Of Memories and Offerings

I set out to be a good daughter and ended up with a trip down memory lane, followed by another turn as the sacrificial offering.

No one but parents can provide those two experiences over the course of a mere twelve hours.

With the holiday season looming large, my parents had asked for my assistance in getting Christmas stuff down from the third floor of their over-sized waterfront Northern Neck house (it should be noted that they raised six daughters in a 1300-square foot suburban rancher and only moved to spacious digs once we were out of the house, but that's okay).

I spent the day schlepping box after box of stuff down two sets of steps so they can begin over-decorating their house.

What I hadn't expected was all the detritus of those years in suburbia to still be filling the top floor of this house.

I opened the shades up there for the gorgeous and panoramic views while we worked and suddenly light was shed on all kinds of long-forgotten reminders of childhood.

Like so many post-war houses, ours had been "improved" by adding a bar to the basement rec-room.

Much to my surprise, the adornments of that bar still live on in a room upstairs with a beautiful eyeful of the widest stretch of the Rappahannock River.

The gray knitted poodle cover made for a bottle of booze? It's up there.

The tilting stand that holds the 16" bottle of Galliano? Dusty, but present.

The bobble-head Redskin figure that all the teen-aged boyfriends commented on? Check.

But it wasn't just bar stuff they inexplicably kept.

By the time the cultural revolution had trickled down to suburbia, my mother was in her crafty phase.

Hanging upstairs was a colorful, framed needlepoint piece she'd done proclaiming, "God Bless Our Pad."

Maybe it was a preemptive thing since we weren't church-goers.

Still, really?

In any case, I stumbled across more forgotten family treasures than I had any need to, so I had to tease them unmercifully about hanging on to such crap.

My mom assures me that it's my dad who's the pack rat; she said she's even threatened to call the fire department for an inspection just to make him deal with it.

Apparently there are many ways to say I love you after decades together.

After that kind of day, it was good to know that we'd be heading out to dinner at the historic Lancaster Tavern, built in 1790.

I was a tad surprised to learn that it wouldn't be a family affair, though, because they'd invited a neighbor along to "even up the numbers."

That and I have no doubt that they're still seriously worried about me being an old maid.

The neighbor came over for drinks first and I shared with him some of the surprise finds I'd made today, much to my mother's mortification.

No doubt it was more than she wanted a neighbor to know, but considering I had a stranger to entertain, I was going with some recent material.

Anyway, he seemed to find it funny.

We were amazed to discover a nearly full restaurant at the Tavern considering it was a Monday night. I know Chef Adam Ginsberg has been getting some good press for his "traditional comfort foods in untraditional ways" but it made for a far more festive ambiance to be surrounded by a full house.

I had the grilled bone-in pork chop with buerre de pomme and traditional green beans, long-cooked with salt pork but not to the point of mushiness and with the unexpected addition of bits of red pepper.

Given the water's proximity and the season, tonight's special was rockfish with crab meat Hollandaise, ordered by the male contingent (and rated very highly).

The fish was cooked perfectly, exactly the way the fisherman would have wanted it done.

The formerly-crafty one had the hot crab dip (the fact is, they're still awash in crab here) and the soup du jour, a hearty beef noodle with peas.

It was almost a stew and bone-warming good, especially with the hot-out-of-the-oven crusty bread.

Despite my presumption that my parents had an agenda in inviting a fourth, the conversation flowed and we enjoyed a most entertaining evening.

I even got the offer of a tour of the 18th-century county jail and clerk's office just across the street, should I decide to offer myself up again to the company of my parents' neighbor.

I am a nerd for history, so you never know.

But as I reminded my parents before they went off to bed, I may be their love child and the reason they got (happily) married, but they're going to have to let the old maid thing go.

Chances are, I'll get it right sooner or later...and without any assistance.