicker.

We got through the trial scene, albeit uncomfortably watching Shylock ridiculed for and then stripped of his faith, money and dignity, before the house manager came out and insisted we go inside Agecroft to stay safe from the impending storm.

The time was, it should be noted, 9:48. Kudos, weather.com.

A straw vote settled the matter for our quartet and we headed directly to the car. Those not acclimated to heat (that would be everyone but me) had long been miserable and had no intention of waiting 15 minutes to determine if the play would be continued.

Besides, all we'd miss would be the so-called happy ending - reunited lovers, unexpected inheritances and ships coming in - and, if I'm honest, while I'd have loved to see the last bit, I was ready for some rain relief, too.

You know, in hopes I won't be mummified tonight. No eunuchs, sadly.

If I Only Had a Brain

It makes me more than a little sad to turn the calendar to September. I did it today, but I didn't like it.

Despite memories that include the bicentennial and disco, my face still occasionally breaks out with a typically teenage monster zit, a reality I accept and no longer question. Or bemoan.

The perfect lifetime reading list alternates fiction and non-fiction and always allows for short stories when more immediate gratification is needed.

Most nights, I get 8 1/2 to 9 hours of sleep, a fact for which I make no apologies.

Acacia is as constant as the northern star and I have yet to be disappointed with a meal there, including tonight's of ceviche and avocado followed by steamed pork belly buns. My friend's pork shank looked like a Fred Flintstone snack, meaty and enormous.

I don't hear my name said to me by anyone as often as I'd like.

That moment when the lights go down, just before the band I want to see comes onstage, gives me the same thrill now that it did when I was 16.

My whole life might have been different person had I not been born with an outgoing personality, dimples and good legs. Fact.

Two things make me feel like anything is possible: the colors and light of late afternoon at the beach on a sunny summer day and the smell of lilacs in spring.

A friend tells me at dinner tonight, "I wish I'd figured out who I was and what I wanted sooner than I did." She muses about when it was that she got "old" and wonders how she'd not realized.

Are we supposed to? Discuss.

Rose Rumble

Every minute of the rest of your life has been scheduled for you - and it's a long series of arbitrary, solitary tasks.

That's the definition of hell, also known as what would psychologically destroy an ENFP, a personality group to which I belong, at least according to Myers Briggs. And it's pretty much spot on.

Friends joke about my "prehistoric Blackberry," also known as my date book, because they know it contains jottings about events and plans as soon as tomorrow and as far away as months from now. But make no mistake, there are plenty of blank spaces.

I like it that way.

Last minute offers come up, plans change and sometimes, just sometimes, I get an offer I don't want to refuse. Hence the built-in availability.

I know I'm not the most responsible adult you'll ever meet. And even if I didn't, it's been pointed out to me.

My strengths are a good attitude, a way with people and my pleasure in being a good audience. Some nights, I get complimented on my dancer-like attire, my confidence and my ability to corral human stock and that's enough.

Most intriguing comment overheard at Amuse: "I was wondering who that was touching my butt."

Best thing I put in my mouth at Acacia: fried sugar toads over an incredible charred corn relish.

Most unexpected words from a stranger sipping a beer at Cask: "You've got a way of making people pay attention to you."

Secco yielded a charming new couple who told me Glaswegian jokes and friended me before I even got home, a scientist in a pink shirt who asked if I'd be wearing heels when we went out (a subject we did not discuss) and a young woman who wants me to teach her how to sew on a button (so she can stop throwing button-less shirts away).

More than one person raved about my wrangling skills. You should have seen me marching them down the Boulevard and Cary Street like a champ. Did I mention I have five younger sisters whom I've been wrangling since I was a toddler?

Thanks to strangers and friends alike, the 2015 Rose crawl, my fifth, was a blast. Just don't expect me to repeat myself again anytime soon.

Unless you're talking about drinking Rose. Solitary, even, sometimes.

Bon Appetit

One must follow food porn with actual food, n'est-ce pas?

Showing at UR's International Film Fest tonight was the French bio-pic "Haute Cuisine" based on the memoir of Daniele Delpeuch, who served as private chef to French president Mitterrand.

When I invited my favorite Francophile to join me, she informed me that she'd already seen it on Netflix (not that watching a movie at home in any way compares to seeing it on the big screen, but I digress). She wavered, saying that it had been a charming film, so I sweetened the pot by suggesting that we go out for a bite afterwards and she climbed on board.

As many times as I've been to UR for their weekly screenings, tonight's crowd was by far the largest I'd ever seen. We took seats in front of three women, one of whom I knew, and we were all soon relating about short grandmothers (not one of us five had had one who'd been over 5' tall) and the inevitability of tall men sitting in front of us at theaters.

Mid-conversation, three men clambered over us and sat down to my right, effectively doing exactly what we'd been discussing to the women behind us. When I turned around in empathy, the three burst out laughing.

"Are you in some sort of ladies' club?" the man next to me inquired quite seriously. You mean like the She-Ra Man Hater's Club? No, sir, I'm not.

Usually the film is introduced by a professor who provides a bit of background and suggests elements to watch for, but tonight a different man greeted us, joking, "Tonight's French film didn't arrive, so we're going to show an Italian horror movie."

It wouldn't have mattered since obviously the predominantly female audience had nothing better to do on a Friday night than watch a mature French woman effortlessly cook meals for the President of the Republic. Being French, she couldn't help but do it with perfect make-up, lots of jewelry and impossibly soigne ensembles under her simple (but chic) black apron.

As if we didn't already know French women are different than us, watching the lovely 58-year old actress Catherine Frot with her flawless skin, impeccable posture and cheekbones to die for was a solid reminder that however they do it - all that wine and foie gras, high heels worn everywhere (including the kitchen) - we should be emulating it from birth.

"Haute Cuisine" fits solidly into the food movie trend of the past few years with mouth-watering shots of edibles being prepared, plated and served. Because this one was also French, there were just as many sexy shots of ingredients like truffles, cep mushrooms and Savoy cabbage to titillate the audience.

But the most satisfying part of it all was that she wasn't preparing fancy food for the Prez. He'd hired her because he wanted a woman to cook the rustic dishes of his youth, the kind of dishes his grandmother used to make. The chef even uses vintage cookbooks to seek out era-appropriate inspiration.

The movie's drama arrives courtesy of the large staff of the all-male main kitchen who resent the presence of a woman in their historically male domain, even though she's in a separate, smaller kitchen. Chauvinism and bad behavior are rampant. Still, she perseveres right up until bureaucrats try to control what she cooks for the sake of the president's health.

Lesson #1: never tell a French chef she can't cook with butter and cream or she'll resign and take a job in Antarctica where lonely men on a base appreciate her cream puffs cooking. The end.

When the lights came up, the first words out of my friend's mouth were, "That's a movie that'll make you hungry." Not having eaten since lunch was every bit as effective for me.

My plan was to go to Acacia to check out their late night bar menu but the sleek bar was full up, so the hostess graciously put us at a small nearby table with bar menus. Overhead, middle eastern techno pulsed out the beat of a Friday night.

We debated the appeal of drinking Rose in the winter (not a problem for me), something she resists despite drinking white wine during cold months. Makes no sense to me. After my ruby red glass of Tavel Chateau d'Aqueria Rose arrived, we considered the menu which was heavy on fish.

Leave it to Acacia to do a bar menu that's more Acacia-like than bar-like. I chose fish tacos after hearing that they were made with fresh flounder. Two fat tacos stuffed with fish and jalapeno slaw boasted plate mates of fresh guacamole and recently-fried tortilla chips with a pretty little mesclun salad on the side.

It may have read as a snack but was most certainly more of a meal. After watching a movie about the pleasures of food, it would have been completely unsatisfying to have noshed on average food afterwards. Even she had to admit that her lobster bisque was the perfect decadence to put a period at the end of a story about a French kitchen.

And not just any kitchen, but one where a middle-aged woman stole the show with her unflappable demeanor, peasant cooking and devotion to fresh ingredients.

Much as I enjoyed the movie, I admit I'm not inspired to cook any more often because of it. That's what chefs are for.

On the other hand, I am rethinking how often I put on heels and go shopping at the farmer's market. Ineffable French style has to start somewhere.