Pass the Claws

Metaphorically speaking, David slew Goliath. Again.

Generally, when I want crabs, I head down and over a few blocks, where a cadre of men sit talking in chairs near a sidewalk with a sign advertising fresh steamed crabs. They're as nice and friendly as neighbors. One of them has a cousin who crabs on the northern neck and what they get of his haul is steamed nearby in somebody's backyard and sold to people like me on a strictly cash basis.

I'm sure it's all quite illegal, but the crabs are always meaty, well seasoned and priced for a budget. I stop by and visit the guys for crabs whenever I get a craving and wave as I walk by even when I don't.

But today I saw that Rapp Session was running a crab special - blue crabs steamed in Miller High Life, $3 each Saturday and Sunday - so I messaged Mac, my partner in crustaceans, to see if she wanted to join me in some picking.

Her YES came back in all caps and further, she'd be here in 30 minutes. Yes, we take our crabs seriously, she and I.

We walked to Rapp Session, passing Godfrey's just as a trio of women were rushing toward it, trying to make it to Drag Brunch before the show began. A large man outside the door waved a wad of cash and asked them sweetly, "Need any ones, ladies?" The first woman wanted $20 worth, so clearly she had plans to tuck a lot of bills into panties while eating her overpriced omelet.

You go, girls.

We had more important things on our mind, but once at a table, the bad news hit: crabs were a dinner special only, although our hapless server tried to convince us that crab legs would be just as good.

I don't care for crab legs, son, I want blue crabs. Capisce?

The only logical thing to do was walk back to my house, change into walking clothes and head down to the river to kill time until crabs were available, never mind that the humidity was hovering at 98% under rapidly moving cloudy skies.

On Brown's Island, we navigated around the Folk Fest tents and preparations for next weekend's extravaganza, walked the pipeline and came back up through Capital Square, which seemed to be bustling with far more tourists than usual for a Sunday. Walking back, we detoured through the Second Street festival to gawk at the vintage car show - look at that Cadillac, it's as big as a whale - and run ionto friends.

Only after losing our sweaty walking clothes did we return to Rapp Session for crabs and, as it turned out, disappointment. Mac and I, crab pros, should have been suspicious because the announcement had said that the crabs would be served with melted butter and no crab eater worth her Old Bay or J.O. Spice uses butter, but we rolled the dice anyway.

Rapp Session, I bow to your superiority with oysters, but you don't know diddly squat about crabs. I'm not even talking about giving me a lobster cracker as a mallet. But of the eight crabs we ordered, one was delicious, two were so far past their prime they smelled and five were watery and the crab meat mushy.

Unfortunate, to say the least.

The only logical way to address our loss was with Old Saltes and we swallowed the briny bivalves as much for their salty punch as to erase the memory of lackluster crabs. Mac used smoked bluefish dip to do the same.

This is what happens when you cheat on your primary crab supplier, kids. Don't do it. Learn from our mistake and stick to kindly old men on folding chairs for the real deal. We sure will.

Also, butter is for amateurs.

Chemistry of Romance

I'm as contrary as the next woman, but I couldn't quite figure out who to root for at first.

When it's a story about a middle-aged couple bored with each other after 30 years of marriage, it's only natural to want to see them each end up with their younger lovers, right? Why keep plodding through a relationship that's grown tepid when you can start fresh with someone new who doesn't know you as well...yet?

Because why wouldn't I cap off a Memorial Day afternoon eating crabs by myself in the back yard with a movie that takes an unabashed look at screwed up grown-up relationships by acknowledging that romance and sexual attraction continue unabated into middle age?

Don't answer that.

Anyway, I had every reason to go because "The Lovers" was directed squarely at adults, an authentic comedy that was played for the familiar notes of reality rather than easy laughs. That it starred a 62-year old Debra Winger as Mary and Broadway actor/playwright Tracy Letts as Michael turned it into the most fascinating kind of character study.

Watching the two of them go from happily unfaithful (Michael tells his girlfriend, "I was just tired of all the bullshit" about why he strays) to re-finding their attraction for each other amounted to a master class in acting, especially watching cold-hearted Mary melt with the attention and PDAs of her real love.

And once that happened, watching how much passed between them without words was as romantic as having poetry read to you (or written about you).

Almost immediately, they're cheating on their paramours with their spouses, an absurdist premise if there ever was one. But it also oozed romance because they're not just lusting after each other, they're firmly back in love with each other, or at least acknowledging that the love never really left, it was just buried under duty, routine and ennui.

Even Michael's girlfriend notices a difference, telling him, "You're so light and cheerful and nice! I love when you're like this!"

Needless to say, he didn't admit what had put the spring back in his step.

One of the sweetest scenes involved Michael sitting down at the piano after decades of avoiding it to play and sing (not particularly well, but that wasn't the point) a Madness song to Mary.

I never thought I'd miss you
Half as much as I do
And I never thought I'd feel this way
The way I feel about you
As soon as I wake up
Every night, every day
I know that it's you I need
To take the blues away
It must be love, love, love
It must be love, love, love
Nothing more, nothing less
Love is the best

How often does a film tackle the nitty gritty of middle-age relationships - why we plan to leave someone we love, what makes us choose to stay and what urges lead us in both directions - and deliver a classic '80s ska song?

Spoiler alert: I rooted for Mary and Michael, not the lovers. It must be was clearly love.

Heavy on the Old Bay

GOD, tell me what I am doing wrong! Love, d 
~ note written in black Sharpie on back of Pick 4 lottery card found on 3rd Street

We'll call it a personal best: I saw four films today.

There was the morning walk to Movieland to see "Stir Crazy," party of their ongoing Gene Wilde tribute series. Walking down Leigh Street with Mac, we passed the crab guys I've passed a hundred times, only today I stopped to check crab prices.

When I explained that I'd walked by his crab stand all those times, Mr. Jimmy chuckled and said, "I know that's true. I've seen you in your hat walking by a whole lot of times. When are you coming back for crabs?"

Fair enough. But first we had a 1980 movie to see and while several lines of dialog were still lodged in my brain  - "Carry me back to ole Virginny" for one and "We bad!" for another - I had no memory that Sidney Poitier directed or that the film began with Gene Wilder singing "Crazy" to a jazz combo accompaniment.

And don't even get me started on Gene Wilder's pink Izod shirt and sweater tied over his shoulders or the pink bandana jauntily tied around his neck while he's doing hard labor on a rock pile.

But mostly it was a fabulous Gene Wilder vehicle, his character a trusting, optimistic cornball capable of turning us into laughing fools with his delivery.

Warden: I have good news for you.
Wilder: My wine magazines came?

Needless to say, we left with a renewed appreciation of Wilder's genius and a trip down Memory Lane as I commented on Kiki Dee singing over the closing credits.

Mac: Who's Kiki Dee?
Me: She did a duet with Elton John called "Don't Go Breaking My Heart"
Mac: Ohhhh, Kiki Dee.

After a shared lunch in service of my hired mouth, Mac abandoned me for men and dogs while I made my way to the Bijou for my next dose of Afrikana Film Fest, this time the documentary "Hip Hop Fellow" about, that's right, DJ/producer/professor 9th Wonder, aka the Hip Hop Fellow at Harvard.

As far as I was concerned, this was the most compelling film being shown because it had never occurred to met that Harvard would have such a thing. Turns out they've got an actual hip hop archive and I don't even know which to be more impressed by.

Walking up 3rd Street, I saw Afrikana's photographer appear from around the corner and immediately train her camera in my direction, snapping and laughing as she went. We're both in on the joke.

It was a full house for "Hip Hop Fellow" and why not when the film did such a fine job of explaining how his research shows hip hop bridging gaps between generations while developing a greater appreciation for sampling?

9th referred to what he does as "hip hop archaeology," an apt descriptor considering the way he'd dig deep into a classic hip hop album to identify every single sample used, whether it was 10 or 30 because he sees samples as a way of introducing younger audiences to older music  they either missed or dismissed.

Scholar and literary critic Kenneth Gates explains in the film, "Sampling is what Western literature is all about. Look at T.S. Elliott, Melville or James Joyce's "Ulysses" which is stolen from "The Odyssey. We call it the art of literary license."

Ahem, aka sampling.

9th Wonder talked and took questions afterward, deflecting one about how slow Richmond is to embrace its own musical talent. "That's every city," he said. "They didn't like Jesus in Jerusalem."

So how could I not return for the afterparty later, knowing he was going to DJ it? Film, talk, hit play...a practically perfect trifecta.

First, there were crabs scored from my Leigh Street boys and eaten on the wrought iron table in the backyard with Mac, then back to the Bijou for the equivalent of French New Wave 101, first with "The Red Balloon" and followed by Truffaut's "The 400 Blows."

I know it probably sounds like I was cheating on the Afrikana Film Fest, but I'd already seen "Miles Ahead," tonight's main feature, and, frankly, my film history could use some basic French classics like these two.

Bijou co-founder James explained that the Bijou planned to "show some dog films to show you how a director got to a certain point," asked for a show of hands of who hadn't seen tonight's (me and quite a few others) and let the films speak for themselves.

"Just remember," James said after the first film. "The Bijou is a place where you can come see balloons die." It's also where a friend complained about all the distraction of people rattling their popcorn bags during the film.

It's a lot of things, so remember that instead.

Filmmaking aside, both were intriguing looks back at the landscape of Paris and France in the late '50s and given my trip there a couple months ago, I was wide-eyed, looking for familiar buildings and street signs.

Aching glutes aside, it had been a pretty wonderful day.

But the night wouldn't have been complete without that afterparty and I managed to arrive shortly before 9th Wonder took over DJ duties and proceeded to absolutely kill it for the next three hours.

When he took the stage, he looked out and said, "Let's move these tables outta the way to get things going. We're gonna be dancing."

The man was not lying.

A favorite couple came in, danced a bit and headed home, waving as they threaded their way through the crowd. I stayed put near the back where it was slightly cooler plus I could dance in place and survey the room.

From the stage, the MC suggested we meet our neighbors and find out what their favorite film had been this weekend, but my neighbor hadn't made it to anything except the afterparty. But my next neighbor over had also seen the documentary, making for lively conversation about how it had impressed us and how thrilled we were for the rare DJ experience to follow.

Then there was the music, most of it unfamiliar to me while the rest of the room knew every word to the samples and full songs he played.

But the room went electric when the first few strains of Luther Vandross' "Never Too Much" came on, soon to be followed by MJ and Prince and eventually, even the Eurythmics, before returning to what I didn't know but could dance endlessly to.

Eventually, my fellow documentary dork came over and asked how I could go to the film, hear 9th speak and not be in the center of the dance floor where he was.

It was like he thought I was doing something wrong. Like d in his message to GOD.

The Afrikana Afterparty is where you come to dance wherever you want to.

Houseguests and Fish

I've become a cottage groupie.

For the third time since August began, my favorite boyfriend and I headed the car east to visit the happy couple who live in the most charming cottage on the northern neck. Despite warning them that their effusive hospitality was going to result in me saying yes every chance I could, they keep rolling out the welcome mat.

"Who wants to go out in the boat?" our handsome host asked seconds after arriving not long after noon. Pointing at me, he grinned, "I know you do."

I've known the man less than two months and he's already on to me.

Meanwhile, our hostess, my girlfriend, was crackling with enthusiasm; she'd just read an article about oyster gardening and was jazzed to take it up. When I asked her who'd written the piece, she pulled out the magazine, checked and whooped in surprise. "I didn't even notice your name!"

Sometimes in life, you have to point out your own byline. What thrilled me was that my article had done exactly what I'd set out to do - encourage anyone on the northern neck with a dock to take up oyster gardening.

So, sure, I was pretty proud of myself. And hungry, too.

We began with the quintessential river meal: crabs cracked and eaten on a picnic table overlooking the river while the man of the house prepared the boat for takeoff. You see, he's not a fan of cracking crabs (like so many men who find it far too much work for the amount of meat), so his adored wife cracks for him, leaving a pile of backfin meat for him to enjoy.

After gorging, we washed the Old Bay off of our hands and took off in the boat, a bottle of champagne in hand, our skipper abstaining as always.

We moseyed up toward Irvington and gawked at the pricey boats in front of the Tides Inn, bantered about the difference between true cottages and river McMansions and saw sailboats of all sizes breezing along.

Returning to the shore mainly because their dog Jake seemed eager to relieve himself, we took time to snack on the deck, scarfing black bean, corn, onion and avocado salsa our smiling hostess had made. It's a personal favorite, something I could eat almost daily and still look forward to.

Not that she knew that. Is it any wonder I'm such a fan of hers?

When we'd arrived, I'd seen a piece of paper on the dining room table that said "lumbago." Curious, I'd asked about it and our host, as much a language geek as I am, said he'd written it down because it's one of those worlds that has fallen out of use and he wanted to remember it.

He's right, of course, these days people complain of lower back pain but no one (except maybe octogenarians) refers to it as lumbago anymore.

Similarly, he was talking about a trial he'd attended where one of the attorneys had used the word "swale," another underused word that had captured his attention. Later he referred to me as a gadabout. How can I not get a kick out of a man who delights in obscure words?

Soon we left wordsmithing behind and took off again, the menfolk in the back and we girls planted on the bow of the boat, pink polka dot beach towels draped over our legs, laughing and talking the whole way. Most hysterical thing to come out of her mouth (and there were many because she's a funny woman)? "If I recall correctly, I threw up on the dog."

This time, we boated up the eastern branch of the Corrotoman to deep water areas where huge sailboats and yachts were anchored and moored.

One of the most interesting homes we saw was not up on a bluff like most of the houses around, but down near the waterline, so close we worried that the wake from the boat was going to send the river lapping at their front door.

You have to admire those who choose to live dangerously, no?

Heading back, the sun was dropping lower in the sky and everyone had an appetite. My mother has always said that children eat and sleep better near water than anywhere else and apparently it's true for adults, too.

Steak and steelhead trout were expertly grilled outside while the womenfolk made an elaborate salad (spinach, strawberries, glazed nuts, bacon, raspberry vinaigrette, oh, my!) and set the table inside to avoid the mosquitoes that had recently taken up residence on the deck.

Full as ticks, we spent the evening listening to music, talking about Grace Street in the old days, reminiscing about past dogs and wishing our hostess did not have to drive back to Richmond. But duty called.

For the second time, I got to spend the night on the bed that sits on the porch of their guest house, a bedroom with a ceiling fan, three screened walls surrounded by trees and the sounds of nature for a lullabye.

It's about the most perfect place to sleep you could imagine.

Our morning plans to boat to Urbanna and have lunch were canned once we looked at the weather and saw the massive front of rain approaching.

Making lemonade out of lemons, we came up with Plan B, even though it meant leaving the charming, little cottage: a visit to nearby Menokin to see its historical ruins, walk its trails and see Cat Point Creek on which it sits.

It's not as random as it sounds. In 2012, I'd heard a lecture at the Virginia Historical Society about Menokin and the efforts to restore it. Just last January, I'd seen an exhibit at the Virginia Center for Architecture of design plans envisioned by Harvard Graduate School of Design students.

So my curiosity about the real thing had been piqued twice and I'm lucky enough to have an accommodating man to investigate with me.

The heavy gray skies and impending rain were a dramatic backdrop as we pulled up to the 500-acre estate (back in original owner and Declaration of Independence signer Francis Lightfoot Lee's day, it had been 1,000 acres) for a look around.

A short film told us additional history, but I was more impressed with the room full of architectural features removed from the house back in the '60s and destined to be returned once the ruins are enclosed with glass walls.

Closet doors, mantel pieces, the front door keystone and many other significant elements of the original house had been presciently stored away in a peanut barn at Bacon's Castle a half century ago and await return to their home.

The ruins are striking because when the roof eventually collapsed, it left standing two corner sections of wall diagonally across from each other and two massive chimneys, in addition to various other bits of walls and cellar, now all somewhat protected under a large shed.

Just so you know, there is nothing cottage-like about this place. It was a big house for an important man.

The once-terraced gardens that sloped gradually down to Cat Point Creek are now overgrown with trees blocking the view, but restoration of the grounds will come in phase two of the project after the house is redone.

Never one to pass up a good water view, we took the trail down through the woods past walnut trees (the ground under them a minefield of green nuts), dogwoods, American beeches, dark cherry trees and tulip poplars until reaching the creek, serene and silver on a day like this.

Old Lightfoot Lee and the wife would have had a marvelous waterfront view back in the 18th century.

Today it was all ours.

Give Me a Reason

Of all the ways I could wile away a couple of days, I may have found one of the best.

So happy I was invited
Give me a reason to get out of the city

The National had it right. How fortunate was I to be asked to escape the city for the river?

Invited to the northern neck to eat crabs, I packed one sundress, a toothbrush and enough fruit to mitigate the bad influences.

Stop one was Willoby's on the Rappahannock where I had a lunch of an epic crab cake, the kind where you wonder how those lumps of back fin are bound together, and a view of the Rapphannock sparkling in the afternoon sun at one of its widest points.

Next came Good Luck Cellars, a place I'd been before, but new to my date and a pleasure to experience with the owners.

From the dozen wines offered in the tasting to a tour of the cupola and wine cellar, we found strangers to talk to, photographs to inspect and winery dogs sniffing around my companion's.

We lingered on the porch with glasses of Good Luck Cellars' Vignoles 2013 with a big, peachy nose and a rich stone fruit finish, appealing to those of us allergic to stone fruit but still eager to get my fix where I can.

Fact is, we spent so much time at the winery that we just barely made it to our friends' house at a respectable hour for the crab feast.

As much as I love crabs, they were forgotten when we arrived and found what surely must be the most charming river house on the planet.

Where do I start? Beds and colorful, antique quilts on porches, steps leading down to a lengthy dock and the biggest, hands down biggest, outdoor shower I've ever seen.

Half covered by a roof overhang and half open to the sun or moon, it was the kind of outdoor shower I dream about: big enough to dance and/or get clean in.

After meeting our hosts, the man of the house said that if anyone wanted him to put the boat in the water so we could go for a ride, to let him know.

My hand went up as fast as a Jeopardy contestant hits the buzzer and next thing I know, we are all dock-bound for a ride on the western branch of the Caratoman river in the late afternoon sun.

Splayed out on the front of the boat next to my just-met hostess, we bonded over age, true love and having sex in outdoor showers (her, not me).

Amazing what a woman will share with a glass of pink bubbles in her hand and the wind blowing through her hair.

Back on the deck, newspaper was laid out for crab picking, a specialty of mine, followed by steaks and steelhead trout, a sumptuous feast set out under a beautifully clear sky with great company both familiar and new.

Once everything in sight had been consumed, we debated the super moon and decided that the best way to chase it was via boat and all piled back in the craft again.

Our route was much shorter at dusk, essentially a straight shot in the direction of that big, fat yellow moon lingering low in the August night sky and then back again.

Returned to the deck, we savored our hostess' key lime pie and a moon that just kept climbing higher in the clear, night sky.

Richmond felt like a world away.

Today's adventure began with a change to the other sundress and a walk on Windmill Point, a sandy beach where a lighthouse once stood, waves gently lapping at the sand as we made our way along the shore.

Next came a history lesson at Christ Church - a 1735 colonial Anglican church - led by an enthusiastic volunteer who'd once volunteered at Mount Vernon and seemed to share as much about Washington's house as the church we were standing in.

So she digressed a bit. Don't we all?

But it was an impressive structure, with floors of 400,000 year old stone, a vaulted roof and pew boxes so high it was impossible to see other churchgoers (intentional, she said).

I know plenty of people would be bored listening to a guide talk about a nearly 400 year old building, but not me. It was impressive to think about the role this still-imposing building must have played in colonial life.

Lunch was at Merroir on a day meant to be outside, alternately sunny and cloudy, occasionally spitting a raindrop or two, at the same umbrella-covered table at which I'd eaten just a few weeks ago.

Our server was the able-bodied Caleb, a sincere and efficient young man who told us he went to Hampden Sydney and was spending the summer earning money at Merroir.

For the first time ever, they were out of Old Saltes after the weekend, so we ordered a dozen Rapphannocks and a dozen Stingrays and Caleb warned us that they were short-staffed so he'd have to shuck the oysters himself.

Fortunately, he brought over our bottle of Gruet Brut before donning his shucking gloves and proving how multi-talented he was.

When he returned in record time with the second dozen, he admitted he hadn't shucked them, not that he wasn't a talented shucker, he assured us. "They call me Shuck Norris," he joked.

On the other side of the patio was a long table and person by person, the group at it grew until it seemed obvious that it was a clutch of restaurant employees. You can just tell.

Also obvious, to me at least, was that these were not Richmond people but hipsters of another type, more affected, less genuine and trying oh-so hard to ooze coolness.

Fun to watch, not the types I'd want joining my fun.

After further fortifying ourselves with steamed shrimp and a special of scallops and slaw, we decided to take the show on the oyster road.

So we asked Caleb for a bottle of the tangy and complex Las Fils de Gras Mouton Muscadet and made tracks for Merroir's deck to spend the afternoon.

I got barely a few steps when a woman approached me, only to realize I knew her.

She was part of that huge table, who turned out to be D.C. restaurant Eat the Rich's staff, and someone I knew from Richmond's restaurant and theater scene.

"I know you're everywhere, but I still never expected to see you here!" she said.

That's what they all say.

After catching up on her life in Washington, my date and I continued on to the dock, taking Adirondack chairs and setting our wine bucket between us in the shade.

Before long, a couple of the D.C. hipsters strolled down and picked up some of the crushed oyster shells lining the walkway.

"What are these white things?" one girl asked.

After all, why should someone at an oyster growing and packing (not to mention serving) facility immediately think of crushed oyster shells when they see crushed white things?

No need to answer that.

Driving back to Richmond, I couldn't help but think that it had been a pretty terrific little getaway, with outstanding food and drink, unexpected boat rides, serious stargazing (some of it to Chaka Khan) and sightseeing, a lot for 36 hours, even for me.

And while you might think we'd seen enough action for the time being, we wound up making our last stop The Roosevelt for dinner.

People gotta eat.

Hardly surprisingly, it was hopping even on a Monday night, but we still scored bar stools (the only two free) and Thibaud Jannison bubbles to accompany lamb nachos, a specialty of the kitchen tonight.

Smoked chicken wings and a cheeseburger rounded out the meal, making for an upscale southern take on classic bar food.

I got home to an e-mail from my new river friend. "Meeting you was wonderful and I can't wait to see you again! Anytime you can visit, please do!"

Yes, I admit I'm tired after so much non-stop fun.

But, make no mistake, also oh-so happy to have been invited.

Riding the Rails

It had been too long since I'd ridden the train.

True, I'd ridden plenty of trains in Italy last year - trains to Florence, Sorrento and Rome - but I hadn't ridden good, old Amtrack since 2000.

A shame for one who enjoys train trips as much as I do.

You see, I despise I-95 north, that soul-sucking stretch of road that gets me to my hometown and beyond. Since I'm one of those people who rarely exceeds the speed limit, I have no place on such a road.

But on the train, I excel. I can delve into the Washington Post and get deeper into my book. I can waste all kinds of time staring out the window and observing the landscape. And I can chat with strangers, always a forte of mine.

Minutes before the train was due to arrive at the station, an announcement was made that it was running behind.

For those of us waiting outside on the platform in the morning sunshine, the news was irrelevant. If you're headed out of town at 11:04 on a Friday morning, it's probably not for business so it's probably not a big deal to be delayed 25 minutes.

Sitting closest to me was a man with thick, dark hair and mustache and after the announcement, he turned and said in a beautifully accented voice, "More time for us to get some sun."

That's the way I was looking at it. He turned out to be South African and on his way home to NYC, so we spent the remaining 24 minutes chatting.

Once the train began pulling in, I looked across the platform and spotted John, one of my Jackson Ward neighbors, up ahead. What are the chances?

It was my first time riding business class although I soon discovered that all the leg room and New York Times in the world can't compare to the quiet car, which will henceforth be my car of choice. Having to listen to the inane phone conversations of a mindless woman behind me soon wore thin.

Beyond that, my interest was divided. One part of me relished the hours to get lost in reading while the other part couldn't resist the changing scenery outside my window.

The initial boredom of suburbia meant I soon got lost in the Post but then I looked up to see fields and farms and we weren't even to Ashland yet.

Going through the center of the universe, I got a bird's eye view of the Caboose wine shop and Ashland Coffee and Tea from a different perspective than any of my visits to them.

I pulled out my book and was back in the 1950s with Elvis before glancing up to see a golden field all but covered in wild turkeys.

Continuing to lumber north toward Fredericksburg, I marveled at how many bodies of water we passed - marshes, ponds, streams, rivers, rarely more than a minute or two without a water view.

Pulling into Fredericksburg, I had a bird's eye view up Caroline Street catching sight of four church spires punctuating the bright blue sky.

It was easier to return to my book once our route got past the Marine base at Quantico and Occoquan marina because the train wound within sight of the dreaded 95 and who really wants to look at that?

Before I knew it, I was at the quaint station being picked up by a friend who had invited me up to help her get organized in her new place.

For her, organization is a challenge she can't master despite a razor sharp mind and a wildly successful six figure career and for me, bringing order from chaos is as natural and effortless as breathing.

So after breathing all over her new apartment in Annapolis, we got cleaned up and on our way to dinner.

She was hoping to introduce me to one of her favorite new restaurants, but I stopped her cold by saying I wanted to go to the riverside dive that served crabs. Off we went to Cantlers.

I don't even want to think about what that place must be like during tourist season because on a cool, Friday night at 9:00, it was 95% full, albeit with locals and regulars.

Our bartender was delightful, a savvy server with a great smile and, like us, a tequila drinker. My friend is a recent convert to tequila and wanted a primer on blanco, reposado and anejo, an easy topic for me expound upon.

"Whoa, this girl knows her stuff," the bartender said. You drink only one spirit for 21 years, you learn a little.

When the guy next to me also ordered Herradura, I commented that our side of the bar was the tequila side.

"This is where the cool kids sit," she said, bringing us a tray of extra large crabs and a basket of hushpuppies.

I have to admit, before my friend first brought me to this place, I'd never eaten hard shell crabs out of season. Yet here we were, eating extra large Louisiana crabs in March and it felt right as rain.

The tequila kept flowing, our hands kept getting messier and all of a sudden, we were out of crabs.

My friend, a regular at this place, had an inspiration. "Do you have any supers?" she inquired about the largest of crustaceans, a size I'd never even heard of.

Sure enough, they weren't listed on the board, but there they came, hot out of the pot and so enormous, so completely beyond any crabs I had ever laid eyes on despite being a crab eater since age five, that I understood when my friend handed me her phone and asked that I take a picture of them.

The claws were just slightly smaller than a lobster's and almost as meaty. They were easily the best and biggest crabs I'd ever eaten, with or without tequila.

By this time, the dining room had cleared out and it was just us and the regulars at the bar, a comfy vibe of people enjoying happy hour that lasted as long as the March madness game did.

The gang to my left was considering organizing a game of Flintstones "Jeopardy."

"Ann Margrock!" the guy next to me called out as a possible answer. Perry Masonry, I said to him. He smiled widely and nodded silently in approval, not a word being necessary to show his pleasure in my memory.

That's nothing. Leonard Bernstone, I could have said.

We left them to their game planning and returned to the town center and her apartment building, going up to the rooftop terraces with an Anna Nalick soundtrack playing to admire the twinkling views of Annapolis' state capital and the Bay bridge beyond it.

Sing if you understand
and breathe, just breathe

It's wonderful how effortlessly the train gets me to some place so different than my place.

You don't even have to be a cool kid to ride it.

Apologetic Prose

Sometimes the best reason to go away is to see what you find when you get back.

A writing assignment took me to the Northern Neck to visit a cattle farm, a far cry from my usual urban world.

It was my first time seeing a tiny kitten terrorize chickens five times its size.

I had a ball with the woman I was interviewing once we discovered we're both oldest daughters with no brothers.

We commiserated over how strict our parents were with us and how lenient with our youngest sisters.

Brats.

Just kidding, Nancy and Amanda. Well, sort of.

She leads me up upstairs and through a sliding screen door, a pocket door for a porch, something I've never seen before. I love it.

We sit on what she calls her "sweet potato porch," a place with a view of the creek, her horse and a hummingbird feeder with a non-stop series of tiny birds eating at it.

She tells me it's where she and her husband start their morning, having coffee and planning what they'll accomplish that day.

I don't even drink coffee but I am charmed by the idea of starting my day on a porch like this with someone I love.

After a walkabout on the farm and a highly amusing discussion with her Dad (who kept making analogies between alcohol and cattle feed), I have enough material for three articles and say my goodbyes.

It's mid-afternoon on a beautiful and surprisingly un-humid August day and I have nowhere to be and no one looking for me.

Sounds like a good excuse to visit a winery.

I've been to the Hague before, but it's a pleasant enough place and not overly ostentatious like the wineries who do events.

Going through the tasting, I chat up the young woman pouring, hearing how she has just last night decided to leave the Neck and move to Warrenton to live with her boyfriend

His appeal?

He's a good talker...and listener.

Those are the ones you don't want to let get away, my dear.

Drinking the 2010 Chardonel on the porch with a view of corn fields to the right and grape fields to the left seems like the thing to do after the tasting.

Then the wine is finished and it's time for the next adventure.

As long as I'm out this far on a Monday, I would be remiss not to stop at Lowery's in Tappahannock to eat.

It's not that Lowery's menu is particularly enticing, it's that it's Monday.

And that means all you can eat crabs, an irresistible siren call to this gluttonous crab eater raised in Maryland.

As a bonus, there's more of the Chardonel, brought from the Hague in case there was a wine necessity.

With Taylor Swift blaring from the speakers, this definitely qualifies.

The meal starts with oysters from Bevans, a local purveyor I know well since I'd also interviewed Mr. Bevans for a piece a year or two ago.

They are followed by crabs and more crabs, not large but meaty, and I eat long past the point where I've broken a couple of nails, always part of the collateral damage of crustacean-eating for me.

A small price to pay, but then I don't care much what my nails look like anyway.

Nearby, a little girl leaves her parents eating crabs at their table to play a giant version of Jenga made of sawed-off pieces of lumber, eventually sending the stack clattering to the concrete floor of the patio.

It's getting dark by the time I've had my fill of crabs and am ready to head home.

The hour-long drive home is a good excuse to think about everything that's been going on in my life lately, both negative and positive, and hope that things are finally returning to an even keel.

Walking into my apartment, I realize I've been gone for over twelve hours, a break I really needed after being home far too much over the past week.

My good friend Holmes has left a phone message saying, "Hey, glad to see you're back! I was worried about you 'cause you had dropped off the world, but I'm glad to see the prose is flowing again."

How lovely to come home and have a reason to smile even if no one's around to see it.

Every bit as satisfying, I open up my e-mail and find a message from my past.

It's a guy I shared a few dates with several years ago, whom I'd lost touch with because it wasn't the right time for either of us then.

I'm in a way different place now and he must be, too.

"Hi, Karen. Want to have dinner some time soon? I miss those nice legs."

The smile widens.

Yes, I would definitely like to have dinner with you soon.

And you can be sure I'll bring the legs.

A fine road trip ends on an even finer note.

As my friend Moira likes to say, I'm a lucky girl.

Putting my Boots Back On

This indian summer is intoxicating.

It made me forsake my beloved Grace Street for a walk around Belle Isle.

It was a thoroughly unoriginal idea, judging by all the people already there.

My first laugh came courtesy of the couple in front of me as we came off the pedestrian bridge.

"We didn't die. The bridge didn't collapse," the smiling man said reassuringly to his clearly anxious partner.

"We don't know that!" she shrieked. "We still have to get back across it. We'll be safe when we're in the car again!"

Poor thing.

As I headed around the island, I stopped to walk down to the rocks to feel the water temperature.

Cold with a capital "C."

Once I got away from the water, I rounded a bend to find a guy with a camera and a girl pulling up her flounced skirt to put her boots back on.

"There's your movie star turn for the day," he told her as she finished putting herself back together.

When I finished my my first two-mile lap around the island, I took a minute to go check out the new (to me anyway) bike skills area, nicely planted with blooming rosebushes at the entrance.

Lots of people were over there testing the laws of gravity and their bodies' abilities to withstand punishment.

It was on my second trek around the island that a guy on a mountain bike passed me wearing the shirt of the day.

"The liver is evil and must be punished."

No matter what he's guilty of, at least he was out riding by early afternoon, so I prefer not to judge.

After such a fine walk to start the afternoon, I had no intention of spending the rest of it inside.

Instead, I swung by Cameron's for a dozen crabs.

I'd have gotten them from my boys down on Leigh Street except they didn't have the stand set up today.

With the sports and business sections of the Sunday Washington Post, a mallet and beverages, I set out in search of a scenic place worthy of a mid-day crab feast in November.

Osborn Landing Park in the east end won out.

Under a big tree near the water's edge, I set up my crab feast on a picnic table behind the dock.

A couple walked toward the dock, hand in hand, fishing poles in their other hands.

Laughter announced a canopied pontoon boat as it lazed slowly by.

With power boats passing by endlessly, some polite enough to slow down so as not to create a wake and others going so fast the front of the boat was pointing skyward, I worked my way through my bag o' crustaceans.

They weren't big, but most were meaty and as an excellent picker (did I mention my hands were once used in a crab-picking video?) who got the whole dozen for herself, they sure tasted good to me.

I will say it was the first time I found myself spitting shell fragments into a carpet of fallen leaves.

Don't get me wrong. I know there's something weird about that.

But, man, eating crabs waterside on a 75-degree November day is a singular pleasure.

Aren't things like that the random pleasures of the living in the south?

Alrighty then. There's my cheerleader turn for the day.

Welcoming Summer with a Brown Paper Tablecloth

Best way to celebrate the first day of summer: on the Northern Neck enjoying summertime food and drink.

Truthfully, we were celebrating a belated Father's Day, but today being the start of the "living is easy" season, we made sure that the lazy porch meal fit the new season.

First off there was white sangria full of fruits and unknown liquors, but tasting mainly of mango and peach and the kind of libation that can be sipped all afternoon long without a second thought.

After a pleasant enough hour spent sipping and watching the tide come in, we were sufficiently hungry to do justice to the afternoon's feast.

Lunch was a half bushel of crabs heavily seasoned, paired with watermelon and hushpuppies as an accompaniment. Is there a simpler or more delicious summer meal? Not in my family.

As always, talk ranged over the latest news from my five sisters and their goings-on (I try to stay out of the fray and just get the bulletins).  There's always scuttlebutt with my family.

The sister who got married in New Orleans a few weeks after September 11th is having a ten-year anniversary party this fall.

I attended the fifth anniversary soiree down there and am still debating this one, so that was a major topic today. Will she or won't she?

After sating ourselves on crabs, I brought out the dessert I'd made to celebrate the summer solstice: peach ice cream.

Despite a mild peach allergy which causes my mouth to itch when I eat a little bit of peach and my tongue to swell when I overdo it, I think peach ice cream is irresistible.

And homemade peach ice cream enjoyed with white sangria on a breezy porch with  a view of the river? Downright decadent.

But I was only doing it for Dad. Really, it was all about the man who made me possible.

Or, as my Father's Day card said, "Thanks, Dad, for impregnating Mom!" Love, Karen.

He loved it and she cringed. Guess which one I favor.

It's Just a Freakin' Farm

Driving to the Northern Neck this morning was like driving through an English countryside, with scene after picaresque scene. Atmospheric, with verdant greens seen through veils of white and gray. Stay with me here.

First it was all kinds of foggy; in places it was dense and opaque and in others wispy and drifting. But it was layered over the rolling hills of Route 360 East and dotting those fields were goats and cows and bales of hay.

But mostly it was the splendor of the roiling sky that made the panorama feel like a Constable landscape. The clouds were enormous, stacked on top of each other and all shades of gray. It wasn't the typical sky you see in these parts.

Further along, the Rappahannock River looked to have been painted by Turner's chromatic palette. All an artist would have needed today to achieve that array of grey-greens was green paint to which he could add varying amounts of black or white and achieve every single shade i saw crossing the river. The small bit of morning sun showing through that massive cloud cover was both shimmering and subdued. Otherwise, there was not a thing moving.

My destination was my parents' house for a lunch of crabs and watermelon. The three of us destroyed a couple dozen crabs at our leisure on the porch. My plans to walk down to the dock afterwards were shot down when I was informed that the mosquitoes were huge and hungry after all the recent rain. On the plus side, sitting on the porch allowed me to enjoy all the wet smells: pine needles, herbs, bark, crab shells.

Heading home afterwards, I made a stop in downtown Tappahannock. Parr's Drive-in has been sitting there, squat and concrete, since I first started coming down to the area, but I'd never been in. It wasn't that the figure out front wasn't welcoming.

Who wouldn't want to try a place with a giant cone of french fries with his arms holding a bouquet of neon pink flowers and his skinny legs encased in combat boots? He stands right next to the red telephone booth, which someone was using when I pulled in.

Parr's is old school. The menu is on a plastic letter board and clearly they have run out of a few of the popular letters. Still, the most expensive thing is the steak sandwich at $3.69. A sign warns patrons, "No sitting on tabletops!" Apparently some people need reminding of that there.

I went for something I hadn't seen in ages, soft chocolate ice cream with a dipped top. I have no idea what kind of unnatural substance makes that topping harden like that, but nor did I care. As the owner handed me my cone, it immediately began to ooze ice cream through holes in the chocolate shell in the un-air conditioned drive-in.

"You want a cup for that?" he asked anxiously.
"Not really, but it is going to make a mess, isn't it?" I said giving in.
"Yea, it is, but it's so good it doesn't matter," the authority said.

I smiled and took the cup, but I didn't use it. I ate my cone right out front while a man sat in his blue truck and watched me make a mess. I think he'd decided that I wasn't a local.

Driving home, the fog had dissipated but the cloud cover was still decidedly European. But now the afternoon sun was making a valiant effort to filter through the clouds.

The result was a Dutch landscape, maybe 18th century, with lush green fields and dramatic differences in light and shady areas. The sky was still bigger than usual, but the sense of the farm and fields was very end-of-the-workday tranquil.

Warning/Stand Clear: When art history lovers take road trips.