A Summer State of Mind

And just like that, my summer has (unofficially) arrived.

I say that not because of the marathon birthday celebration that lasted all last week featuring stellar meals at Dinamo, Lemaire and Metzger, although it was a fine excuse to debut some of my newest thrift store summer dresses and pack away the leggings until Halloween.

For that matter, surely I could be forgiven for designating this year's first visit to Quirk's rooftop - with posse in tow, several of whom had yet to experience the beauty of Jackson Ward laid out before them from on high - as the kickoff to the most wonderful time of the year, but it wasn't.

And I don't say that my favorite season is upon us because of spending a day last week on the Outer Banks, despite the pleasures of a crabcake sandwich lunch at Frog Island Seafood, a cookout in the backyard of a soundfront cottage and the distinct pleasure of a major first: riding bikes from sound to ocean.

Technically, I could even make a case for the commencement of summer as the first night that required not only open windows (they've been the norm since April) but the additional machinations of the ceiling fan, the table fan and the upright fan, all wafting moving air directly at my bed. But I won't do that.

Another worthy indicator might be the hissing of the sprinkler saturating the continuous waves of flowers - heirloom roses, Asian lilies, Gerbera daisies, dianthus, petunias, clematis, pincushion flowers - in my little front garden. It seems like every time I'm down there moving the sprinkler, a stranger walks by and smilingly tells me some version of, "I love looking at your flowers." A woman with a toddler in a stroller has walked by repeatedly, explaining that she made my block part of her route solely so they can enjoy my garden.

No question, I could say that attending my first Sundown at Scuffletown show earlier this week qualifies as some sort of musical announcement that summer is here. The dusky interludes are one those established things (this is, what, the sixth year now?) I continue to do that never get old because the best things never do. It doesn't hurt that I always run into familiar faces, either.

As new to me as my latest summer dresses, the Billy Bacci Band - keys, guitar, bass and drums - delivered a solid set of keyboard-based indie music as the sun set behind the trees. Even Billy seemed thrilled with the outdoor venue, noting, "This is the best gig ever because I live a block from here!" But is my first outdoor show this year worthy of being the harbinger of summer's arrival? I think not.

What did make it feel like summer without a doubt was - wait for it - Mac and I finally being able to walk the Pipeline.

That it occurred on my birthday only made it all the sweeter. Uncharacteristically, we hadn't been able to get on the pipeline since last October, despite regularly attempting to do so only to find it submerged. Thanks to a record-setting soggy 2018, the pipeline has been partially or mostly underwater for months, depriving Mac and I of our favorite daily walk.

All I know is that as of May 23, the pipeline was back and we could experience the particular pleasures, both sight and sound, of walking on water again. Which means as far as I'm concerned, my season is here.

Let the hot fun in the summertime begin.

Porch After Dark

Today's glorious warmth translated to the first screened porch report of 2019.

Pru's birthday is Tuesday, but Beau is away on business all week. But since birthdays are a serious gift-giving occasion at the manse, Beau had organized an impromptu gift opening session followed by a simple supper prepared by the birthday girl-to-be.

I'd spent the warm afternoon at a Theater Alliance Panel meeting in the east end, discussing the first half of the theatrical season with my cohorts, a meandering discussion that addressed many things, including the anachronisms of a play set in 1940. A character in the play had been a repeat sneezer who had sneezed into her elbow every time.

As several of the critics had pointed out, no one in 1940 sneezed that way.

The funny part was that, until our discussion, the younger members of the panel had no idea that there'd ever been another way to deal with a sneeze other than projecting it into your elbow.

The times they have a-changed.

I'd barely gotten back from the meeting when I was summoned to the manse for the festivities. And while it was a low key affair in anticipation of the upcoming birthday and the blowout birthday dinner scheduled, any event that leads off with Roderer Brut is a celebration to me.

Even Beau, who's not usually a bubbly fan, had to admit that he liked it and that rarely happens.

I'm not the gift-giving pro that Pru and Beau are, but I'd brought a present nonetheless. Mr. Wright had taken a wonderful photo of the happy couple at Bar Solita - with him laughing heartily and her glancing at him with a knowing smile  - which had been blown up and suitably framed to fit the manse's decor.

But it was one of Beau's gifts that got Pru most excited: a new iPad. Like a kid with a new toy on Christmas morning, she oohed and aahed before peeling off the protective film and trying to figure out how to turn it on. When it turned out that all she had to do to transfer everything on her phone to her tablet was put them in proximity, everyone was dazzled by technology.

My first thought was, I guess setting up an iPad for me would be a bit more labor intensive given my lack of a cell phone.

As her phone told her what to do, we had a front row seat for the process. Eventually, she picked up the iPad and began preening - or at least that's what it looked like from where I sat - looking at herself in the tablet's screen, turning her head left and right and smiling. Then she did it again.

Silly me, the iPad was actually scanning her face from every angle, the better to recognize her. After all, no one wants their technology to be a stranger.

After a lovely supper of beef cubes in au jus, an array of roasted vegetables so good everyone raved repeatedly and a bowl of butter beans procured last summer on the Outer Banks (I love a hostess who plans ahead), we adjourned to the screened porch for the 2019 initiation of the recently redesigned space.

Another of my gifts, two metal candle stands resembling trailing ivy plants, had found a home out there since I'd given them to her at Christmas. Furniture had been rearranged for better conversation acoustics and everything looked fresh and ready for another season of porch parties.

Let the Roderer flow.

Pru regaled us with a story about being sent away to camp, where she was appalled to learn that she was expected to kayak and swim. Instead, she used the camp phone to notify a friend who promptly had her mother drive out to rescue Pru from lanyard-making and group hikes.

Some people are born with nerve, others have to acquire it.

Another of her anecdotes involved the teen-aged Pru zipping around the island on her Peugeot motorbike while on vacation at the family home in Bermuda. Seems she'd had her first bowl of chilled soup - cantaloupe, she recalled - upstairs at Trimingham's, a department store with a cafe on the second floor.

It was about then that Beau deadpanned, "When I was that age, I was going to Indian Acres." Without having any idea what Indian Acres was, I laughed out loud. When he clarified that it was a campground in Stafford County, I laughed harder.

Not all of us have the cosmopolitan teenage life experience Pru did. I know I never spent entire days with my uncle and his best friend Hot Dog sipping alcohol or smoking pot. Ah, youth in Bermuda.

Meanwhile, Beau polled the group about things worth seeing near Jonesboro, Arkansas, which is where he's headed all week. Since Memphis is only an hour away and I've been there, I could at least speak to some good spots there - Gus' Fried Chicken, the Beauty Shop Restaurant, the Absinthe Room - beyond the obvious: Sun Studio, the Rock and Soul Museum and if you're into it, Graceland.

Granted, I was that rare Memphis visitor with no need to see Elvis' digs, but to each his own.

Although Beau had requested that the porch heater be put on, it was a surprisingly comfortable evening to be outside until 11:00 or so. When I finally got up to leave, it was only because Beau had a morning flight out and I felt sure Pru wanted to climb into bed and play with her new toy.

Besides, the Roderer was all gone and no civilized porch party is dry. This isn't Indian Acres, after all.

Sunday Morning Coming Down

I wouldn't want to brag about being a good daughter.

Okay, I wouldn't ordinarily, but who else but a very good daughter would go to dinner at a place that has Tr*mp wines on the wine list?

Not to mention that I'd just gone to the Northern Neck on Wednesday to make lunch for my Dad on the occasion of his actual 87th birthday, so it's not like I was looking to score points or anything.

Daughterly duties done, that lunch might have been enough for some offspring.

But while we were in Islamorada, I'd gotten an invitation to Dad's birthday dinner and the 26th of January seemed forever away and my brain was probably somewhat softened by all that sun and relaxing, so I'd casually mentioned it to Mr. Wright and he'd agreed.

It probably didn't hurt that he and my father have a mutual admiration thing going, but his brain may have been a tad vacation-compromised, too. An acceptance was sent.

So there we were, driving to the Northern Neck Saturday afternoon, allowing enough time to get ready and have a glass of wine in Irvington before setting out to meet an abbreviated version of the family (including the only sister and brother-in-law he'd yet to meet), meaning only eight people for dinner at the Kilmarnock Inn.

Although I've been to the Inn plenty of times, I'd never noticed the political slant of the menu before. I'm talking about a menu with the title "Filibusters at the Kilmarnock Inn," that then moves on to "Starters for the First Term" (and second term) and includes such entrees as the POTUS platter (filet mignon) and the Presidential Running Mate (NY strip).

Refusing to be part of that nonsense, I instead opted for seafood wontons followed by a salad of greens, craisins, Feta, olives and pecans, then flatbread with wilted arugula, marinated tomatoes, goat cheese and bacon.

Not a partisan opinion in sight.

But no self-respecting liberal wants to open up her wine list and see, not one, but two, Tr*mp Winery options staring back at her. Goodness knows, I remember all the yard signs in this neck of the woods back during the election cycle, so I knew I was a stranger in a strange land, but the decision to offer those bottles can't possibly sit well with every Inn visitor.

So I have to assume management are idiots.

Eager to share my disdain with the choice, I discretely pointed out the wines, first to Mr. Wright and then to Dad, both of whom made their opinion of the inclusion obvious in their return looks. My discretion was necessary because one sister and her husband are of a different political affiliation than my parents and me and I wasn't looking to start any discussion on that subject.

Instead, a lot of the evening's conversation involved travel. Seems the absent Sister #5 and her husband are about to take a river cruise through Europe, although no one seemed quite sure of where they were leaving from or going to. Sister #3 regaled us with a laundry list of Italian cities she and her husband have been to, while lamenting not having decided which one they want to retire to.

When talk turned to sports and the topic of ballparks, a mention of me - the least sports-inclined of my Dad's six daughters - having been to Wrigley Field caused Sister #4 to say to her husband that it would be a good one for them to visit.

Even an athletic failure like me knows that, as ballparks go, I got to see a game at one of the best.

In typical Sister #3 fashion, once she realized the depth of Mr. Wright's sports knowledge, she wasted no time in bluntly asking him what he was doing with me.

Ah, sisters. Can't live with 'em, can't kill 'em.

The second problem with the Kilmarnock Inn, after its wine-buying habits, is that it's located in Kilmarnock, where they roll up the sidewalks by 9:00 on a Saturday night. We'd barely finished our desserts when we were informed that they'd finished up everything they needed to do and were closing up for the night.

Translation: we needed to clear out.

Fortunately, two of the couples were staying at the inn, so we all adjourned to the gathering room, a euphemism for a good-sized room located near the inn's cottages with a TV, a pool table and leather library chairs for lounging. Bottles of red and white wine helped keep the party going once it was decided that shooting pool was in order.

Luckily, as the two least coordinated (but best read, I might add) sisters, Sister #4 and I immediately settled into chairs to chat while the ultra competitive Sister #3 teamed up with her husband and challenged Mr. Wright and Brother-in-law #4 to a game.

Little did she realize that you don't challenge Buffalo and Chicago natives to pick up a cue without expecting that they've spent some time in a few pool halls. Even after what Brother-in-law #4 referred to as "giving them a shellacking," Sister #3 continued to insist on additional games.

Meanwhile, Sister #4 and I, comfortably sipping Grillo on the sidelines, were also learning about hidden billiards talents in our partners. I can still use the excuse of newness, but they've been together for 30 years, so you'd think pool would have come up before now.

Eventually, the victors refused to shellac the losers even one more time and we left the inn to recover from family time those who were sleeping there.

We'd opted out of brunch with the clan so that we could have a leisurely Sunday, eventually landing at the library to hear Richmond Times Dispatch columnist Bill Lohmann talk about his book, "Doctor Copter" about the physician who'd made weekly treks to Tangier Island to provide medical care.

For us, it was a rare cultural activity on one of our Irvington weekends, but to locals, it was like the second coming. Attendees not only filled the large room where Bill spoke, but also another room downstairs where they'd decided to broadcast his talk to accommodate the overflow crowd.

I'm sure a big part of the appeal was the Northern Neck/Tangier connection - many of the original settlers in my parents' village came from Tangier - because the doctor flew out of Whitestone in the early years and later Topping. That said, Mr. Wright posited that it was a function of being held after church let out, being a free event and, probably most important of all, that local women make cookies which are then served to attendees after the lecture.

What more could a curious Northern Necker want on a Sunday afternoon?

I don't know about what else those people might have wanted, but we closed out the weekend at Merroir, sitting on the porch for a change because of the temperature. A couple and their dog were the sole occupants of the outdoor seating but even they eventually caved and put Rover in the car so they could dine in warmth.

Meanwhile, the porch provided everything we wanted: a view of the water, a bottle of Hugl Gruner Veltliner and a platter of Old Saltes to get the party started. After the Ruby Salts I'd had at Perch and the gigantic Apalachicola ones I'd slurped in Isalmorada, I needed a palate correction back to what a truly briny oyster should taste like and Old Saltes never disappoint.

But we'd come, not just to chow down, but to talk and Mr. Wright's rockfish under caramelized onions and my fishcake over mixed greens provided the fuel to do a post-vacation look back while considering next year's winter getaway possibilities.

He likes to say that there's an awful lot of thinking and talking that goes with this relationship, while I'm convinced it's really just a whole lot of planning and executing.

Not that I'm complaining.

Well, except when it comes to businesses foolish enough to serve wines labeled with the name of the man attempting to destroy the American democratic experiment.

Can't we just give him a shellacking and be done with it?

Trust Me, It's a Booster Shot

It was exactly the right day to spend with the men in my life.

Because today is my Dad's 87th birthday, I'd offered to motor to the Northern Neck and bring lunch, but only after asking what he wanted for his celebratory meal. To my surprise, the request was for a Cobb salad.

Unlikely as it sounds, can do.

The drive out was easy enough and once there, I set about making my Dad's idea of a birthday cake: lemon meringue pie. It should probably be noted that it's been a couple decades since I last made one. But I jumped in, baking the crust, stirring and boiling the filling and whipping the egg whites to make a generous meringue to be browned in the oven.

All the while my Mom is trying to convince me that, like her other five daughters, I'm a wonderful cook who has simply opted out of cooking lately.

I let her keep her delusions.

In between steps, I chat up Dad about his thoughts on the Rams, an innocuous question that led me down a rabbit hole involving Sean McVay, Jon Gruden and the ignorance of Dan Snyder. So, in other words, just another family sports discussion.

And let's not forget that I have zero interest in sports to start and was merely making conversation.

Then there's my Mom who has zero interest in cooking or new foods. As we were eating the salad, she forked up a bit of avocado and commented innocently, "This is the first time I've ever had avocado." Not at all surprised (she refused to serve us butter beans or beets during our childhood because she hated them), I asked what she thought of it. "Doesn't taste like much and that color is so unappealing," she said.

It's amazing that I sprung from her boring culinary loins.

Fortunately, my Dad's love of oysters, soft shell crabs and anchovies was enough to motivate my palate and keep the fire alive even as she attempted to raise another bland eater like herself.

We even had a little Prosecco with lunch, the better to toast Dad's longevity - "To the first two major women in your adult life!" was the best I could do - and continued good humor, despite a complete disgust with the current state of U.S. affairs. I am comforted knowing he intends to outlive the current leader of the free world solely so that he can see how the history books treat him.

I've got to give him credit for even bothering to care after all these years.

It was the oddest weather today because when I left Mom and Dad's, it was ridiculously warmer than when I'd arrived and forecast to be warmer still by this evening. I know my science knowledge is sketchy at best, but I still I can't quite figure out how it was 9 degrees on Monday and 60 degrees today.

I'm not complaining, either.

Once I was back in J-Ward, my evening was given over to Mr. Wright after he'd asked me on a last minute dinner date. Although our intention had been to get through a very busy week for both of us before reconvening post-vacation, he'd decided he needed a little company to tide him over until the weekend.

Amazing the effects it has on a person when they breathe the same air while at the oceanfront.

The night felt soft and warm when we strolled over to Bar Solita to catch up on each other's adjustment back to reality. Once we had a bottle of Laurent Miguel Grenache Blanc on the table, it began to feel like vacation again, minus the ocean flats and shorts.

Despite the absence of salty breezes, we ate like were were still beach hungry, downing a basil pesto pizza, orzo salad and grilled asparagus like we'd been out soaking up sun all afternoon instead of working hard at our desks.

Because apparently old beach appetites die hard.

Behind our booth, a familiar face popped up, although it took me a hot second to recognize the handsome server who'd shorn his shoulder length mane to a dashing short cut that made him just this side of unrecognizable. Still, it was great to see his smiling face and learn that he's roosted at my neighborhood joint.

We were looking at the rain on the streets outside the window when our server stopped by to check on our interest in dessert. In what can only be attributed to lingering vacation mode, Mr. Wright requested some Oreo gelato with absolutely no suggestion from me.

On the other hand, if a 50 degree January night isn't as good a reason as any to be eating ice cream with your vacation partner, I don't know what is.

But you can be sure I'd find a way to justify anything to extend this vacation hangover. To quote Miss Diana Ross, "If there's a cure for this, I don't want it. If there's a remedy, I'll run from it."

Besides, if I can drive to the river, bake a pie and still find time to bask in the recent past, there's no cure in order. Just allow me to wallow in it a bit longer.

Spoken as only the daughter of a very satisfied 87-year old man can.

Catch the Wind

'Tis the season to be running around like a chicken with its head cut off.

But it's also a reminder of reason #894 why I love city living. Because when I have a 6:00 pickup and it's 5:35 before I realize my mistake, I can walk a mere two blocks to get the birthday card I forgot to get because Holiday Life.

As an added bonus, a woman checks out my legs at Rite-Aid and observes, "Cute tights, leggings, whatever they are." When I share that they're actually stockings, she's even more impressed.

Meanwhile, when Mr. Wright shows up, I am ready, card in hand, to head to the Tavern and Holmes' birthday dinner. Since I'm not a West End kind of a girl, I am completely unprepared for the hordes occupying nearly every table at the restaurant on a Sunday night. When the hostess asks if we want a table for two, I explain that we're there for Holmes' party.

A look crosses her face and she smiles knowingly. Holmes is a regular at the Tavern and well known by the entire staff. "It's that big table in the back," she tells us and takes off.

After much confusion and pointing at seats, it becomes clear that the pastiche of tables and banquette that has been put together is inadequate for the size of the birthday party and another table is brought in. The table's configuration resembles an amoeba, with odd-shaped offshoots.

When we finally sit down at the corner of the madness, conversation with Holmes' extensive family begins in earnest.

The woman next to me remembers me from one of these dinners a few years ago, even recalling what I do and who I write for. The gregarious brother  and old hippie who'd been down at the beach when I was visiting Holmes last summer waves and says, "Hi, beach buddy!"

But where we score the jackpot is with the woman seated next to Mr. Wright, a spitfire of a woman who lives in Annapolis and had the energy and enthusiasm of a 20-something along with a lifetime of stories to share.

One of the more fascinating facts gleaned over the next couple hours was that Newfoundland is pronounced new-found-land and not new-fund-land, as I've always heard, leading us to the subject of travel.

Turns out her son designs cruises for a cruise ship line and he's frequently designing custom cruises for her, so she's been everywhere, And don't even get her started about her disappointment that her Canadian cruise didn't go as far as the Bay of Fundy.

Besides a love of travel, where we found common ground was our shared distaste for shopping. Her entire wardrobe came from a dying Korean woman she knew who was her exact size and invited her to come peruse her closets and take everything she wanted before the Grim Reaper arrived.

"I had to go buy a big, used suitcase from the thrift store just to bring it all home!" she said. When the woman's aunt died, she got all her clothes, too, including a black velvet gown with lace cuffs and collar that she'd worn to many a gala event.

Truly, this woman was my spirit animal.

She told us about a trip to Florence where she spotted a painting in a shop window and uncharacteristically told her husband (a technological adviser to multiple admirals) she wanted it. After doing some calculations in his head to convert the price to dollars, he asked if she coveted it enough to pay for it out of her grocery money. When she said yes, he asked, "Your grocery money for how many years?"

Nope, not that willing.

Only then did she realize it wasn't a painting but a mosaic, which only made it more beautiful to her, but she was also sensible enough to realize it was just too expensive.

We heard about the 14-mile bike ride she took in Germany after years of not being on a bike. Asking about our plans, she shared how much she liked Portugal and the tapas in Spain. Then there was the time in the '80s when she and the Officers' Wives Club stationed in Heidelberg toured the Gucci factory, each of them leaving with a new Gucci bag and a Gucci belt buckle for their husbands.

Score.

How in China, the wives were served only one beer when drinking at a bar and how every bottled Coke had a different taste, leading the wives to conclude that they were concocting pseudo-Cokes in the back room and pouring them into Coke bottles.

The woman was a font of stories about Greece, Barbados and the bogs of Ireland, a country that appealed to her for its food, music and scenery.

As many trips as Mr. Wright has under his belt, he couldn't begin to compete with a woman who can boast of traveling to Estonia and Newfoundland.

As for her souvenir advice? "Refrigerator magnets! They don't take up room and they look great on your fridge." Spoken like a woman who's learned that memories are the best reminders of life adventures.

Her company was so charming and her enthusiasm for life so engaging, it wouldn't have mattered if the food had been bad, but it wasn't.

My crabcakes got high points for the lack of filler and that they were griddled, not fried, while the toothsome vegetable melange of carrots, green beans and onions accompanying the crab was perfectly cooked and seasoned. A special of grilled lemon pepper rockfish  got high marks from Mr. Wright and several others who'd chosen it.

It is bigger rockfish season, after all.

Come dessert time, Holmes' family was as different from mine as could be, meaning that only 2 of 16 ordered it, while I didn't hesitate to ask for a slice of chocolate pecan pie and offer to share.

What's a birthday celebration without sweets anyway?

By the time we got home, photos of the fun had already been posted to Facebook and there we were, smiling with the most well-traveled woman I've ever met. That she only wears dead women's clothing makes her even more of a role model to me.

Where we differ is I might've promised away my grocery money indefinitely for the chance to have an Italian mosaic and worried about the details only once I was back in the kitchen.

I'm going with the theory that no adoring man would have let such a charming woman starve to death. Not when great travel partners are so hard to find.

The Mellow Yellow Age

Because why wouldn't you celebrate your birthday with brunch?

Queen B was celebrating her 80th at Max's on Broad and I was invited. Strangely enough, although I've celebrated my birthday in myriad ways - including years requesting a birthday dinner of cheeseburgers, which is exactly what B had asked for on her actual birthday dinner yesterday - not once have I made brunch a part of it. Some people clearly think otherwise.

So after a morning walk along Grace Street in the Fan - mind you, in 85% humidity (so beach-like I loved it) under a stormy sky - I got cleaned up and strolled over to Max's to return to the scene of last night's tequila for the big event.

Tucked in an alcove near the front window. we had enough privacy to feel like we could talk about anything without ears around. Not that any of our conversation was particularly personal unless a woman copping to her OCD tendencies counts.  Or another admitting standing naked in front of her refrigerator to cool off. Or a man confessing he lost his faith because of weather predictions.

Weaving its way through all this was a discussion of red wax lips and their edibility. As it happens, a pair resides on  a stack of old books on my mantle. Also mentioned: those little wax bottles of colored sugar water.

The hostess who led us to the table jumped in on the conversation when I said something about how cold the restaurant was and Pru said she found the temperature ideal. That was the hostess' daily dilemma: she's either freezing or overheated in the restaurant every shift, sometimes resorting to drinking a glass of cold water in the walk-in. TMI? Then she handed us dinner menus and sailed off.

A minute or so later, she was back, saying, "JK! I meant to give you brunch menus!" So cute. JK.

When it came time to order, it was obvious I was the only one who'd eaten breakfast already. They all went for some sort of eggs - over hard, over medium, quiche Florentine - while I went straight for a combination that epitomizes the marriage of breakfast and lunch that is brunch.

Half a dozen Little Saint oysters on the halfshell and the pancake platter, please. With jam and syrup.

My fellow celebrants laughed out loud at my selection, but not when our server inquired which I wanted first. Then everyone got pensive and offered suggestions on timing. To me, it made the most sense to begin with pancakes and move on to bivalves. And not just any bivalves, but ones cultivated in a secluded tributary of the James by none other than the Rappahannock Oyster Company guys solely for this restaurant group.

And while they weren't nearly as briny as is my preference, I can appreciate a restaurant serving their own locally grown oysters. Next thing you know, they'll be bartering them for plumbing services.

A discussion of the '60s took the conversation into go-go boot territory and as we're all sharing stories, Queen B casually leans over to Pru and asks, "Still got yours?" Without missing a beat, Pru says out of the side of her mouth, "Of course!" Once a smart girl finds a pair of good-fitting white go-go boots, she doesn't let them go.

Since I don't wear white, it's not an issue for me.

My card for the birthday girl was opened and commented on ("The Struggle is real. Acting your age vs. giving a damn" - though we both knew that's no struggle at all), as was my gift of several pendants of Murano glass for B to transform with her brilliant jewelry-making talent.

Our affable server came and went unobtrusively as the hours passed, dropping off a small pot of coffee here, a birthday Gran Marnier creme brulee complete with lit candle there. He delivered additional OJ for Beau's Mimosa (though how does one ever have extra bubbly?) and brought me bonus mixed berry jam for my pancakes. Like our own personal Jeeves, he kept glasses filled and himself out of the way.

All the better to celebrate the first eight decades of Queen B's colorful life...and clothing...and hair. Pru, never the romantic but always the realist, summed it up best. "Don't complain about 80 because think how good it'll seem on your next birthday!"

If I didn't know better, I'd think she was competing for my role of Suzy Silver Linings. Everyone seems to be mellowing with age lately. JK.

What a Time We Had

Few can stretch out a birthday like I can. And when it's not mine, I can assist.

The last couple nights have been devoted to helping Pru celebrate her birthday because what are friends for?

Her actual birthday was Monday, but she'd inadvertently made plans with a neighborhood friend that night. It was just as well since Beau is out of town and wasn't here to squire her to a proper birthday dinner anyway. But given his devotion to her, he did the next best thing, enlisting me to pick up dinner and report to the manse to share it with Pru and the Queen.

Dinamo supplied the feast: beet and fennel salad, crostini with chicken livers, fish soup and four pizzas, two white, two red. If it sounds like a lot for three women, remember, it was a birthday celebration and don't judge.

To further the festivities, that also meant Moet et Chandon Imperial "Golden Diamond Suit" Champagne because a birthday rates a bottle of bubbly in a fancy zip-up sweater. The Queen of Soul provided the soundtrack, beginning, appropriately enough, with "Respect."

With nothing but us girls, we settled in with plates piled high, flutes filled with bubbles and prolonged conversation. Pru had informed me that she was looking for news from me and I'd have to say I delivered in spades. That's not to say I didn't take a fair amount of admonishment for my slower-than-necessary pace, but, let's face it, I'm a bit out of practice when it comes to matters of the heart.

These days, everyone's so ridiculously excited for me and still, no one's happiness can begin to approach mine. And I'm not even the birthday girl.

Pru and I continued the celebration tonight at the Byrd to see "The African Queen," a 1951 gem I saw so long ago I barely remembered it.

We were tearing into our large popcorn, discussing how some people pour their chocolate into the popcorn tub when the man seated next to me nudged me and said, "I already did that." Sure enough, his peanut M & Ms were dotted on top of his popcorn, a rookie mistake. Sir, you have to eat the popcorn down a few inches and then insert the candy, as we demonstrated.

No offense, but who didn't learn this lesson as a child?

From the opening shots, the film was so gloriously Technicolor as to look like a '50s picture postcard, unbelievably vivid and strikingly colorful. All that post-war optimism, I guess.

Next I got a history lesson when the credit told us we were in "German East Africa," a colony I hadn't known existed. Belgians in the Congo I knew about, but Methodists in the African Great Lakes? Nope, not a clue.

My faint memories of the movie ensured that I had no recollection how quickly Rosie Sayer and Charlie Allnut became allies and then enamored of each other. In my admittedly hazy memory, they fought almost until the end. Not so.

Before the film began, Byrd manager Todd had told us Bogie had won his only Oscar for this role and  it wasn't hard to see why. Instead of playing suave and urbane, here he was a man who worked with his hands, respected his betters and was willing to do whatever it took to accomplish their mission.

Nature, Mr. Allnut, is what we are put in this world to rise above.

That he recognized a good woman when he saw one (even one who poured out all his gin) moved him from character actor (calling her "a skinny old maid") to charming leading man (It's great to have a lady aboard with clean habits), at least in this woman's eyes.

Dear? Dear? What is your first name?

Todd had also mentioned that the leeches used were real leeches, meaning that when Bogie emerged from the water covered in them, there was no way I could look at the screen as they were removed. If nothing else, the man deserved an Oscar for enduring that for the sake of a role. Tell me what current actor would allow such a thing. Go on, I'll wait.

And, of course, being a 1950s Technicolor Hollywood movie (albeit one mostly filmed on location, a rarity for the time), there was a fair amount of disbelief to be suspended when the usual implausible things happened.

Who do you think you are ordering me about?

When the African Queen gets stuck in the reeds before dusk and they wake up to find that it's rained so hard that the boat has moved back into the river, there is zero water in the boat. It's practically a Methodist miracle.

I never dreamed that any mere physical experience could be so stimulating.

Or once they decide to torpedo the German boat, Rosie raises the Union Jack, except where did that perfect flag come from? Surely she hadn't packed a flag along with her umbrella and Bible, right?

And don't get me started on the endless supply of tea and sugar on that rickety old boat. Just more reasons why I adore seeing these old movies on the big screen. Besides the obvious, that is.

Have you heard the news? I'm a sucker for a love story, even when it's dressed in adventure clothing.

Fancy me a heroine.

Knock Me to My Knees

My willingness to help friends celebrate their birthdays knows no limits.

This one was a two night affair that began Friday night with dinner at L'Opossum and ended early Sunday morning on a screened porch with the Ohio Players blasting.

The birthday celebrant was Beau, dressed fetchingly in a subtly toned Hawaiian shirt and still on a high because of his recent new job, making for a double celebration. The four of us arrived to the flattering semi-darkness of L'Opossum's interior and took over the corner banquette (only because of a reservation made months ago, natch) with a toast to Beau thanks to a bottle of pink bubbly.

The sheer amount of food that we ordered might shame a lesser bunch, but not us.

Escargots cloaked in ham biscuits, a couple of Lettuce Toss Your Salad (impressed, as we were, with its inclusion of "a tight little green goddess downtown"), "Faberge" eggs with caviar and salmon, clams with bacon and herbs and, given the old hippies at the table, the vegan orgy on Texas Beach (five vegetable spreads and papadom).

Next came halibut, beef Swellington, butter-poached lobster mac and the portabello stack with beets, butternut squash and shallot fondue. I'm not ashamed to admit I didn't do justice to my entree after so many starters, but there were no food police at our table.

Not that we hadn't reached an elegant sufficiency, but the birthday bylaws stipulate desserts after a birthday dinner and who were we to mess with rules? There was my flaming chocolate, an apple tarte tatin, lavender limoncello creme brulee and hot black bottom a la mode.

The funniest moment arrived as we sat there in a food coma contemplating our next move. Rubbing his hands together, Beau cracked, "Are we going dancing now?" That's a reference to the time we were out for my birthday and as they dropped me off at home, I turned and asked that question, only to return to the car so we could all go dancing. Not this night.

Saturday night, we reconvened on the screened porch at Pru's manse with additional guests for more celebrating, this time with bubbles, Rose, absinthe and chocolate turtle birthday cake from Northside bakery Morsels. And because Pru was hostessing, also enough cheese and charcuterie to stock a small cheese shop.

Holmes and Beloved were just that day back from a week's vacation on the Outer Banks and when I inquired how things had gone with the other couple, Holmes quipped, "I only got kicked off the island once!"

Apparently he'd had some harsh words for the owners of the Salt Air Motel across the street when they'd left their trashcans in the bike lane and his housemates saw his reaction as un-vacation like. I try not to judge.

Why, just Friday when I was coming back from my rain-soaked walk on the beach, a car driving by had splattered me as it drove through a massive puddle. Did I shake my fist and hurl unkind epithets at the offender? I did not, but probably because I was already soaked to the bone.

Never mind.

Pru's porch is an ideal space for a party of seven bent on non-stop banter and constantly chilling wines. When two of the male members of the party were directed to the same settee, I asked rhetorically what the two non-alpha males had in common.

Beau summed it up first, "We don't like pants!" but his comrade-in-clotheslessness nodded happily in agreement.

When we got low on chilling agents, Beau volunteered to make a 7-11 run, returning with bag in hand across the back yard. "The iceman cometh!" Beloved joked when we spotted him.

"That's the second time this week someone has said that about him when he's come back with ice," Pru noted. Because of course she would have multiple literary friends capable of referencing Eugene O'Neill.

Midway through the evening, the absinthe fountain was filled with ice water and it was drips for all, except the hippie chick who eschews drinking. As the Green Fairy settled over the porch, seconds were ordered and conversation revolved around the unique effect of an absinthe buzz.

That was when Pru decided to replace the Artie Shaw we'd been listening to all evening with something a whole lot more funky and danceable: the Ohio Players.

Because loud music and loopy friends on a screened porch make every birthday better. Pants optional.

Pretty in Pink

He didn't, of course, but he might as well have planned it for me.

If I'd wanted to attend a wine tasting class as part of my birthday celebration, chances are I'd want it to be a pink class.

And as Mac just recently pointed out, that's exactly what Amour Wine Bistro was having tonight: Le Rose Wine Tasting: Rhone Valley and Provence.

Birthday schooling of the highest order. Reservation for two, please.

An attendee tonight could be forgiven for thinking that the class was really just a means for the owner to gather a group of interesting women to hang on his every word, because that's what it seemed to be. Not that a restaurant owner would do such a thing.

Every single attendee was female. And eager to learn. Overheard: "Oh, I love eggplant, but I don't know how to cook it."

Looking to start off with something unlikely, the owner poured a tannic 2007 E. Guigal Rose from the southern Rhone valley to prove that some Roses have wonderful aging potential. "It's 2007 again and we're all young!" he joked. "Who was President then?"

The man who never looked so good as he has in retrospect the past 120 days, that's who.

To set the scene for Domaine Pere Caboche Rose, he painted a picture. "For this wine, you should be sitting on a terrace overlooking the Mediterranean, with a barbecue grill over here for the fish you caught this morning - or got at the market - and drinking this," he said, conjuring up a great visual. "Then you have it all!"

I don't know, give me the terrace, the sea and the grilled fish and I'd probably be quite happy drinking anything. With the exception of the woman who called out, "Are you gonna come cook the fish for me because I just can't do fish on the grill," we got his point.

He admitted his favorite was Le Petit Rouviere Rose and that's one I've swooned over for years because of its lush peach notes and long finish.

Lest it sound like we were hunkered down sipping pinks, listening intently to terroir lessons and taking abundant notes, it should probably be acknowledged that we had a steady stream of food coming at us all the while.

White bean, beet and arugula salad segued in to salmon and tuna tartar with capers on thick, chewy crostini and then creamy Dijon mustard sauced chicken with rice kept our Rose-addled attention spans focused until chocolate tart covered in fresh strawberry slices arrived.

Meanwhile, Teacher had moved on to the finer points of Domaine Petit Coeur Rose, so we refocused on the wine's refined elegance instead of drooling over the bottle's sexy shape because Mac and I just aren't that shallow.

That bottle would make a great candle-holder, that's all I'm saying.

It was while we were sipping the summery aromas of blossoms in a glass courtesy of Domaine Mas de la Rouviere Rose from Bandol, that the owner dazzled one and all by bringing out the equivalent of four bottles of Rose in one hand.

You could just see some of the women's eyes go glassy at the prospect of an entire box of Chateau Montaud Cote de Provence Rose and it wasn't long before several of them requested a box of her own to take home. Just don't be too quick to judge.

For those dedicated to the art of Rose, that's what we call homework. For those of us celebrating our birthdays in long form, it's a marathon, not a sprint.

Happy Birthday from the Modfather

Birthday/May 23
This year you warm up the waters with a difficult person in your life. You are prone to the unexpected and frequently can be found responding to situations triggered by surprising events. If you are single, take your time getting to know someone who seems like a nearly perfect suitor. If you are attached, communication flourishes between you and your sweetie. Taurus plays a significant role in understanding what you want from certain situations.

Leave it to the Washington Post to kick off my birthday talking about all kinds of relationships. Like I never give them any thought.

Technically, my parents inaugurated my birthday with a cheery phone call at 10:50 that woke me up and got me out of bed. According to Mom, they'd waited till then to call, thinking I'd be back from my walk, so I didn't bother disabusing them of that notion.

While I was making breakfast, the phone rang an unlikely second time and I picked it up to hear an instantly familiar voice, that of my college friend, biggest booster and, for the last few years, my long distance friend since he's now a Key West resident. Few voices could have surprised me more.

Although he reads the blog regularly and often emails to comment or share a related thought (he picks up a lot of nuances most don't because he's known me so long and so well), we too-rarely talk on the phone, which is a damn shame because we love to laugh together, challenging to do over the interwebs.

My birthday walk was satisfyingly beach-like, alternating damp and drizzle, but with mid-60 degree warmth and a capricious breeze to make it feel like the weather gods were stewing on something. Stew away, as long as I can wear shorts, it's a good birthday.

When I got home, I cut myself a birthday bouquet of lavender and blue hydrangeas, deeply fragrant pink heirloom roses and mauve lilies, putting them in a black vase to tone down the girliness pastel explosion a tad.

Dinner involved all my favorite things - bubbles, oysters on the half shell, crab, good bread, dark chocolate - set to a swinging Sinatra soundtrack over five unhurried hours.

The afterparty revolved around my birthday gift from a handsome friend (and his new bride), who'd thoughtfully brought back from their month-long honeymoon in South Africa a bottle of Spice Route Pinotage for me.

It was a beautiful wine, intense and rich, and the ideal sipper for a record listening party that involved more of my birthday gifts (thank you, Pru and Beau) as well as some of my own recent purchases and golden oldies.

From the gift pile came the number one album from 1982, Asia's eponymous debut, sounding so overblown and prog-pop it was hilarious. A gift nearly 20 years ago, The Pretenders' "Get Close" sounded just as funky as it had in '86. Choosing from Friday's purchases of Marvin Gaye's last two albums, "In Our Lifetime" and "Midnight Love," the latter got the nod.

Since conventional wisdom has it that unless you're desirous of certain results, the one thing you should never put on after Marvin Gaye is Roxy Music, it was inevitable that Roxy's "The Atlantic Years 1973-80" followed Marvin, raising all sorts of lyrical questions.

Can you really dance away the heartache? Who's got angel eyes? Is love the drug? Is it worth waiting till the midnight hour? How can Jimmy John's make a sandwich so fast?

More importantly, will I ever have birthday years where I'm not prone to the unexpected? When I'm not frequently being found responding to situations triggered by surprising events?

Today I woke up to an email from my best friend from college, still my biggest fan and, tragically, a Texas resident.

So, did you have a good night? I was going to call but figured you would be out and about. I hope you enjoyed your special day. I thank your Mom and Dad every year on your b-day for their horniness (I know, very tacky). Love you...

I don't know if it can be considered tacky when my birthday card from Mom and Dad referenced the same horniness: "When it comes to making the world a better place, we've done our part. We brought you into it!"

Out of the mouths of the two people whose relationship I admire the most.  Here's to another birthday year of owning who I am and where I came from.

It Shoulda Been You

It's a Saturday night tradition to progressively celebrate my birthday.

The past three years, I've been accompanied by two favorite couples, but this year, I wanted a third dynamic duo added to the mix. The funny part was her comment, "Wow, we finally made the cut! I guess we were just being auditioned up 'till now."

Not true, but their presence was a lovely addition to the party.

Things kicked off at Metzger because Mr. Fine Wine's music never gets old and just after opening is the very best time to enjoy Metzger before it's noisy and overcrowded. I arrived at the bar to find four of my six friends awaiting my arrival with bubbles in front of them in my honor.

I'm not entirely convinced that they wouldn't have been drinking bubbles anyway, but still, it was a lovely greeting. The late arrivals merited ordering another bottle.

With the early evening sun beating down on Metzger's shaded windows, my friends ate through multiple cheese and charcuterie plates, a couple of specials of pork meatballs, Morattico oysters (home to my parents), a salad of English breakfast and watermelon radishes and, most impressively, roasted asparagus over the pinkest of shrimp mousse.

It was here that we learned about the seafood/kiss rule already well-established by the newlyweds. You see, she doesn't care for seafood, so he refrains from eating it until after she's had enough wine not to mind. Such was his rationale for turning down Morattico oysters before he scored an early kiss.

I'd be the first to admit I love to kiss, but I can't see turning down a perfectly delicious oyster, either.

Mowing through food like we didn't still have two more stops to make, I gently reminded my posse not to overly front-load. Not everyone took the gentle reminder well, but part of that is due to the siren song of Metzger.

Our next stop was Nota Bene, where we went from a bright, sunlit space to the dimness of multiple candles and a wood-burning oven. Holmes regaled us with tales from the accounting world, there was talk of men in yoga pants, and, in an extraordinary moment, the entire table voted for Germany over Provence when it came to drinking Rose.

In fact, the Villa Wolf Rose carried us though multiple plates of sugar toads, braised fennel with tomato sauce and breadcrumbs, the grilled cauliflower with fresno peppers that made Holmes a believer, squid ink pasta with scallops and pizzas of at least three varieties.

Anyone watching our feeding frenzy might have been inclined to judge...and justifiably so.

Once we had hit every possible savory note, we moved on to L'Opossum for dessert at the sole dining room that's actually dimmer than Nota Bene. The next step would've been complete darkness.

Instead we indulged in apperitifs and cocktails - the Laura Palmer, the Violet Femme - and every chocolate dessert on the menu, plus apple tartine and creme brulee. When I blew out my candle, it was with a very specific wish.

Gifts beyond the company of good friends were opened and I was the happy recipient of a very groovy beach towel, loads of vinyl and a bottle of South African Pinotage brought from the source that I hope to enjoy with abandon once I find another Pinotage lover beyond the gift-giver.

He's gotta be out there somewhere. That's what birthday wishes are for, right?

Use Me Up

Life is a sunny Saturday with cake at the end.

My morning can be summed up as the epitome of soulful spring in Jackson Ward: a guy on Marshall Street washing a car with "Girl, I Wanna Shake You Down" blaring as I walked by. Another was driving down Clay Street with all his car windows down blasting Bill Withers' "Use Me Up." All my apartment windows open so I could share Donny Hathaway with the neighbors, too.

My afternoon took me to the Bijou, past a guy on Broad Street who inquired if he hadn't just seen me at Kroger, proving that some people pay far more attention to their fellow shoppers than I do.

The film that lured me inside on a gorgeous spring day was "Neruda," a biopic ostensibly about a communist poet going underground when communism was outlawed, but actually more of a poetic dream that allowed the director to take us on a journey through brothels and political meetings, orgies and snow-covered mountains as a driven policeman makes it his mission to find the poet.

To write well, one must know how to erase. ~ Neruda

Weird, but utterly entrancing and sometimes as enigmatic as poetry can be, it was a film that left the small crowd - including a musician there on what she called a "lady date" with a girlfriend - dazzled with the beauty of its cinematography and the sheer pleasure of watching the story of how a talented man indulged his every whim, with little regard for consequence but laser-focused desire on seeking out his own stimulation, whether physical, intellectual or emotional.

My evening began at Pru's manse on Church Hill with bubbly on the screened porch before dodging the green-clad masses of the Church Hill Irish Festival to make it down to the Slip and Bistro Bobette for a proper French birthday celebration meal in her honor.

Actually, feast might be a better word because of everything that landed on our table, was Hoovered up and whisked away by our young server, who quietly informed us that not only was it his first night there but we were his first table.

We promised to be gentle.

Out first were bowls of cream of asparagus soup, a cheese and charcuterie plate and ahi tuna tartare, followed by monkfish medallions, two kinds of beef including beef wellington for the birthday girl, and, for me a special of scallops with celery root galette with roasted garlic crema, all washed down with a Sancerre recommended by the barkeep who greeted us with hugs and the intel that a good friend of mine was downstairs at a private dinner.

When I felt a tap on my shoulder, I turned to find said friend looming over me, and soon chiding me for not responding to his recent email, one which I'd mistaken for a mass email (it wasn't, apparently). Still, it was wonderful to see him.

And while I heard two Grand Marnier souffles being ordered, I missed out entirely by heading to the loo, where I ran into friends along the way and chatted a bit too long, returning to see empty plates. It mattered not because we were heading back to the manse for dark chocolate cake with ganache (lovingly made by Beau), and far more my dessert speed anyway.

That the evening was so beautifully temperate ensured that we all set up camp on the candlelit porch again, this time for bubbles, birthday cake and present-opening, a highlight being the exquisite absinthe fountain Beau had bought for his beloved. As much artful as functional, the winged woman holding up the glass reservoir with four taps exuded feminine energy and was a thing of beauty at the same time.

In the interest of testing out the new apparatus - and the new wormwood leaf-shaped absinthe spoons - Beau filled it with ice water and we all set our taps to drip over the Granddaddy of absinthes, Vieux Pontalier, mine being the slowest by far because of how much I enjoy the lead-up to the arrival of the green fairy.

Once she'd arrived, conversation reached new levels. On the subject of a former boyfriend who'd told me he dreamt of eating my belly for dinner once I'd gone to the other side, Pru observed, "Other cities donate their bodies to science, but in Richmond, we donate ours to local chefs."

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Beau took issue when we pointed out his tendency to titter, claiming he was actually guffawing (as if), finally agreeing that he perhaps did giggle a bit. Neither Pru not I saw that as preferable. "Neither a titterer nor a giggler be," he quipped.

Impossible, we discovered, when you find yourself at an eight-hour birthday soiree. To party well, one must know how to go where the green fairy takes you. Preferably, without tittering.

Dont Tell Me What the Poets are Doing

Wear sunscreen.

Twice over my birthday weekend, I heard that cheesy Baz Luhrman spoken word piece written as a mock graduation speech and played ad nauseum during its heyday. You know, the one written from the viewpoint of an older woman who's fairly sure she's figured a few things out.

Of all the unlikely birthday happenings - and there were several - one had to be the hour spent talking to my aunt/godmother, a woman I rarely see but with whom I share a passion for theater, ballet and the like. At 70-something, she has season tickets to the opera for the first time in her life. That fascinates me, that she's still trying new things.

I hear about the feminist meetings she went to when she was a young woman working at the World Bank on early computers and how strident she found some of the organizers. How even though she never had children, she's appalled at the parenting she sees today. How she resented being picked up from school and missing a school play because I was being born and my Grandfather wanted company at home.

Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they've faded.

On the other hand, you will never be younger than you are today, so why not smile when the phones come out for birthday pictures? Although we're still tallying up the results, birthday photos appear to have been taken at Metzger, Nota Bene, L'Opossum, Acacia and Lucca. Only Garnett's was spared.

So. Much. Documentation. ("At least I'm not Instagramming it!" one photographer says).

The tasting menu and wine pairings at Acacia made for a beautifully leisurely meal with exquisite bites -white anchovies over radicchio, skate wing, venison over farro, melon soup, tuna tartare, calamari with curry - following sublime sips (thoughtfully chosen, as with Newton Cabernet Sauvignon or delightfully different as with Kesselstatt Riesling tasting of lime and stone fruit), set to a soundtrack that included Chaka Khan and Barry White.

Came home to a friend's message improvising a song about my extended birthday celebrating, a tuneful message that uses up every second of the recording mocking me.

Floss.

I do, every day, before I go out to have my evening adventure, having taken up the habit when I read that doing so could add six years to my life. Do you know how much fun I could have in those six years? When I told a friend this is why I took up flossing, she responds, "Of course it is."

We managed to close down Acacia, with Robinson Street long since having rolled up the sidewalks, me clutching three itineraries in my hand. How to choose?

Enjoy your body. Use it every way you can. Don't be afraid of it or what other people think of it.

After a sunny lunch at Garnett's with an old radio friend who insists on double chocolate chess pie to celebrate, I go into full birthday girl mode, meaning I had a massage (hella good birthday gift) and then went to Victoria's Secret to buy bras, including a purple one that fellow Gemini Prince would have given the thumbs' up to.

For that matter, as I got ready to go out tonight I listened to the radio playing all Dylan and Dylan covers in tribute to my fellow Gemini's 75th birthday today.

Understand that friends come and go, but with a precious few, you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle, because the older you get, the more you need the people who knew you when you were young.

That would be Leo and Bonnie, she another fellow Gemini. I love when you two remind me how little and how much I have changed.

Tonight's social companion is another fellow Gemini and when she comes to pick me up, I suggest we walk. My jaw drops when she tells me she's worn cute shoes and prefers to drive. Not ten minutes earlier, I'd chosen sensible shoes over cute, just about certain she'd show up ready to hit the pavement.

"Go put on your cute shoes," she directs me and I do.

Whether anyone at Lucca notices or not is debatable, but the feast we enjoy constitutes all the food - Maryland and Newfoundland oysters, an octopus and potato salad that could inspire poetry, clams in green garlic sauce, mushroom and Gruyere risotto, charcuterie and cheese, roasted calamari with fresh garbanzo beans and mushrooms - leaves us so full that even our shoes feel a tad tight on our feet.

Then I remember my mother's rule that everyone has a corner in their stomach for dessert, so we gorge on chocolate hazelnut crostada and panna cotta.

Travel.

And travel to romantic places while you still have a romantic bone left in your body. Like Dublin...or Vienna, Prague and Budapest...or Paris and the Loire. But definitely travel, and not with hot rollers or there will be ultimatums.

Advice is a form of nostalgia.

Power and beauty fade, albeit a bit more slowly with judicious use of sunscreen, but birthdays are forever. Or at least a solid week or so.

Not If You Were the Last Librarian on Earth

It was a night for helplessly hoping, but then aren't they all?

A friend called while I was out, his words barely audible over the Crosby, Stills and Nash box set that's booming in the background. When I return the call, he brings me halfway up to speed on the Nash/Crosby fuel I didn't even know was happening.

Google it, he says, suggesting the 21st century answer to everything.

Walking in to see the 2004 Sundance Festival Documentary Grand Jury Prize winner, the booker looks at me and says, "What're you doing here? I thought I banned you." He's kidding, of course, and we move on to movies that should be shown in public places, with him suggesting "Harold and Maude" and "Being There," two of his favorites

As a fan of strangers and the dark, I assure him I'd attend both.

A friend suggests we meet up and do something fun, something I enjoy. When I tell him I enjoy dancing on a concrete floor for three to four hours watching bands exactly like I did last night but question his interest in doing the same, he comes clean.

"I guess it would depend on the show but, yes, standing 3-4 hours would require me to make a real commitment."

To what, I wonder, having a good time?

"Happy birthday!" a friend messages me. I remind him it's Monday but allow as how he's probably too busy smooching his new squeeze to notice such details.

"I thought I put it in my calendar last year, but no," he writes. "I have missed you this week, even with my new hectic schedule of thinking about her all the time."

I would never find fault with a man who can't stop mooning over his love.

As the film is about to start, a friend tells me his story of seeing "Dig!" in Holland over a decade ago. "We watched part of the movie, then they announced it was intermission and to go get beer." Sounds like a perfectly reasonable request.

"I got curry," he said, still sounding surprised at the idea of intermission curry. "And high."

Well, it was Holland.

The best pre and post-film discussion came from a 29-year old who sat down near me and immediately asked if I'd seen the film before. I hadn't but he had years ago and he was eager to see if his impressions of it had changed since that first viewing.

What struck me about our in-depth conversation on the subject was how much he identified with the '90s ("I'm mildly obsessed with that era"), despite having been born near the end of the '80s (what he referred to as "the plastic era").

"I can't understand how a band like Matchbox 20 were ever big," he mused. None of us could, friend. I have to say, I can't recall the last time a stranger wanted to discuss Sugar Ray, Third Eye Blind and Tonic with me.

More to the heart of the movie, afterwards we discussed whether the Brian Jonestown Massacre and the Dandy Warhols truly mattered musically. When I got up to leave, another familiar face wanted to chat about the same thing. Was either band talented? On the way out, a third brought it up.

Now that's a provocative film.

Today a friend sent me a birthday present, a t-shirt which reads, "I'm a librarian. That means I live in a crazy fantasy world with unrealistic expectations. Thank you for understanding."

Not that I'm complaining about a gift, but far better if instead of "librarian," it said, "I'm a reader" or even "I'm a Gemini," so the first statement would be as true as the second.

I want to be perfectly clear on my commitment to unrealistic expectations.

Fine Art of Having Fun

It was a splendid day for a birthday walk.

Given that it's a long holiday weekend, I was expecting the city to be deserted - it sure is in my neighborhood - only to find it crawling with activity. Downtown, gaggles of families and couples were milling about on practically every block. Brown's Island was teeming with joggers, dog walkers and picnickers, probably lured out by the 70-degree weather.

Even the Pipeline Walkway was crowded and several times I had to stop and let people nervously make their way behind me. I overheard a woman ask her friend, "Would you come down here at 2 a.m.?" and the other responded, "Heck, no!" as if they were traversing a war zone or ghetto siege.

I don't know, on a full moon night, it might be a beautiful place to be.

Midway down the pipeline, I said hello to a guy fishing and he proudly pointed to the rockfish he'd already caught for dinner. When I told him I'd grown up having rockfish or bluefish my Dad had caught for dinner every Friday night of my youth, he grinned.

"Chesapeake Bay?" he asked, already knowing the answer. When he wished me a good day, I shared that it was my birthday and got my first spoken "happy birthday" of the day.

A woman sitting on the walkway while her man fished below pointed at my t-shirt ("Virginia is for wine lovers"), telling me how much she liked it.

Near the end of the walkway were groups of people tubing the river, paused against rocks, maybe for lunch. I usually see them near Belle Isle, but maybe this is where they get out of the water.

Over on the Capital Bike Trail were more bikers than I'd ever seen riding it, maybe because May is bike month, along with the usual walkers and joggers. Two canal boat tours passed by, the occupants on one cheering when they saw fish jumping and then another's waving to some of the bikers who got their attention.

In the Slip, I saw several groups of young girls in volleyball team shirts, their young voices shrill and  laughter obnoxiously loud as they lagged behind their coach or chaperone patiently trying to herd them.

When I got back to Grace Street, I passed a mother and daughter trying to get into Pasture, which isn't open until tonight. Naturally, I inquired if they wanted me to suggest another restaurant.

"That would be wonderful, but she's got to go to the bathroom badly plus we have to be at the convention center by 1:30 for a tournament," the woman said plaintively.

No problem, I got this. Leading them down the street to a Port-a-Potty, the young girl looked eternally grateful. Waiting for her, Mom introduced herself as Gwen from Annapolis, here for, what else, a volleyball tournament.

I led them over to Lucy's, conveniently located a block from their destination and they seemed thrilled. "People here are so nice!" Gwen enthused. Especially people having a birthday today.

Horoscope for May 23 birthday
This year you are so upbeat that some of your friends might not be able to relate to you in the same way. Try to be more responsive to those in your immediate circle. In any case, you put the finishing touches on the fine art of having fun.

Okay, so that might not be news, but it's always good to hear, even for us upbeat types.

When American Women Talk

Saturday nights are alright for belated birthday celebrations, not fighting.

The Leo being feted is a long-time friend, something like almost 20 years, and one with whom I have much in common and with the rest, we complement one another magnificently

When she picked me up, she made sure I knew she'd gotten as far as her car before going back in the house to put on lipstick "because I was meeting Karen," according to her.

It's satisfying to know I can inspire friends to the heights of lipstick wearing for our dates.

Properly made up, we wiped the lipstick off our teeth and drove straight to Bistro Bobette where we found the door stuck closed, swollen the way doors do in the summertime.

Bartender Olivier was kind enough to push it open from the inside, revealing reservation signs on most of the tables but not a person in the restaurant other than staff.

We settled into a corner of the bar to catch up after a month and a half apart ("Never more than three weeks again!") with glasses of intensely pink and aromatic Chateau de Campuget Rose and more stories than we could possibly share in one evening.

Happily, we had the bar to ourselves so we could laugh hysterically and shriek over high points in the narrative without disturbing anyone else.

Back and forth we went - my beach week, her Massachusetts vacation, my hurricane story, her hoarder tale, my writing life, her dead car on the side of the road.

Breaking to eat something obscenely rich, we chose tonight's featured appetizer, a big, fat slab of pate en croute, a decadent combination of veal, rabbit, pistachios and foie gras in puff pastry with cornichons, apricot puree and gelee.

Bobette's pates are always out of this world and this one was no different, earthy and addictive, especially when paired with a vinegar or sweet complement.

My friend is a master storyteller (having graced Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story on several occasions) and tonight she had a couple of beauts, including one revolving around her health of late.

"So it's been kind of a tough summer what with having the plague and going blind," she deadpanned and we both laughed uproariously.

And while it's certainly one way to put it, the shame of it is that it's more or less true.

Meanwhile, three women arrived and took seats at the bar and I soon learned that the two younger ones were actresses in Meg Ryan's upcoming film "Ithaca" and the middle-aged one was the set director.

If there's anywhere I know I will reliably see/meet actors, directors and movie people, whetehr I want to or not, it's Bistro Bobette.

For that matter, a handsome young man appeared out of nowhere and threw his arms around my friend and he turned out to be a costume and wig designer from NYC down for the weekend.

On the way to the loo, Olivier asked where my usual beautiful tights were and I had to remind him it was bare leg season. Silly bartender, tights are for cold weather.

As part of the birthday business, I presented my friend, a fabulous cook and hostess, with a card and book - the tantalizing "When French Women Cook: A Gastronomic Memoir" - as a present, a nod to her having gifted m with "The Goldfinch" for my birthday.

That also turned out to be a jumping off point since she'd read "The Goldfinch" first and we'd both recently read some juicy criticism of the book.

You have no idea how much I enjoy dissecting a book with a friend, even more so when that friend was the one gave me the book with the caveat, "I know you don't usually read fiction, but I think you're going to love this."

The bottom line is this: is there any difference between a good read and literature?

History has proven that so many books we now consider classics were originally panned by critics as frivolous and with little redeeming value, only to become essential to subsequent generations.

Will the Pulitzer prize- winning "The Goldfinch" still be a must-read in 100 years? Hard to say and I guess I'll never know.

For dessert we chose chocolate mousse, deeply flavorful and with a mouthfeel that spoke to the quality ingredients used to make it, a fitting close to our belated birthday soiree.

Fully aware that we hadn't begun to cover all the ground we needed to, we spent the last of our evening together plotting a road trip for next week so we can be guaranteed a whole day to talk until we run out of stories and opinions.

Yea, like that'll ever happen.

You Don't Even Have to Say It

Don't be so sure I have plans.

Everybody assumes my schedule is jam-packed every minute of every evening - it's even been referred to as CSS, as in "crowded social schedule" - but in reality, many nights  find me with multiple options but no actual commitments.

Which means when a friend phones at 3:30 saying he's decided he wants to celebrate his birthday eve tonight and asking if I can join him and a favorite couple at 6, I enthusiastically say yes.

Think about that question. Can I join three good friends in two and a half hours for an evening of good food, drink and conversation? Must be a rhetorical question.

The plan was to meet at Rappahannock and I was the first to arrive, staking out seats on the far side of the bar and soon joined by the birthday boy toting two bottles of French Chardonnay (2006 and 2009) to enliven the festivities.

Before long the happy couple arrived and we learned that tonight was also the 13 year anniversary of their first date, so everyone had something to celebrate. For me, Friday night with friends was plenty.

Jumping right in with the intimacy of good friends and some vague details about the birthday boy's recent sex life, the 2006 wine was poured, revealing a very slightly oxidized nose and leading to discussion of wine and women past their prime but still worth savoring.

You know I had a few things to say on that subject.

It was the birthday celebrant's first time at Rappahannock so we began by diving into oysters on the half shell: butter Rapphannocks, slightly salty Stingrays, Old Saltes and, as a treat from the great north, Blue Hill Bay oysters from Maine, tasting like a mouth full of saltwater when a wave knocks you down. Divine.

Half of us (okay, me and the birthday boy) thought that the wine paired better with the saltier oysters while the other two thought the opposite.

It didn't matter what anyone thought because in no time at all, both were history.

We took an educational detour for a lesson in oxidation with a glass of sherry (but made no converts in the process) and the pork and pickles plate with pork rillettes and country pate, both nice enough but safe tasting.

"Needs more liver!" the celebrant pronounced and I agreed. Both seemed to have come from innocuous cuts like pork shoulder and lacked any real earthiness or rustic qualities, tastes well seek out.

Opening the 2009 Chardonnay, we found far more minerality, a much lighter color and a lovely choice to go with first a ceviche and then rockfish and barcat oyster bourride, a satisfying bowl with potatoes, garlic and a poached egg in a sop-worthy broth.

Sopping vehicles became the topic as the merits of Billy Bread and Sub Rosa were compared.

As usual with this crowd, a lot of the talk centered on food, drink and going out and before long we found ourselves listing future occasions for get togethers.

An authentic Ukrainian meal. A guest bartender competition party. A blind wine tasting. A trip to Merroir for the one who's never been. A mezcal tasting.

We could come up with countless reasons to hang out and put things in our mouths. And, no, we're not creepy swingers.

By then Rappahannock was completely full, so we decided to hit the road, with our first stop being Art 6 to see Helena Magnusson Ogburn's vibrantly colored, texturally dynamic painting show.

Funniest thing I was told about the artist? "She was so happy when she discovered hinges," a reference to several pieces that incorporated sections of brass hinges into the exuberant works.

My second favorite thing was that she paints every single day, a tenacity I respect.

The show was large with paintings of many sizes and we took our time seeing them all as they wound up the staircase, each of us choosing a favorite and explaining to the others why.

It's not enough to have an opinion with this group. You have to be able to defend it, too.

At one point, a girl walked by wearing abbreviated shorts she had no business wearing and before I could even form the words, my friend grinned and said, "You don't even have to say it."

It's a good friend who already knows how you're going to judge a stranger's shorts with just a look.

From Art 6 it was a quick hop, skip and a jump through the rain showers to Saison which was hopping, too. Perhaps too much so because all three of my companions were disappointed with their cocktails while I had no problem whatsoever with my Espolon.

Sometimes keeping things simple is the way to go.

Somehow a discussion of making moonshine led to my friend sharing some Russian history about Peter and Catherine the Great (who, I have to admit, sounded pretty interesting), at least until her man insisted on saving me from the educational tangent.

What? They don't teach us that stuff in America.

We nibbled on oxtail sopes before finding our passion in tender and fragrant chicken a la brassa, its smoky broth a sensory delight we drank with spoons until it was gone.

Our final stop of the evening was for dessert because what's a birthday without sweets? The birthday boy was presented with obscure beers from the happy couple while accepting nothing more than sincere wishes from me.

Standing on the sidewalk under umbrellas saying goodnight, I reminded my friends that it never hurts to check with me at the last minute to see if I'm busy.

Hey, I've got no problem chucking my CSS when the party's this good.

You Say It's Your Birthday

Can't say which was better, the first part of the evening or the last.

I started at Amour Wine Bistro with a crowded dining room and Holmes and his lady love and a bottle of Chateau de Valcombe Rose.

Over tales of their weekend away, we plotted our way through the happy hour menu. Candied beets and braised turnips in wine bechamel and puff pastry thrilled the beet lovers (that would be me) while beef/bleu cheese with caramelized onions and Fourme d'Ambert gougere was rich and flavorful, a crowd pleaser.

Grilled asparagus with soy orange vinaigrette sealed the deal with its layers of flavor before moving on from the happy hour menu to the regular offerings.

With a second bottle of Valcombe, we tried the salade d'ete (strawberries, watercress, toasted pine nuts, Comte and honey balsamic vinaigrette...yum), the always classic  onion tart with Smithfield bacon and the half and half, a platter of meat and cheese that was perfect for nibbling while we sipped our Valcombe and discussed bigger issues.

Chicken liver mousse, Morbiere, Forme d'Ambert and Comte with Sausagecraft sausage of pork, beef and Gruyere, cured meats, dried fruit and gherkins rounded out the platter.

Dessert consisted of various housemade sorbets: the creamiest chocolate, plus vibrant blueberry, pineapple and grapefruit.

After Holmes and his honey bid me farewell, I stopped by the Viceroy to see what was happening with a friend's birthday celebration where DJ Michael Murphy was spinning vintage music.

She had originally planned to celebrate at Balliceaux until I'd heard Micheal would be spinning and suggested something different.

The party was in full swing when I arrived with lots of familiar faces: the shoegazer, the pop singer, the pianist, the handsome restaurateur. I hadn't expected to know so many of the celebrants.

Espolon in hand, I listened to the Commodores, Depeche Mode and Talking Heads before grabbing the birthday girl by the hand and establishing a dance floor with the birthday girl's very handsome date.

Someone had to do it.

Two guys at a nearby table were requisitioned and before long, they were our willing dance partners, nubile and eager to accommodate.

The birthday girl was ecstatic, finally able to cut loose on her celebratory night. Me, I was just the willing accomplice.

"You like to dance!" one of the guys observed, stating the obvious, as we tore it up to every song the DJ played, refusing to concede the floor.

Why not if the music's good (it was stellar) and I have a birthday girl eager to shake her groove thing with me?

To quote Sir Paul (because today also happens to be his birthday): We're gonna have a good time. I'm glad it's your birthday.

Speak to Me of My Passions

The birthday finale could not have been more wonderful.

After being collected by a friend (and former co-worker, stylish and witty, an artist, cook and gardener extraordinaire) of 18 years, we took a driving tour of J-Ward that ended at Lucy's for dinner.

I try never to miss a chance to show off the 'hood.

Positioning ourselves at the far end of the bar, we got the party started with floral-scented Le Petit Balthazar Rose and major debriefings on both our parts.

Make no mistake, we both had our frustrations to share but there were also laugh out loud stories (hello, cottage cheese) and art excursions to plan. Those paintings aren't going to look at themselves, you know.

I couldn't have ordered up a better soundtrack: Stevie Wonder, Jackson 5, Al Green, all classic stuff played loud enough to save others from having to listen to our blather and laughter.

With the early evening sunlight lighting up the restaurant through the big front window, we  began our meal with herb cream cheese-stuffed roasted endive inside crispy house cured pork loin.

I know there are people who think they don't like endive and to them I say: wrap some pig around it, fools!

It was my friend's first time at Lucy's, so she took time to look around and enjoy all the little details that give it such charm - dog plates, wire heads, an entire row of Roses on the bar.

During a discussion of my upcoming beach trip, she insisted we stop and open presents, including a thoughtfully-chosen card ("Everything seems to speak to me of my passions..."), a Chop Suey gift certificate and Donna Tartt's Pulitzer prize-winning novel "The Goldfinch."

Having read and loved the book, she was adamant that it be part of this year's beach reading for me.

Done. I promised to bring it back with sand in the spine.

For dinner, she chose a killer special of crispy red snapper with lemon aioli, spaghetti squash, spinach and red peppers and generously shared a nice chunk of it with me while raving about the squash and how she wished hers was as good.

Meanwhile I got and shared a stellar dinner salad of bacon-infused chicken over mixed greens with hard-boiled egg, cukes, tomatoes and carrots.

It's rare I get jacked up about chicken but start infusing it with bacon and it's a different story.

While the conversation kept flowing about parents, porches and untimely strokes, the Balthazar flowed as well, its strawberry flavor perfectly attuned to a June night celebration of a May birth.

All around us, people came and went from booths and tables, even the bar, but we stayed focused on each other and the conversation since our evenings out are usually limited to less than two hours and tonight's knew no boundaries.

When I went to tell her about the massive firefly extravaganza I'd seen in the country my birthday weekend, she countered with a recent NPR story about fireflies this time of year. Only then did I learn that all those flickers of lights were about sex, tiny courtship dances to attract a mate.

And here I thought they were just to entertain me on my birthday weekend. It's a very good friend who not only gifts you, but takes you out to be wined and dined and teaches you something along the way.

Eventually, I find our server standing at the end of the bar beside me scanning the room like a good server does, so I turn to ask the only pertinent question at that point in a long Rose evening.

Is there chocolate?

"Yes, there is. Would you have it?" she responded with an economy of words.

This 11-day birthday marathon wasn't going to be able to end without chocolate, so I had to assume hers was a rhetorical question.

My taste buds read the flourless chocolate torte as almost mousse-like and with vanilla bean cream and blackberries, found the closure for my prolonged celebration.

While talking to a neighbor the other day about what I'd been up to lately, I'd mentioned my recent birthday. "You seem like a person who would stretch out a birthday as long as you could," she'd observed with a smile.

Is it that obvious?

Buoyant and Deep

Geminis just want to have fun.

My birthday may be officially over, but my friend's doesn't arrive until tomorrow, meaning today was celebration day for both of us.

When I picked her up at noon, I asked her husband when I needed to have her back. The last time I'd asked, he'd replied "sunrise." Much had happened since then, but I figured we had, at the very least, the shank of the afternoon to fete ourselves.

First stop: Amuse where we found seats at the bar in a dining room crowded with tables of people digging in and chatting. If you ever want to take the pulse of RVA's lunch scene, this is the place to do it.

Because it was a mutual birthday celebration, we began with Montand sparkling brut rose and a toast to our annual celebration, an afternoon of debauchery and discourse.

Our server, in the cutest black fringed skirt (which I may need to track down at H & M), assessed the situation and backed off since it was obvious we had lots to discuss before we could even look at the menu.

The stories! The pictures! The drunken videos! There was so much I needed to see and hear about.

First up was exchanging cards and gifts and while her gift to me blew me away (kicking and screaming into the 21st century), it is always words that mean the most to me.

You are still hands down the best conversationalist in the whole damn city.

So, yes, I would still marry her if she were a guy.

Eventually we got salads of local greens, candied pecans, radishes and fig vinaigrette, savoring how delicious and distinct the variety of lettuces were, tasting like Spring in every bite.

Why do some chefs drown their beautiful greens in dressing when the taste is so delightful on its own? Why do birds suddenly appear every time you are near?

Over white bean and sausage soup, mussels and sausage in white wine and garlic broth and fries (always fries), not to mention more pink bubbles, we covered it all. The Italian chef recently returned. People who don't respond to babies. Lazy people who claim to be ambitious. The new Shockoe Bottom. Why New Orleans is calling to us both. The third place.

I may not be the best damn conversationalist but I can talk ad infinitum and at some point we looked up and realized multiple hours had flown by without us even noticing.

It was time for dessert and more pink, but we needed a change of scenery.

While I may get to the museum with alarming regularity, my friend doesn't, so we walked the Art Nouveau and Art Deco galleries after lunch, she taking in the sculpture of a snake attacking a swan and both of us marveling at the fluidly designed furniture that would take up our entire bedrooms.

But at least there was some culture between the debauching.

From there we went to Can Can, easily sliding into a street parking space close to the nearly full patio. Don't these people have jobs?

I was pleasantly surprised to find the front windows wide open despite the 90+ degree heat as we installed ourselves at the bar.

Multiple bearded servers pounced on us, eager to slake our thirsts and try to tickle our fancy with dessert menus.

Gemini birthday celebrations almost demand pink, so we chose Guilhem Rose, a pale salmon color and tasting fresh as a summer day.

We narrowed our dessert choice to three ice creams - orange caramel, chocolate and vanilla- over shortbread crumbs for textural contrast, a fine choice on a sticky, hot day.

To commemorate the occasion, Friend took a photograph of us, immediately proclaiming that she looked drunk in the picture.

I didn't see it, honestly, but as soon as she posted it to Instagram, her husband commented, "Getting drunk?" so perhaps my wine goggles were already on.

But why shouldn't they be? This is the friend who essentially taught me to drink, with whom I have spent many an evening sipping and discussing our lives and loves.

She is convinced that we are responsible for keeping Broadbent Vinho Verde in business and based on many past summers, she's probably not far off.

Geminis may be many things - open minded, enthusiastic, witty - but you've got no chance getting close to one of us unless you love to talk.

Together, we happily plumb everything that comes into our heads. Sometimes there are pictures to prove it.