On evenings that commence at 45 minutes past the Winter Solstice, the conversation stays intentionally vague.
Oh, they begin with the best laid plans - friends catching up after missing a much anticipated walk - encompassing nothing more than dinner and a good blather, although preceded, as always, by the standard reminder ("Wha, wah, wah, so I can't stay out late...") which I've learned to ignore.
When I throw out destination options - Metzger, Peter Chang, Rappahannock, Dinamo - he's quick to admit he had pizza for lunch, so more inclined to something lighter and more, but not totally, vegetable-focused. I hear, loud and clear.
Peter Chang, and not just for that reason.
On my double couple holiday date last Friday, the five of us bandied about dining possibilities and when I suggested Peter Chang, the male half of one couple copped to having been there already twice that week.
"But I'd go back again!" his better half called from the bathroom. There are so many reasons to love Peter's.
Personally, one of mine is getting to introduce a friend to scallion bubble pancakes, which I did in the slyest possible manner, suggesting we order them to share despite his unfamiliarity with them and then watching the pleasure on his face when they arrive a table away.
"What's that?" he wonders, wide-eyed and pointing. It gives me great satisfaction to tell him that it is exactly what he already ordered.
I could rhapsodize about the exquisite torture of using all available stores of self-restraint to prevent burning your fingers on the freshly baked bread balloons when they show up, but instead I'll say that I'm older and wiser enough just to cool my jets until it's still good and warm, but won't blister my fingers (happened).
After that, all bets are off.
Sure, I can start by ripping off a piece of the puffy pancake and immersing it in its curry dipping sauce, but that isn't nearly as much a party in my mouth as using it to sop up the puddle of soy and chili sauces left on my plate after an earlier round of pork dumplings.
But a chorus of angels sing when I use my scallion pancake as a blanket for dry fried green beans swimming in a sea of fat scallions, peppercorns and chili, all mounded inside, the kind of combination that could make a vegetable-hater see the light.
The guiltiest pleasure is a bamboo pagoda loaded with a stack of log-like cilantro flounder fish rolls which delivered the audible crunch that assure me they're probably not part of a low cholesterol diet. Not as good as the green beans, despite being fried, but plenty tasty.
It's meals as flavor-forward and yet simple as these that underscore why friends chow down here three times a week. The question is, why don't I more often given its proximity?
As a side benefit, apparently people I know hang out there. I'd arrived earlier than my friend tonight and waited patiently at the bar, barely looking up when a guy walked in and glanced at me, or even when he sat down a stool away from me and our eyes met.
Finally, he says, "Karen?"
A soon as I look at him for the third time, I realize who he is - a photographer/server I've known for 5 or 6 years - and say a proper hello. He's incredulous that we'd made eye contact twice and I hadn't recognized him.
And while I hated to state the obvious, I had no choice: he's a middle-aged man with a beard and glasses.
Do you know how many middle-aged men with a beard and glasses we have in this town, nay, in this country? Granted, he's attractive and in shape, so he's not just another shambling middle-aged man with a beard and glasses, but still. No one has time to fully engage with every middle-aged man with a beard and glasses who meets your eyes, am I right?
We compared notes on the state of our lives and came up with the same report: both doing what we love and making it work for us as a life, albeit a simple one. "Congratulations to us!" he toasted just as my friend arrived.
So what better topic to take up with him than that very subject? What's the point of all this if you don't figure out who you are and what you want before any more time is wasted? Not all of us are going to live to be 99 like Zsa Zsa ('though people who know me well seem to be convinced I will), you know.
So while intentional gifts were exchanged and shared music was listened to, the shortest day was mainly notable for being the thoroughly enjoyable latest installment of an ongoing conversation that still persists in coming in and out of range sometimes, like a radio station when you're driving the highway all day.
And who doesn't like a good road trip?
Showing posts with label christmas presents. Show all posts
Showing posts with label christmas presents. Show all posts
Thursday, December 22, 2016
Wednesday, December 24, 2014
Went Woman
Stay away long enough and you're bound to be surprised.
A week in the planning stages, my rendezvous with Pru (I love the sound of that) finally touched down tonight at Magpie, where I arrived first and snagged the last of the sex. Meaning that when Pru made her debut in a fabulous new coat with a faux-fur collar looking like Daisy out of "The Great Gatsby," she wasn't able to enjoy a glass of M. Lawrence "Sex" Brut Rose with me.
Who'd have thought there'd be a run on Sex just before the anniversary of the virgin birth?
It was a good thing we'd arrived when we did because the tiny restaurant was soon filled to capacity with us snugly wedged behind a trio at a bar table by the window. After beginning with a seasonal toast, I paired my pink drink with a green plate of arugula, apple slices, goat cheese and bacon crumbles in a blood orange vinaigrette while Pru, as expected, was constitutionally unable to resist a good-sized bowl of crispy Brussels Sprouts.
Our first order of business was trying to recall when we'd last laid eyes on each other and, unbelievably, it had been the first day of November for the Bootleg Shakespeare performance. For sooth, those seven weeks had flown by.
But we are nothing if not pros at this friendship thing and soon resumed familiar rhythms.
Despite the fact that I'm not the book club type, one of our first topics was "Gone Girl," a book I'd read (despite my usual avoidance of popular contemporary fiction) and immediately insisted she read so we could dissect it.
I'd tried delving into it with a millennial and found myself at loggerheads with her about certain themes. Not so with Pru who, like me, was unable to accept the notion of sustaining a relationship with a sociopath simply because they "got" each other. We'd both closed the book depressed about the future of the species.
From there, we moved on to the subject of her male coworkers and their constant search for bargains; several of them had found a great deal on gun oil and snatched lots of it up. And by snatched, she meant that one guy had bought 30 bottles of it. That's a lot of well-oiled guns.
The funny part was that when her friend showed her a bottle of the stuff, she looked at the back label only to see that it wasn't really gun oil, it was sexual lubricant. That's a lot of well-oiled, um, weapons.
Being the theater lovers that we are, we'd both seen "Mame" and compared notes on what a stellar production it had been. I was hardly surprised when she told me she'd followed the play with a viewing of the movie in order to enjoy all the pithy dialog that didn't make it into the musical.
What I was surprised about was that she'd had male company for her "Mame" viewings since she's been on the wagon dating-wise for some time now. Apparently, having a smart, funny man she's known since college squire her around is something that began during our protracted separation.
And because this is the 21st century, she was even able to pull out her phone and show me pictures of a handsome guy with a great face. I told her I'd talk to him at a party based solely on the fact that he looked interesting. That seemed to please her, not that she needs my approval.
She dazzled me with her plans for a trip to Europe come April, a journey by train from Paris to Venice, then London and back to Paris. It's intended as a celebration of an important birthday, so she's pulling out all the stops. April in Paris, what better way to forget a meaningless number?
When it was gift time, she got crafty and I got smart-assed. She'd made me a jar of tuberose organic sugar scrub, knowing how much I love the scent of tuberose, which reminds me of my mother's front garden when I was young. To me, no rose smelled as intoxicating as tuberose.
I was even given instructions on where to scrub for best results: elbows, she said, knees and bottom. Seems it's all well and good to be smart and a good conversationalist, but sometimes a woman has to fall back on her soft parts. I wasn't surprised at this advice; this is the same friend who lectured me a while back about not wearing enough mascara.
Meanwhile, I'd bought her a cozy pair of sky blue pajamas with white polka dots...to tease her. There have been countless times when I've asked her to do something fun at night, only to be told she's already in her PJs so she can't possibly think of leaving her bed and Kindle. Tonight, her reaction was, "This is wonderful! My other pajamas are in the laundry. I'll wear these tonight."
At least I'd gotten her out beforehand.
She delighted in telling me about a recent night when she'd woken up so overheated she'd considered taking her pajamas off and sleeping naked. "I heard a story on NPR about how sleeping naked is good for you." In what ways, I wondered? She couldn't recall and hadn't done it but wanted me to know. It must be true if it's on NPR.
When she ordered coffee, I shocked her by sharing that I'd begun drinking hot tea, a first for me after a lifetime of eschewing hot beverages beyond hot chocolate. "Who are you?" she laughed, leaning in and scrutinizing me.
She said the exact same thing later in our conversation when I told her about a couple of the popular movies like "Gone Girl" and "Top Five" I'd seen in her absence. "Apparently if I leave you alone, you go mainstream!" she wailed.
Not true.
Apparently if I leave her alone, she becomes a flaming redhead, a most becoming color on her. When I inquired if she'd had a lot of compliments on it, she beamed. "Men seem to love it!" I don't know many men who don't appreciate a redhead. She observed that I was looking rather reddish myself.
Indeed. I don't have a big birthday coming up and I'm not thinking of taking up with a friend of 30 years, but it never hurts to get noticed. Or appreciated.
And just for the record, I do wear more mascara these days. Thanks, Pru. But not pajamas.
A week in the planning stages, my rendezvous with Pru (I love the sound of that) finally touched down tonight at Magpie, where I arrived first and snagged the last of the sex. Meaning that when Pru made her debut in a fabulous new coat with a faux-fur collar looking like Daisy out of "The Great Gatsby," she wasn't able to enjoy a glass of M. Lawrence "Sex" Brut Rose with me.
Who'd have thought there'd be a run on Sex just before the anniversary of the virgin birth?
It was a good thing we'd arrived when we did because the tiny restaurant was soon filled to capacity with us snugly wedged behind a trio at a bar table by the window. After beginning with a seasonal toast, I paired my pink drink with a green plate of arugula, apple slices, goat cheese and bacon crumbles in a blood orange vinaigrette while Pru, as expected, was constitutionally unable to resist a good-sized bowl of crispy Brussels Sprouts.
Our first order of business was trying to recall when we'd last laid eyes on each other and, unbelievably, it had been the first day of November for the Bootleg Shakespeare performance. For sooth, those seven weeks had flown by.
But we are nothing if not pros at this friendship thing and soon resumed familiar rhythms.
Despite the fact that I'm not the book club type, one of our first topics was "Gone Girl," a book I'd read (despite my usual avoidance of popular contemporary fiction) and immediately insisted she read so we could dissect it.
I'd tried delving into it with a millennial and found myself at loggerheads with her about certain themes. Not so with Pru who, like me, was unable to accept the notion of sustaining a relationship with a sociopath simply because they "got" each other. We'd both closed the book depressed about the future of the species.
From there, we moved on to the subject of her male coworkers and their constant search for bargains; several of them had found a great deal on gun oil and snatched lots of it up. And by snatched, she meant that one guy had bought 30 bottles of it. That's a lot of well-oiled guns.
The funny part was that when her friend showed her a bottle of the stuff, she looked at the back label only to see that it wasn't really gun oil, it was sexual lubricant. That's a lot of well-oiled, um, weapons.
Being the theater lovers that we are, we'd both seen "Mame" and compared notes on what a stellar production it had been. I was hardly surprised when she told me she'd followed the play with a viewing of the movie in order to enjoy all the pithy dialog that didn't make it into the musical.
What I was surprised about was that she'd had male company for her "Mame" viewings since she's been on the wagon dating-wise for some time now. Apparently, having a smart, funny man she's known since college squire her around is something that began during our protracted separation.
And because this is the 21st century, she was even able to pull out her phone and show me pictures of a handsome guy with a great face. I told her I'd talk to him at a party based solely on the fact that he looked interesting. That seemed to please her, not that she needs my approval.
She dazzled me with her plans for a trip to Europe come April, a journey by train from Paris to Venice, then London and back to Paris. It's intended as a celebration of an important birthday, so she's pulling out all the stops. April in Paris, what better way to forget a meaningless number?
When it was gift time, she got crafty and I got smart-assed. She'd made me a jar of tuberose organic sugar scrub, knowing how much I love the scent of tuberose, which reminds me of my mother's front garden when I was young. To me, no rose smelled as intoxicating as tuberose.
I was even given instructions on where to scrub for best results: elbows, she said, knees and bottom. Seems it's all well and good to be smart and a good conversationalist, but sometimes a woman has to fall back on her soft parts. I wasn't surprised at this advice; this is the same friend who lectured me a while back about not wearing enough mascara.
Meanwhile, I'd bought her a cozy pair of sky blue pajamas with white polka dots...to tease her. There have been countless times when I've asked her to do something fun at night, only to be told she's already in her PJs so she can't possibly think of leaving her bed and Kindle. Tonight, her reaction was, "This is wonderful! My other pajamas are in the laundry. I'll wear these tonight."
At least I'd gotten her out beforehand.
She delighted in telling me about a recent night when she'd woken up so overheated she'd considered taking her pajamas off and sleeping naked. "I heard a story on NPR about how sleeping naked is good for you." In what ways, I wondered? She couldn't recall and hadn't done it but wanted me to know. It must be true if it's on NPR.
When she ordered coffee, I shocked her by sharing that I'd begun drinking hot tea, a first for me after a lifetime of eschewing hot beverages beyond hot chocolate. "Who are you?" she laughed, leaning in and scrutinizing me.
She said the exact same thing later in our conversation when I told her about a couple of the popular movies like "Gone Girl" and "Top Five" I'd seen in her absence. "Apparently if I leave you alone, you go mainstream!" she wailed.
Not true.
Apparently if I leave her alone, she becomes a flaming redhead, a most becoming color on her. When I inquired if she'd had a lot of compliments on it, she beamed. "Men seem to love it!" I don't know many men who don't appreciate a redhead. She observed that I was looking rather reddish myself.
Indeed. I don't have a big birthday coming up and I'm not thinking of taking up with a friend of 30 years, but it never hurts to get noticed. Or appreciated.
And just for the record, I do wear more mascara these days. Thanks, Pru. But not pajamas.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
So You Think You Know Me? Okay, You Do.
What I don't know if my friends even realize is that it's not the gifts they give that I truly appreciate (although of course I do), it's what their gifts say to me about how they see me that is my favorite part.
A friend gave me two tickets to any production at Barksdale. Upon seeing the two, I made a joke about such optimism (like I'm going to be able to scare up a date for the theater?). "Well, you'd be just as happy seeing two plays by yourself anyway," she said. "So shut up." Nothing I can say to that argument.
From a long-time friend I got a gift certificate to Chop Suey. Since you get to choose the paperback cover that the gift certificate comes on, she'd specifically chosen Dickens' Hard Times, knowing I'd get a kick out of the reference.
After all the conversations we've had about my hard times of the past two years, it felt like an inside joke. Besides, she assured me that 2011 will be much better for me and I believe her. They don't call me Pollyanna for nothing.
As much as I love collecting local art, I couldn't have been more thrilled to receive a piece by a a little known Richmond calligrapher from a friend. I told him that for me, the true pleasure comes with deciding where to hang it. Maybe near the Adam Juresko? Or over the Chris Milk Hulbert? This may take an enjoyable while, deciding where its place of honor will be.
Then there was one of my favorite musicians and conversationalists, who gave me a digital holiday present, an end-of-the-year mix featuring some of his favorite music of 2010 and a brand new song of his. I wasn't surprised at Spoon or The Books (he knows I will always give him crap for going to see The Books without me), but Benoit Pioulard and Marni Stern? Be still my musical heart.
One of my very favorite people in the entire world gave me a book called Bad Girls: The Most Powerful, Shocking, Amazing, Thrilling and Dangerous Women of All Time. As a huge fan of non-fiction, I know it'll be right up my alley. Even better was the inscription:
To my favorite "bad girl" - Keep up the good work! Love you with all my heart!
That's the kind of Christmas gift that makes a girl feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Even a bad girl.
A friend gave me two tickets to any production at Barksdale. Upon seeing the two, I made a joke about such optimism (like I'm going to be able to scare up a date for the theater?). "Well, you'd be just as happy seeing two plays by yourself anyway," she said. "So shut up." Nothing I can say to that argument.
From a long-time friend I got a gift certificate to Chop Suey. Since you get to choose the paperback cover that the gift certificate comes on, she'd specifically chosen Dickens' Hard Times, knowing I'd get a kick out of the reference.
After all the conversations we've had about my hard times of the past two years, it felt like an inside joke. Besides, she assured me that 2011 will be much better for me and I believe her. They don't call me Pollyanna for nothing.
As much as I love collecting local art, I couldn't have been more thrilled to receive a piece by a a little known Richmond calligrapher from a friend. I told him that for me, the true pleasure comes with deciding where to hang it. Maybe near the Adam Juresko? Or over the Chris Milk Hulbert? This may take an enjoyable while, deciding where its place of honor will be.
Then there was one of my favorite musicians and conversationalists, who gave me a digital holiday present, an end-of-the-year mix featuring some of his favorite music of 2010 and a brand new song of his. I wasn't surprised at Spoon or The Books (he knows I will always give him crap for going to see The Books without me), but Benoit Pioulard and Marni Stern? Be still my musical heart.
One of my very favorite people in the entire world gave me a book called Bad Girls: The Most Powerful, Shocking, Amazing, Thrilling and Dangerous Women of All Time. As a huge fan of non-fiction, I know it'll be right up my alley. Even better was the inscription:
To my favorite "bad girl" - Keep up the good work! Love you with all my heart!
That's the kind of Christmas gift that makes a girl feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Even a bad girl.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
