Between today's discovery of the rape of Chapel Island and tomorrow's possible doomsday scenario, it only seemed prudent to plan a low-key evening.
What could be less demanding than a poetry reading and what could be more intriguing than the bookstore owner describing the poet as "William Blake in cowboy boots"?
Yes, please, give me a modern Romantic reading poetry on election eve. It certainly can't hurt.
With a one-time poet in tow, we headed to Fountain Books to settle into wooden church chairs to hear John Alspaugh read and ruminate on the writing life.
Before he got started, he explained why the evening would no longer be the multi-media experience it had been planned to be: the Kentucky musician who was going to play the sax on the street in front of the store while he read was unable to attend.
And while I mourned the loss of poetry set to saxophone, life goes on.
Alspaugh talked about rewriting a published poem and how sometimes it becomes necessary to just say goodbye to a poem and stop belaboring it. "Some poems won't leave me alone," he said about why he kept revising them.
First he explained the bible story of Salome for the benefit of the heathens in the room (not just me), then when he finished reading his poem, "Salome," or at least, tonight's version of it, he offered to autograph the ephemeral version. "I'll mail it to you with a stamp!" he promised with old school panache.
As he noted, there are people who have never mailed a letter to anyone in their lifetime. Talk about tragic.
Explaining that he now uses poems as part of his prose writing, he read the beginning of "Burning Man," with its references to being "entombed by clouds," followed by "Harmonies of an Echo," written while living in LA and alluding to "the lowing of distant trains."
I'll be honest, it's for entombment and lowing that I go to poetry readings in the first place.
Rather than stay and sip wine with the poet and audience members, we cut out after the reading. Since Laura Lee's had decided to make tonight the first Monday night they were open, we decided to show our support of another Monday eatery, always a good thing.
The bearded host greeted me with his usual bear hug, welcomed us in and led us to the last two bar stools while the Police played overhead on the sound system. I call Laura Lee's my kind of restaurant because the music is always set at just the right volume at the bar to have a deliberate presence.
Save me from wimpy volume music, now and forever, oh, primitive radio gods.
The wine was Sicilian (although labeled a product of Italy and you know the Sicilians hate that), the grape - Grillo - new to me and our starter a special of grilled baby octopus.
I followed that with the loveliest melange of crab meat, leeks and country ham with a green tomato relish over a Wade's Mill yellow corn cake, proving yet again that the Virginia trifecta of ham, crab and corn is one for the ages.
By then the music had switched to soul revivalists Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings singing about learning the hard way (join the club, honey) and I'd been greeted by a woman I'd met yesterday at the Bijou for the first time.
It was while I was working on a flourless chocolate cake with white chocolate mint that our genial host brought over wine for us to taste from a customer who'd not only raved about it but brought him a bottle to try: Rockbridge "Jeremiah" Rose.
Friends know I'm a fan of Virginia wine (my "Virginia is for wine lovers" t-shirt from the Roosevelt gets me compliments every time I wear it) and I've enjoyed the Rockbridge Cab Franc, but something about the bright green frog on the bottle gave us all pause.
I wasn't the first to pick out the flavor of Concord grapes (few are faster on the grape draw than the former poet), nor was I the first to wince at the foxy nose or cloying taste, but it was a group effort when it came to mocking the "mighty fine wine" of Jeremiah's namesake bullfrog.
Bet it's popular with the locals in Rockbridge County, though and isn't that what matters?
Well, sure, that and the country as we know it could end tomorrow. For multiple reasons, this optimist has her fingers crossed.
Showing posts with label fountain bookstore. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fountain bookstore. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 8, 2016
Friday, April 15, 2016
Literary Husbandry
Arriving fully formed today was the first sentence of a book? a story? I hadn't known I was writing.
Eating a clementine and in search of new bras, I was driving to Victoria's Secret at Regency Square - a necessity given that the Victoria's Secret at the much-closer Willow Lawn has shuttered, apparently abandoning city breasts - when a wonderfully absurd idea announced itself.
I was still mulling over the concept when, unbidden, that sentence appeared like a ticker tape across my brain. But of course, that's exactly how I'd need to set the scene I hadn't realized I was planning to set. Parking, I scribbled it in my notepad.
Four or five years ago, someone asked me if all this blogging was material-gathering for a book, something that hadn't even crossed my mind.
The intention was always more of a record of a time and one woman's experiences living through it, but also, as more than one person has observed, it's a cultural journal of the goings-on of Richmond over the past seven plus years.
None of that specifically and all of that generally have simmered, it seems, to the point that a story arc has presented itself out of the stewing process. If it was inevitable, I was in denial.
Fittingly, tonight began at Fountain Bookstore for the first in a new experimental programming series, "Judge a Book By Its Spine" or JABBIES, an evening devoted to those curious about the book industry and featuring publishing pros - tonight Michael Reynolds of Europa Editions and Craig Popelars of Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill - discussing the behind-the-scenes book world
There were more book-loving attendees than chairs ("Sold out! There we go!" Craig joked, throwing his arms over his head to indicate a score) and a fair amount of knowing nodding over a story about the distinct childhood pleasures of receiving your monthly order from Scholastic Books in elementary school.
Reading geeks, all.
The pros explained their job of making noise around exciting new books, getting authors media coverage and prime placement at Barnes & Noble (that front table at B & N costs "an arm and a leg," we heard). There were tales of fights over book titles and jackets.
"Managing expectations is a big part of this business," Michael admitted, before amazing the audience with the story of a current best-selling author who does absolutely no publicity. They've never even laid eyes on her because she claims the work speaks for itself.
As many times as I've been to Fountain, only tonight did I learn that moderator Kelly, the owner, had gone to school for animal husbandry, "specializing in beef and cattle nutrition and I somehow ended up here," she tells us to laughter, igniting a string of cow jokes.
According to her, booksellers and beer makers are the only industries who routinely praise competitors' products, an insightful observation.
Only at events like this do you hear someone use a term such as "Pynchon-esque" or get advice to "Read passionately, widely and as much as you can." In between everything else I'm doing passionately, widely and as much of as I can, it's safe to say I'm always reading.
"Never trust a man who doesn't make time to read books," a wise woman once told me.
To that I would add, better to finish an evening with one who does. Some habits speak for themselves.
Eating a clementine and in search of new bras, I was driving to Victoria's Secret at Regency Square - a necessity given that the Victoria's Secret at the much-closer Willow Lawn has shuttered, apparently abandoning city breasts - when a wonderfully absurd idea announced itself.
I was still mulling over the concept when, unbidden, that sentence appeared like a ticker tape across my brain. But of course, that's exactly how I'd need to set the scene I hadn't realized I was planning to set. Parking, I scribbled it in my notepad.
Four or five years ago, someone asked me if all this blogging was material-gathering for a book, something that hadn't even crossed my mind.
The intention was always more of a record of a time and one woman's experiences living through it, but also, as more than one person has observed, it's a cultural journal of the goings-on of Richmond over the past seven plus years.
None of that specifically and all of that generally have simmered, it seems, to the point that a story arc has presented itself out of the stewing process. If it was inevitable, I was in denial.
Fittingly, tonight began at Fountain Bookstore for the first in a new experimental programming series, "Judge a Book By Its Spine" or JABBIES, an evening devoted to those curious about the book industry and featuring publishing pros - tonight Michael Reynolds of Europa Editions and Craig Popelars of Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill - discussing the behind-the-scenes book world
There were more book-loving attendees than chairs ("Sold out! There we go!" Craig joked, throwing his arms over his head to indicate a score) and a fair amount of knowing nodding over a story about the distinct childhood pleasures of receiving your monthly order from Scholastic Books in elementary school.
Reading geeks, all.
The pros explained their job of making noise around exciting new books, getting authors media coverage and prime placement at Barnes & Noble (that front table at B & N costs "an arm and a leg," we heard). There were tales of fights over book titles and jackets.
"Managing expectations is a big part of this business," Michael admitted, before amazing the audience with the story of a current best-selling author who does absolutely no publicity. They've never even laid eyes on her because she claims the work speaks for itself.
As many times as I've been to Fountain, only tonight did I learn that moderator Kelly, the owner, had gone to school for animal husbandry, "specializing in beef and cattle nutrition and I somehow ended up here," she tells us to laughter, igniting a string of cow jokes.
According to her, booksellers and beer makers are the only industries who routinely praise competitors' products, an insightful observation.
Only at events like this do you hear someone use a term such as "Pynchon-esque" or get advice to "Read passionately, widely and as much as you can." In between everything else I'm doing passionately, widely and as much of as I can, it's safe to say I'm always reading.
"Never trust a man who doesn't make time to read books," a wise woman once told me.
To that I would add, better to finish an evening with one who does. Some habits speak for themselves.
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
Let's Eat Grandma
My evening was both punk and posh.
At Plan 9, I saw an exhibit of dozens of old show posters from the '70s and '80s, some of them ratty and torn. Nothing could have been more appropriate.
Besides cataloging former Richmond venues, some I'd never even heard of, the posters were a glimpse into another time.
From NY...Sonic Youth at Rockitz.
The Ramones with Suzy Saxon and the Anglos 5/28 at Cellar Door.
Husker Du at Benny's.
Henry Rollins at Kelly's Club 17.
GWAR at Shafer Court.
From Boston...GangGreen...$1 off with VCU ID...Goo Goo Dolls at Rockitz
As far as getting to the meat of the matter and ending with a touch of civility, nothing beat this show poster:
On Saturday January 3, Honor Role and the Good Guys will blow the fucking doors off of Rockitz
You are invited to attend.
A few flyers had nothing to do with music and everything to do with social issues.
Gun Control, one began before continuing with, "Attention, gunslingers" and went on to outline a surefire method for gun control. Step 1- Pick up your gun. Step 2 - Place the muzzle below the base of your skull behind your ear. Step 3 - Pull the trigger.
We were mincing no words with that one.
Whether you cared about the punk scene in Richmond all those years ago or not, the flyers were a fascinating time capsule of an era when they were all hand drawn and nobody worried about political correctness.
I could only hope to see a flyer these days (not that many actual flyers get posted; everything is done electronically) that promised to blow the fucking doors off a venue.
But life isn't just music and good times. Sometimes, it's about absent commas and misplaced apostrophes.
Back in 2004, I'd been entranced by British author Lynne Truss' book, "Eats Shoots and Leaves." How could I not have fallen hard for her insistence on proper punctuation?
A woman, without her man, is nothing.
A woman: without her, man is nothing.
Hell, yes, I'll happily read a 204-page treatise on why punctuation matters. And I had more than once. I'm one of those geeks who thinks it does matter.
Now, lo these years later, Truss was visiting the Fountain Bookstore to read from her new book, "Cat Out of Hell." Unlike "Eats Shoots and Leaves," the new book was fiction but I didn't let that stop me from going to the reading.
She thanked us repeatedly for coming out to hear her on a rainy night, but what better weather to listen to a Brit?
She was a delightful speaker, her blond bob swinging as she spoke and her talk full of the kind of British words we Yanks have long since cast aside for no good reason.
Seaside, mobile, lollys, carpark and keen were only a few of the expressions that came out of her mouth that they still use and we don't. She even felt obligated to define mobile as "cell phone." Sadly, our international reputation is that of a doltish culture.
That said, I'd never heard of Hammer Films until she explained that it was a highly successful British film production company best known for a series of schlocky Gothic "Hammer Horror" films in the '50s, '60s and '70s.
Apparently when the franchise was revived a few years ago, the company also sought to have a publishing division and asked Truss to write the fifth installment in the series. As a big fan of the Gothic novel originals, she'd said yes, eager to explore the concept of cats, those slaves of Satan.
"I loved their structure," she told us. "Things were presented as truth even when they weren't." So it developed that in her new book, the cat of the title speaks to humans, usually with disgust or disdain.
She read three sections to us - "crazy bits" was how she described them - before taking questions from the crowd.
What immediately became clear was that the small audience was made up almost entirely of cat lovers. I'm not sure why they even let me in there.
Practically everyone who raised their hand during the Q & A had a cat of their own anecdote to share. One woman admitted to having 20 cats. Several people cited scientific studies about cats.
One of these things is not like the other and clearly I did not belong in this group.
But before I left, I did ask Truss to sign my copy of "Eats Shoots and Leaves," purchased a decade ago at Fountain Books and well worn from repeated readings. I have to admire a woman who can write an entire book about punctuation and have it make the best seller list.
When I left there, book in hand, it was for a friend's house. She'd invited me over for wine and conversation about our upcoming plans.
Pulling out a bottle of Moet et Chandon Imperial Brut Champagne for the occasion, she poured out two glasses, complimented my shoes and the evening was off to a lovely start.
Over the next few hours, we talked about so many things - where we'd like to travel, how to be better about forgiveness, why being in the fast crowd holds no appeal - while taking tangents to others - women trying to prove they're one of the men, castor oil usage and narcissism.
We're both Geminis so we can ricochet and lob conversational bombs with the greatest of ease.
By the time the bottle and evening were gone, we'd fine-tuned our plans, discussed what happily ever after really means and shared a lot of never-to-be-repeated gossip.
We also concluded which was the correctly punctuated sentence.
A woman: without her, man is nothing.
And no, that wasn't the champagne talking, just a couple of Geminis having a good laugh.
At Plan 9, I saw an exhibit of dozens of old show posters from the '70s and '80s, some of them ratty and torn. Nothing could have been more appropriate.
Besides cataloging former Richmond venues, some I'd never even heard of, the posters were a glimpse into another time.
From NY...Sonic Youth at Rockitz.
The Ramones with Suzy Saxon and the Anglos 5/28 at Cellar Door.
Husker Du at Benny's.
Henry Rollins at Kelly's Club 17.
GWAR at Shafer Court.
From Boston...GangGreen...$1 off with VCU ID...Goo Goo Dolls at Rockitz
As far as getting to the meat of the matter and ending with a touch of civility, nothing beat this show poster:
On Saturday January 3, Honor Role and the Good Guys will blow the fucking doors off of Rockitz
You are invited to attend.
A few flyers had nothing to do with music and everything to do with social issues.
Gun Control, one began before continuing with, "Attention, gunslingers" and went on to outline a surefire method for gun control. Step 1- Pick up your gun. Step 2 - Place the muzzle below the base of your skull behind your ear. Step 3 - Pull the trigger.
We were mincing no words with that one.
Whether you cared about the punk scene in Richmond all those years ago or not, the flyers were a fascinating time capsule of an era when they were all hand drawn and nobody worried about political correctness.
I could only hope to see a flyer these days (not that many actual flyers get posted; everything is done electronically) that promised to blow the fucking doors off a venue.
But life isn't just music and good times. Sometimes, it's about absent commas and misplaced apostrophes.
Back in 2004, I'd been entranced by British author Lynne Truss' book, "Eats Shoots and Leaves." How could I not have fallen hard for her insistence on proper punctuation?
A woman, without her man, is nothing.
A woman: without her, man is nothing.
Hell, yes, I'll happily read a 204-page treatise on why punctuation matters. And I had more than once. I'm one of those geeks who thinks it does matter.
Now, lo these years later, Truss was visiting the Fountain Bookstore to read from her new book, "Cat Out of Hell." Unlike "Eats Shoots and Leaves," the new book was fiction but I didn't let that stop me from going to the reading.
She thanked us repeatedly for coming out to hear her on a rainy night, but what better weather to listen to a Brit?
She was a delightful speaker, her blond bob swinging as she spoke and her talk full of the kind of British words we Yanks have long since cast aside for no good reason.
Seaside, mobile, lollys, carpark and keen were only a few of the expressions that came out of her mouth that they still use and we don't. She even felt obligated to define mobile as "cell phone." Sadly, our international reputation is that of a doltish culture.
That said, I'd never heard of Hammer Films until she explained that it was a highly successful British film production company best known for a series of schlocky Gothic "Hammer Horror" films in the '50s, '60s and '70s.
Apparently when the franchise was revived a few years ago, the company also sought to have a publishing division and asked Truss to write the fifth installment in the series. As a big fan of the Gothic novel originals, she'd said yes, eager to explore the concept of cats, those slaves of Satan.
"I loved their structure," she told us. "Things were presented as truth even when they weren't." So it developed that in her new book, the cat of the title speaks to humans, usually with disgust or disdain.
She read three sections to us - "crazy bits" was how she described them - before taking questions from the crowd.
What immediately became clear was that the small audience was made up almost entirely of cat lovers. I'm not sure why they even let me in there.
Practically everyone who raised their hand during the Q & A had a cat of their own anecdote to share. One woman admitted to having 20 cats. Several people cited scientific studies about cats.
One of these things is not like the other and clearly I did not belong in this group.
But before I left, I did ask Truss to sign my copy of "Eats Shoots and Leaves," purchased a decade ago at Fountain Books and well worn from repeated readings. I have to admire a woman who can write an entire book about punctuation and have it make the best seller list.
When I left there, book in hand, it was for a friend's house. She'd invited me over for wine and conversation about our upcoming plans.
Pulling out a bottle of Moet et Chandon Imperial Brut Champagne for the occasion, she poured out two glasses, complimented my shoes and the evening was off to a lovely start.
Over the next few hours, we talked about so many things - where we'd like to travel, how to be better about forgiveness, why being in the fast crowd holds no appeal - while taking tangents to others - women trying to prove they're one of the men, castor oil usage and narcissism.
We're both Geminis so we can ricochet and lob conversational bombs with the greatest of ease.
By the time the bottle and evening were gone, we'd fine-tuned our plans, discussed what happily ever after really means and shared a lot of never-to-be-repeated gossip.
We also concluded which was the correctly punctuated sentence.
A woman: without her, man is nothing.
And no, that wasn't the champagne talking, just a couple of Geminis having a good laugh.
Friday, March 6, 2015
You Say Tomato
It was the most hopeful kind of meal imaginable.
On a gray day that delivered ice, snow, sleet and blustery wind, I went to a dinner celebrating not just tomatoes, but also offering an inspiring talk about why we should all plant heirloom tomatoes, which is really the same thing as looking forward to Spring and Summer and the inevitable rewards they bring.
You have to be somewhat of an optimist to plant seeds and expect something edible, don't you think?
Despite dire online warnings about the roads, the worst one I found was my own street and from there on, it was smooth, albeit slow, sailing. The best part was how respectful the few people on the road were of the weather, tooling along at 25 mph.
Which, for those who know how I drive, is not that far off the mark for me normally.
Not everyone who'd bought tickets for the tomato dinner with author Craig LeHouillier showed up at Camden's for the dinner, but those who did were enthusiastically into tomatoes.
The evening began with Craig giving a talk about his his passion for tomatoes and gardening and how it developed from his father's love of the same. He even had a picture of himself as a child with his Dad in the garden.
We heard about him meeting his wife at Dartmouth back in 1980 and their subsequent first garden. Since then, their passion for growing tomatoes has only grown as they sought out heirloom varieties and better ways to grow them. Now they're both tomato-obsessed.
Listening to him was like listening to a tomato cheerleader, someone who'd, by his own admission, become devoted to his hobby and taken it all the way to writing a book on the subject. A gorgeous book, I might add, full of color pictures of Craig's own tomatoes.
My favorite things about his gardening addiction were his devotion to doing it cheaply and to finding rare, old varieties to grow.
The first course of our tomato dinner arrived with panzanella of cherry tomatoes, fresh Mozzarella, arugula, shredded Parmesan and hot fried croutons under balsamic vinaigrette, served with a Rose of Pinot Noir.
As far as I'm concerned, this is an absolutely perfect first course, both food and wine. Add in that the Pandora Marvin Gaye station was playing overhead, and there was nowhere else I wanted to be.
Tomato guy Craig told us about the flats of tomato seedlings he starts (something like 5,000 of them) in his garage and the hundreds of containers planted with seedlings he raises in his driveway. I think he's fortunate none of his suburban neighbors have complained about all that yet.
When our second course of BLT pasta of house-made bacon and grilled endive over house-made tagliatelle with roasted tomato sauce and crumbled Gorgonzola arrived, the chef informed us that he'd spent the entire afternoon making the pasta for this dish.
No doubt because he wanted the appropriate pairing for the Chianti Reserva being poured with it.
All I can say is, good thing he'd made the roasted tomato sauce earlier in the week. That recipe, from Craig's book, was one he said made excellent use of so-so tomatoes, drawing out their best flavors. Although a devoted non-cook, even I've roasted tomatoes on occasion, mainly because the result tastes like so much more work than actually goes into it.
The bookstore owner sitting next to me put it best,"There is nothing like homemade pasta."
As we ate, the author asked the group about Richmond and people chimed in with opinions about its strengths. A woman who looks like she hadn't ridden a bike since childhood raved about the bike paths and upcoming bike championship races.
More than one person mentioned our high rate of tattoo parlors, something I doubt most people care about. It was suggested that Craig sell his tomato book at the annual Hanover Tomato Festival. We talked about how many people leave Richmond only to return.
She's a seductive one, our Richmond.
Our final course was an avocado and goat cheese cheesecake with house-made tomato and orange marmalade, a strikingly beautiful marriage of flavors that complemented the cheesecake to perfection.
With it was poured Blue Bee Harvest ration, a brandy-fortified apple cider made in the building next door to the restaurant. I know it seems a little incestuous, but it totally worked.
The author and his wife live in Raleigh, resulting in discussions of our southern red clay soil (he'd been used to Pennsylvania and far more agreeable dirt), his hands-off neighbors and local farmers' markets.
The funniest moment occurred when the author was talking about his athletic allegiances and said something about the Red Sox. A gasp was heard from the couple at the table next to him, longtime Yankees' fans.
They forgave him his devotion because of his years spent living in Boston. I stayed clear of this discussion, having no idea about any of it.
What did interest me was Craig's recommendations for tomatoes to grow. Dividing varieties into three categories - mild, moderate and intense- I was naturally drawn to intense: Jaune Flamme, Lucky Cross and Ponderosa. I want to grow those.
Best of all, he's a seed saver and participates in seed exchanges, so he generously offered to send us seeds for some of the more unique heirloom varieties that interested us. I hope hes not surprised when I actually contact him for seeds.
By the end of the evening, I bet everyone in the room was jazzed about planting new kinds of tomatoes based on his enthusiasm. His inscription in my copy of his book wished me a healthy garden and abundant harvest.
Given that I had to scrape a layer of snow and ice off my windshield before I could even leave to go home, his hopeful words were just the ticket to remind me that Spring is only 15 days away.
Praise the lord and pass the tomatoes...or at least the seeds. We could all use a love apple fix after this winter.
On a gray day that delivered ice, snow, sleet and blustery wind, I went to a dinner celebrating not just tomatoes, but also offering an inspiring talk about why we should all plant heirloom tomatoes, which is really the same thing as looking forward to Spring and Summer and the inevitable rewards they bring.
You have to be somewhat of an optimist to plant seeds and expect something edible, don't you think?
Despite dire online warnings about the roads, the worst one I found was my own street and from there on, it was smooth, albeit slow, sailing. The best part was how respectful the few people on the road were of the weather, tooling along at 25 mph.
Which, for those who know how I drive, is not that far off the mark for me normally.
Not everyone who'd bought tickets for the tomato dinner with author Craig LeHouillier showed up at Camden's for the dinner, but those who did were enthusiastically into tomatoes.
The evening began with Craig giving a talk about his his passion for tomatoes and gardening and how it developed from his father's love of the same. He even had a picture of himself as a child with his Dad in the garden.
We heard about him meeting his wife at Dartmouth back in 1980 and their subsequent first garden. Since then, their passion for growing tomatoes has only grown as they sought out heirloom varieties and better ways to grow them. Now they're both tomato-obsessed.
Listening to him was like listening to a tomato cheerleader, someone who'd, by his own admission, become devoted to his hobby and taken it all the way to writing a book on the subject. A gorgeous book, I might add, full of color pictures of Craig's own tomatoes.
My favorite things about his gardening addiction were his devotion to doing it cheaply and to finding rare, old varieties to grow.
The first course of our tomato dinner arrived with panzanella of cherry tomatoes, fresh Mozzarella, arugula, shredded Parmesan and hot fried croutons under balsamic vinaigrette, served with a Rose of Pinot Noir.
As far as I'm concerned, this is an absolutely perfect first course, both food and wine. Add in that the Pandora Marvin Gaye station was playing overhead, and there was nowhere else I wanted to be.
Tomato guy Craig told us about the flats of tomato seedlings he starts (something like 5,000 of them) in his garage and the hundreds of containers planted with seedlings he raises in his driveway. I think he's fortunate none of his suburban neighbors have complained about all that yet.
When our second course of BLT pasta of house-made bacon and grilled endive over house-made tagliatelle with roasted tomato sauce and crumbled Gorgonzola arrived, the chef informed us that he'd spent the entire afternoon making the pasta for this dish.
No doubt because he wanted the appropriate pairing for the Chianti Reserva being poured with it.
All I can say is, good thing he'd made the roasted tomato sauce earlier in the week. That recipe, from Craig's book, was one he said made excellent use of so-so tomatoes, drawing out their best flavors. Although a devoted non-cook, even I've roasted tomatoes on occasion, mainly because the result tastes like so much more work than actually goes into it.
The bookstore owner sitting next to me put it best,"There is nothing like homemade pasta."
As we ate, the author asked the group about Richmond and people chimed in with opinions about its strengths. A woman who looks like she hadn't ridden a bike since childhood raved about the bike paths and upcoming bike championship races.
More than one person mentioned our high rate of tattoo parlors, something I doubt most people care about. It was suggested that Craig sell his tomato book at the annual Hanover Tomato Festival. We talked about how many people leave Richmond only to return.
She's a seductive one, our Richmond.
Our final course was an avocado and goat cheese cheesecake with house-made tomato and orange marmalade, a strikingly beautiful marriage of flavors that complemented the cheesecake to perfection.
With it was poured Blue Bee Harvest ration, a brandy-fortified apple cider made in the building next door to the restaurant. I know it seems a little incestuous, but it totally worked.
The author and his wife live in Raleigh, resulting in discussions of our southern red clay soil (he'd been used to Pennsylvania and far more agreeable dirt), his hands-off neighbors and local farmers' markets.
The funniest moment occurred when the author was talking about his athletic allegiances and said something about the Red Sox. A gasp was heard from the couple at the table next to him, longtime Yankees' fans.
They forgave him his devotion because of his years spent living in Boston. I stayed clear of this discussion, having no idea about any of it.
What did interest me was Craig's recommendations for tomatoes to grow. Dividing varieties into three categories - mild, moderate and intense- I was naturally drawn to intense: Jaune Flamme, Lucky Cross and Ponderosa. I want to grow those.
Best of all, he's a seed saver and participates in seed exchanges, so he generously offered to send us seeds for some of the more unique heirloom varieties that interested us. I hope hes not surprised when I actually contact him for seeds.
By the end of the evening, I bet everyone in the room was jazzed about planting new kinds of tomatoes based on his enthusiasm. His inscription in my copy of his book wished me a healthy garden and abundant harvest.
Given that I had to scrape a layer of snow and ice off my windshield before I could even leave to go home, his hopeful words were just the ticket to remind me that Spring is only 15 days away.
Praise the lord and pass the tomatoes...or at least the seeds. We could all use a love apple fix after this winter.
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Lucky Charms
"What's up with that smile?" a guy flirtatiously asked me today.
What, indeed. I've decided to see how I can use my powers for good.
That requires being out and about and seeing who's there.
My interest was piqued by the urban explorer who was talking at Fountain Books.
Author Moses Gates was titillating us with his witty repartee on the subject of his book, "Hidden Cities: A Memoir of Urban Exploration."
The kind of exploring he does involves abandoned buildings and subway tunnels, rooftops and observation decks.
He began by explaining how an ordinary person like himself (or, say, any of us) could make it to the top of the Chrysler Building to see the eagles that adorn the top of it.
Yea, the same ones I saw slides of in art history class in college.
We heard about his exploration of a variety of bridges and how being that high provides a panorama that includes the horizontal and vertical separation of the landscape.
According to him, getting to the top of the Woolworth building is as easy as, "We put on suits and schlepped up 40 flights."
So we see that easy is relative.
Paris' catacombs, which he called "the coolest place in the entire world," provided some of his best stories and a recommendation that we spend a night there.
He showed us a bunch of images of the astounding art that's been created down there and not just painting, but sculpture, too.
Insisting that, "All cities should have a free observation deck on their municipal building," he told of visiting ours today, saying, "You guys are so lucky!"
As one who has been up to City Hall's observation deck dating back to the '90s, I think the man has a point.
I don't know that I need to climb to the top of Egypt's great pyramids like he did, but now I know that the entire top of the pyramid is covered with initials carved into it, something I wouldn't have imagined before.
So now the next time I'm having an in-depth conversation about explorers - you know, Ponce de Leon, Cortez, Balboa- I can throw in "Moses Gates" with some authority.
Leaving the Slip, I tried to make it back to Scuffletown Park in time to catch live music, but with the sun setting so much earlier now (7:46, where has the summer gone?), I barely made it in time for two songs.
Still, two songs heard from a bench in a pocket park where a turtle lives is better than no songs, so I couldn't complain.
What I could do was eat since I was starved.
I'd just been talking about Dinamo yesterday with an acquaintance, so that was my first thought once it was chow time.
Walking in, most of the tables were filled, including one with Ward from Chop Suey, always a friendly face to see.
Life was good.
I found a seat at the bar, today's New York Times in front of me and happily ordered a glass of Ancora pinot grigio, a classic Italian white.
Breathing in the delicious smells wafting toward me, I read an article about an Italian winery's stunning new facility rising out of a Tuscan hill and marveled at how something so contemporary could so perfectly suit a winery that's been around for 26 generations.
But then, the Italians always had a knack for style.
When my white pizza with anchovies arrived, I tore into it in a most unladylike manner, all the while thinking of my friend Pru who likes to come here for lunch when they only have red pizza on the menu.
I didn't finish the whole thing, despite my hunger, but I did enjoy a relaxing meal with the Cranberries blasting and some terrific whites in front of me.
If only there'd been a stray guy at the bar for me to test my powers of goodness on.
Ah, well. Until then, I smile like I mean it.
Because I do.
What, indeed. I've decided to see how I can use my powers for good.
That requires being out and about and seeing who's there.
My interest was piqued by the urban explorer who was talking at Fountain Books.
Author Moses Gates was titillating us with his witty repartee on the subject of his book, "Hidden Cities: A Memoir of Urban Exploration."
The kind of exploring he does involves abandoned buildings and subway tunnels, rooftops and observation decks.
He began by explaining how an ordinary person like himself (or, say, any of us) could make it to the top of the Chrysler Building to see the eagles that adorn the top of it.
Yea, the same ones I saw slides of in art history class in college.
We heard about his exploration of a variety of bridges and how being that high provides a panorama that includes the horizontal and vertical separation of the landscape.
According to him, getting to the top of the Woolworth building is as easy as, "We put on suits and schlepped up 40 flights."
So we see that easy is relative.
Paris' catacombs, which he called "the coolest place in the entire world," provided some of his best stories and a recommendation that we spend a night there.
He showed us a bunch of images of the astounding art that's been created down there and not just painting, but sculpture, too.
Insisting that, "All cities should have a free observation deck on their municipal building," he told of visiting ours today, saying, "You guys are so lucky!"
As one who has been up to City Hall's observation deck dating back to the '90s, I think the man has a point.
I don't know that I need to climb to the top of Egypt's great pyramids like he did, but now I know that the entire top of the pyramid is covered with initials carved into it, something I wouldn't have imagined before.
So now the next time I'm having an in-depth conversation about explorers - you know, Ponce de Leon, Cortez, Balboa- I can throw in "Moses Gates" with some authority.
Leaving the Slip, I tried to make it back to Scuffletown Park in time to catch live music, but with the sun setting so much earlier now (7:46, where has the summer gone?), I barely made it in time for two songs.
Still, two songs heard from a bench in a pocket park where a turtle lives is better than no songs, so I couldn't complain.
What I could do was eat since I was starved.
I'd just been talking about Dinamo yesterday with an acquaintance, so that was my first thought once it was chow time.
Walking in, most of the tables were filled, including one with Ward from Chop Suey, always a friendly face to see.
Life was good.
I found a seat at the bar, today's New York Times in front of me and happily ordered a glass of Ancora pinot grigio, a classic Italian white.
Breathing in the delicious smells wafting toward me, I read an article about an Italian winery's stunning new facility rising out of a Tuscan hill and marveled at how something so contemporary could so perfectly suit a winery that's been around for 26 generations.
But then, the Italians always had a knack for style.
When my white pizza with anchovies arrived, I tore into it in a most unladylike manner, all the while thinking of my friend Pru who likes to come here for lunch when they only have red pizza on the menu.
I didn't finish the whole thing, despite my hunger, but I did enjoy a relaxing meal with the Cranberries blasting and some terrific whites in front of me.
If only there'd been a stray guy at the bar for me to test my powers of goodness on.
Ah, well. Until then, I smile like I mean it.
Because I do.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Cook My Heart Out, Then Eat It
If you read someone for long enough, it's always a pleasure to meet them.
As a lifelong and still-daily reader of The Washington Post. I was looking forward to just such an opportunity tonight.
Joe Yonan is the Food and Travel editor of the Post; he writes a monthly column, "Cooking for One," as well as always-interesting feature stories.
I had a sense of who he was just from reading him for so long and I wanted to compare that to reality.
For that matter, he's a two-time James Beard Foundation award-winner for best newspaper food section.
Naturally I was curious about his new cookbook, "Serve Yourself: Nightly Adventures in Cooking for One" since I'm a) one and b) always looking for nightly adventures.
With it being restaurant week, the crowd for the reading was small, which was a a shame for Yonan, but a treat for the limited attendees because it turned into a casual get-together discussing cooking, asserting yourself at the grocery store and seduction meals
When asked, Yonan gave his suggestions for a meal worthy of getting to the next level with that special someone.
Limit onions and garlic and make something light in case the plan works and you get lucky; a food coma is not sexy.
The book is not just recipes, it also includes essays about food and preparation and Yonan read from one such essay about chicken fried steak.
Having grown up in San Angelo, Texas, he had a long history with the dish and its permutations.
After signing my book (To Karen, Cook your heart out! Joe), we talked about dining out alone, a subject near and dear to my heart. Like me, he hates the dreaded question, "Just one?"
The reading had turned into a thoroughly enjoyable chat with someone new and yet again, I'd enjoyed myself so much more than I could have anticipated.
Even though it's Restaurant Week, I felt like a nice glass of wine, so I went uptown to Secco to see if they could squeeze in one bar sitter amongst the $25.11 crowd.
They could and did.
Sandwiched in between couples, I ordered a glass of Ameztoi Getariako Txakoli Rubentis Rosat, a beautifully effervescent and rather zesty pink that impressed me from the first swallow.
From the moment I saw the chalkboard touting softshells, my decision was made, no matter what the preparation turned out to be. I had the almond-encrusted softshell with fava shoots, shaved asparagus with preserved Meyer lemon hollandaise.
And, yes, the first softshell of the season is always good, but this one was great, delicately crispy and surprisingly enhanced by the hollandaise.
And then it was time for musical chairs as owner Julia insisted on moving me to sit next to another regular she deemed interesting.
The accommodating stranger welcomed me to the stool beside him and we began oversharing information about ourselves.
Asking what I liked about Secco, I responded, "Well-priced wine and always-interesting food."
The stranger liked that. "Well said. Can I use that myself?"
By all means.
He insisted I share his dessert after our server made presumptions and brought two spoons.
The lavender plum cake was lovely and the pistachio gelato (and brittle) was a decadent delight.
I learned that he'd had dinner at Secco the night before and had the gelato then, too.
I've got no problem with frequency when you're crazy about something.
What we soon realized was that we do a lot of the same things in the same places, meaning we probably have seen each other a hundred times and not known it.
We agreed that we are now bound to see each other within the next 48 hours, only this time we'll recognize each other.
After he left ( 5 a.m. wake-up call, god forbid), I turned to my other side for conversation and amusement, finding it in a friend's boyfriend and his tales of good and bad restaurants (he's in the business).
When that waned, he told stories of cats and dogs.
Coincidentally Joe Yonan was also dining at Secco, so my evening finished where it had begun, with more conversation with Mr. Single Serving.
He was raving about his meal (he'd done the restaurant week menu)and shared his amazement over Richmond pricing, so different from Washington's.
I mentioned that yes, it costs less to eat out here than it does in DC, but we don't have places offering offal happy hour menus, either.
They have places like Bar Pilar (also one of his favorites) offering offal every day and we have reasonable restaurant pricing.
Life is a series of trade offs.
Not that I felt like I made any trade offs tonight.
Sometimes the people you read turn out to be as interesting as their words.
As a lifelong and still-daily reader of The Washington Post. I was looking forward to just such an opportunity tonight.
Joe Yonan is the Food and Travel editor of the Post; he writes a monthly column, "Cooking for One," as well as always-interesting feature stories.
I had a sense of who he was just from reading him for so long and I wanted to compare that to reality.
For that matter, he's a two-time James Beard Foundation award-winner for best newspaper food section.
Naturally I was curious about his new cookbook, "Serve Yourself: Nightly Adventures in Cooking for One" since I'm a) one and b) always looking for nightly adventures.
With it being restaurant week, the crowd for the reading was small, which was a a shame for Yonan, but a treat for the limited attendees because it turned into a casual get-together discussing cooking, asserting yourself at the grocery store and seduction meals
When asked, Yonan gave his suggestions for a meal worthy of getting to the next level with that special someone.
Limit onions and garlic and make something light in case the plan works and you get lucky; a food coma is not sexy.
The book is not just recipes, it also includes essays about food and preparation and Yonan read from one such essay about chicken fried steak.
Having grown up in San Angelo, Texas, he had a long history with the dish and its permutations.
After signing my book (To Karen, Cook your heart out! Joe), we talked about dining out alone, a subject near and dear to my heart. Like me, he hates the dreaded question, "Just one?"
The reading had turned into a thoroughly enjoyable chat with someone new and yet again, I'd enjoyed myself so much more than I could have anticipated.
Even though it's Restaurant Week, I felt like a nice glass of wine, so I went uptown to Secco to see if they could squeeze in one bar sitter amongst the $25.11 crowd.
They could and did.
Sandwiched in between couples, I ordered a glass of Ameztoi Getariako Txakoli Rubentis Rosat, a beautifully effervescent and rather zesty pink that impressed me from the first swallow.
From the moment I saw the chalkboard touting softshells, my decision was made, no matter what the preparation turned out to be. I had the almond-encrusted softshell with fava shoots, shaved asparagus with preserved Meyer lemon hollandaise.
And, yes, the first softshell of the season is always good, but this one was great, delicately crispy and surprisingly enhanced by the hollandaise.
And then it was time for musical chairs as owner Julia insisted on moving me to sit next to another regular she deemed interesting.
The accommodating stranger welcomed me to the stool beside him and we began oversharing information about ourselves.
Asking what I liked about Secco, I responded, "Well-priced wine and always-interesting food."
The stranger liked that. "Well said. Can I use that myself?"
By all means.
He insisted I share his dessert after our server made presumptions and brought two spoons.
The lavender plum cake was lovely and the pistachio gelato (and brittle) was a decadent delight.
I learned that he'd had dinner at Secco the night before and had the gelato then, too.
I've got no problem with frequency when you're crazy about something.
What we soon realized was that we do a lot of the same things in the same places, meaning we probably have seen each other a hundred times and not known it.
We agreed that we are now bound to see each other within the next 48 hours, only this time we'll recognize each other.
After he left ( 5 a.m. wake-up call, god forbid), I turned to my other side for conversation and amusement, finding it in a friend's boyfriend and his tales of good and bad restaurants (he's in the business).
When that waned, he told stories of cats and dogs.
Coincidentally Joe Yonan was also dining at Secco, so my evening finished where it had begun, with more conversation with Mr. Single Serving.
He was raving about his meal (he'd done the restaurant week menu)and shared his amazement over Richmond pricing, so different from Washington's.
I mentioned that yes, it costs less to eat out here than it does in DC, but we don't have places offering offal happy hour menus, either.
They have places like Bar Pilar (also one of his favorites) offering offal every day and we have reasonable restaurant pricing.
Life is a series of trade offs.
Not that I felt like I made any trade offs tonight.
Sometimes the people you read turn out to be as interesting as their words.
Friday, February 25, 2011
The Corner of What?
It was a multi-cultural evening beginning in the deep south, stopping briefly in China and and settling into 70s-era Italy for the duration.
To kick off VCU's Southern Film Festival this weekend, author Charles Shields was giving a talk ("Let's keep this more of a conversation," he said right off the bat) about his book "Mockingbird: An Intimate Portrait of Harper Lee" at Fountain Books.
Audience members shared their first memory of reading "To Kill a Mockingbird" and they varied widely; some people fell in love with Scout's character while others saw Atticus as the memorable one.
I only first read the book ten years ago and I remember being struck by how very Southern small-town it was, probably because it depicted a world so different from the one in which I was raised.
Shields got some fascinating input for his book, especially about the interpretation of the Scout character.
Harper Lee described Scout, who was based on her own childhood persona, as "Too hard for the girls" and the Truman Capote character of Dill as, "Too soft for the boys," making them both misfits and kindred spirits.
A lesbian fan of the book told Shields that, "Scout is enough to make any girl-loving girl's heart go pitter-patter." That is high praise indeed.
Shields is speaking again Saturday before the screening of "To Kill a Mockingbird" at Grace Street Theater, but I knew it couldn't possibly be as intimate as a Fountain Books talk. There's something about sitting in evangelical church folding wooden chairs to hear about Southern literature that just feels right.
Walking up Cary Street in the rain afterwards, I peeked out from under my red umbrella when I heard the unmistakable sound of accordion playing in front of Bistro Bobette; it was the guy I'd met there recently who plays in the restaurant on occasion singing and playing his heart out.
It was delightful seeing and hearing him on the sidewalk and under a streetlight on a rainy, reflective evening. Don't tell me Richmond has no charm.
I ducked into Peking for some take-out (hot and sour soup, Hunan pork) to bring home and devour while I knocked out a writing assignment before going out again.
My fortune cookie laid it out for me: Love is just around the corner.
Dinner demolished, story submitted, I made my way to Balliceaux for the Mondo Italia dance party with Glows in the Dark. This free jazz group is a long-time favorite of mine, but tonight they were doing something they'd never done before: not improvising.
Like the last time they did something similar, here, there was an Italian film showing behind them, this time 1977's "The Big Racket." But this time, guitarist Scott Burton had actually arranged all this 70s Italian movie music, so there was no noodling.
His musical choices were inspired and the group well-rehearsed. Trombonist Reggie pace also played wah-wah guitar and percussion, Cameron Ralston was on electric bass, John Lily on sax and Scott Clark on drums.
We were even treated to Eddie Prendergast of Amazing Ghost doing lead vocal on one very disco-sounding song and he was a show stopper with his smooth delivery and near-dance moves. The crowd went crazy, but so did the band. It was a highpoint in an evening of stellar moments.
The idea behind not improvising had been to keep the music going for the sake of dancing, but it took a while for people to get started actually dancing and then it was just a few people.
It was a shame because the music was so danceable, so very 70s groovy with big old bass lines that made you move almost involuntarily. Nobody does movie music better than Glows in the Dark.
I had a great vantage point from the settee by the bar and my musician friend Marshall, who'd been with me last night, joined me there again tonight. At one point, trumpeter and funnyman Bob Miller came over to say hello to us.
"Have you guys moved since last night?" he asked, half in jest. Well, we're wearing different clothes so we must have, we told him.
Hell, I'd been through Alabama and China before he found me back on that settee enjoying 70s grooves Italian-style while gunfights and bad moustaches played out on the wall.
There could not have been a more amazing experience going on in RVA tonight. If I wasn't going to turn the corner and find love, Balliceaux was the place to be.
To kick off VCU's Southern Film Festival this weekend, author Charles Shields was giving a talk ("Let's keep this more of a conversation," he said right off the bat) about his book "Mockingbird: An Intimate Portrait of Harper Lee" at Fountain Books.
Audience members shared their first memory of reading "To Kill a Mockingbird" and they varied widely; some people fell in love with Scout's character while others saw Atticus as the memorable one.
I only first read the book ten years ago and I remember being struck by how very Southern small-town it was, probably because it depicted a world so different from the one in which I was raised.
Shields got some fascinating input for his book, especially about the interpretation of the Scout character.
Harper Lee described Scout, who was based on her own childhood persona, as "Too hard for the girls" and the Truman Capote character of Dill as, "Too soft for the boys," making them both misfits and kindred spirits.
A lesbian fan of the book told Shields that, "Scout is enough to make any girl-loving girl's heart go pitter-patter." That is high praise indeed.
Shields is speaking again Saturday before the screening of "To Kill a Mockingbird" at Grace Street Theater, but I knew it couldn't possibly be as intimate as a Fountain Books talk. There's something about sitting in evangelical church folding wooden chairs to hear about Southern literature that just feels right.
Walking up Cary Street in the rain afterwards, I peeked out from under my red umbrella when I heard the unmistakable sound of accordion playing in front of Bistro Bobette; it was the guy I'd met there recently who plays in the restaurant on occasion singing and playing his heart out.
It was delightful seeing and hearing him on the sidewalk and under a streetlight on a rainy, reflective evening. Don't tell me Richmond has no charm.
I ducked into Peking for some take-out (hot and sour soup, Hunan pork) to bring home and devour while I knocked out a writing assignment before going out again.
My fortune cookie laid it out for me: Love is just around the corner.
Dinner demolished, story submitted, I made my way to Balliceaux for the Mondo Italia dance party with Glows in the Dark. This free jazz group is a long-time favorite of mine, but tonight they were doing something they'd never done before: not improvising.
Like the last time they did something similar, here, there was an Italian film showing behind them, this time 1977's "The Big Racket." But this time, guitarist Scott Burton had actually arranged all this 70s Italian movie music, so there was no noodling.
His musical choices were inspired and the group well-rehearsed. Trombonist Reggie pace also played wah-wah guitar and percussion, Cameron Ralston was on electric bass, John Lily on sax and Scott Clark on drums.
We were even treated to Eddie Prendergast of Amazing Ghost doing lead vocal on one very disco-sounding song and he was a show stopper with his smooth delivery and near-dance moves. The crowd went crazy, but so did the band. It was a highpoint in an evening of stellar moments.
The idea behind not improvising had been to keep the music going for the sake of dancing, but it took a while for people to get started actually dancing and then it was just a few people.
It was a shame because the music was so danceable, so very 70s groovy with big old bass lines that made you move almost involuntarily. Nobody does movie music better than Glows in the Dark.
I had a great vantage point from the settee by the bar and my musician friend Marshall, who'd been with me last night, joined me there again tonight. At one point, trumpeter and funnyman Bob Miller came over to say hello to us.
"Have you guys moved since last night?" he asked, half in jest. Well, we're wearing different clothes so we must have, we told him.
Hell, I'd been through Alabama and China before he found me back on that settee enjoying 70s grooves Italian-style while gunfights and bad moustaches played out on the wall.
There could not have been a more amazing experience going on in RVA tonight. If I wasn't going to turn the corner and find love, Balliceaux was the place to be.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
My First Pasties
I'm always treated to something unexpected when I go to author readings (hello, moonshine!); today it was a look at a pair of Gypsy Rose Lee's crooked-bow pasties. Hell, they're probably the first pasties I've seen up close, period.
This was at the Fountain Bookstore, a reliable place to hear interesting authors talk about their new books. The talk was delayed due to A/V difficulties (projector and screen having to be procured) only to end up using a new-fashioned computer instead. Hey, you make do with what you have.
Author Karen Abbott was accompanying the talk on her new book "American Rose: A Nation Laid Bare, The Life and Times of Gypsy Rose Lee" with a slide show of photographs, some previously unpublished, of Gypsy and her life, which included a seriously deranged mother, a dancing prodigy sister, intimacy with various members of the mob and the attention of NYC's elite writing group.
Abbott, who took three years to write the book, said she was compelled to write the book after hearing Gypsy described as "the most private public woman in the world."
The description that captured my imagination, though, was of her "public body and private mind, both equally exciting."
A self-satirist who used witticisms and jokes onstage to titillate her audience, something that wasn't done at the time, Gypsy was also determined to be taken seriously as a writer.
At one point, according to Abbott, 11,000 people a week were coming to see her show, including members of the Algonquin Roundtable.
I found it interesting that she found zippers vulgar, preferring straight pins, which she tossed into the audience as she removed them. This woman truly was a trailblazer in a lot of ways.
After the talk, Abbott brought out the black pasties (with red tulle sewn around them by her own mother, for modesty's sake apparently), which unfortunately she did not put on for our amusement. She did show how Gypsy would attached the bows crookedly so that she could correct that during her performance.
I'm not complaining. I finally got to see pasties, even if I didn't get to see them in use. And they did belong to the stripper who changed burlesque from a hurried nudie show to a languorous tease.
Abbott quoted a man who claimed he'd watch Gypsy take fifteen minutes to remove a glove and said he'd have watched just as eagerly if it had taken her half an hour.
That's the "public body" part; I would have been curious to know what the "private mind" was thinking as she did it.
Cause, let's face it, it's all about the mind.
This was at the Fountain Bookstore, a reliable place to hear interesting authors talk about their new books. The talk was delayed due to A/V difficulties (projector and screen having to be procured) only to end up using a new-fashioned computer instead. Hey, you make do with what you have.
Author Karen Abbott was accompanying the talk on her new book "American Rose: A Nation Laid Bare, The Life and Times of Gypsy Rose Lee" with a slide show of photographs, some previously unpublished, of Gypsy and her life, which included a seriously deranged mother, a dancing prodigy sister, intimacy with various members of the mob and the attention of NYC's elite writing group.
Abbott, who took three years to write the book, said she was compelled to write the book after hearing Gypsy described as "the most private public woman in the world."
The description that captured my imagination, though, was of her "public body and private mind, both equally exciting."
A self-satirist who used witticisms and jokes onstage to titillate her audience, something that wasn't done at the time, Gypsy was also determined to be taken seriously as a writer.
At one point, according to Abbott, 11,000 people a week were coming to see her show, including members of the Algonquin Roundtable.
I found it interesting that she found zippers vulgar, preferring straight pins, which she tossed into the audience as she removed them. This woman truly was a trailblazer in a lot of ways.
After the talk, Abbott brought out the black pasties (with red tulle sewn around them by her own mother, for modesty's sake apparently), which unfortunately she did not put on for our amusement. She did show how Gypsy would attached the bows crookedly so that she could correct that during her performance.
I'm not complaining. I finally got to see pasties, even if I didn't get to see them in use. And they did belong to the stripper who changed burlesque from a hurried nudie show to a languorous tease.
Abbott quoted a man who claimed he'd watch Gypsy take fifteen minutes to remove a glove and said he'd have watched just as eagerly if it had taken her half an hour.
That's the "public body" part; I would have been curious to know what the "private mind" was thinking as she did it.
Cause, let's face it, it's all about the mind.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
His and Her Camera Views
How could I be so foolish as to trust the RTD?
Once again, they have shown their ineptitude, this time with something as simple as a fricking calendar.
But the afternoon wasn't a complete loss because the book talk at Fountain Books with Chip Jones, author of War Shots: Norm Hatch and the U.S. Marine Corps Combat Cameramen of WW II, was fascinating and supplemented by some of the most compelling WW II photographs I've ever laid eyes on.
Using images shot by the very cameramen he writes about, Jones talked about former Marine Hatch and his happenstance route to becoming the preeminent photographer of the island-hopping campaign late in the war.
The kid who couldn't afford college ended up documenting the key moments of the war and eventually becoming an advisor to Hollywood on war films.
A photo of Hatch wading ashore with a hundred pounds of film and photo equipment on his shoulders to avoid the waves said it all.
All I could think was that it was a good thing he was young and strong, although Jones said Hatch still has amazing upper body strength, even at 90.
There were photos of Hatch shooting fires, the devastation after Nagasaki and flag-raising at Iwo Jima, all striking for how dangerous his work in documenting the war effort was.
When Jones asked Hatch about how he dealt with being surrounded by such awfulness and death, Hatch claimed "emotional detachment," a difficult thing to believe given what he witnessed.
The audience was full of former Marines, no doubt sharing Jones' sentiment that hearing Hatch's stories somehow gave them a window into their own fathers' wartime experiences.
Without that frame of reference, my interest was mainly in hearing a first-hand witness' take on it all.
I had been joined by my fellow nerd James, who claimed to Fountain owner Kelly that we compete to attend the most nerdy events.
Trying to impress James with my event knowledge, I asked if he was going to the artist talk after the book talk.
Since he didn't even know about it, that round went to me.
Reynolds Gallery was hosting a gallery talk with artist Sally Mann at 1 (or so the unreliable RTD had printed) and James was beside himself about it when I told him.
All of a sudden, we were heading straight from Fountain to Reynolds for more shared learning.
So you can imagine our mutual disappointment when we walked in to a full house and owner Bev Reynolds immediately apologizing because the gallery talk had been earlier.
She told us to come in for the question and answer session in progress and apologized profusely for the RTD error. I lost all my points right there.
Sorry, James.
I don't know who looked the most crestfallen, James, me, or the other latecomers clustered around us.
We only got to hear about ten minutes worth of Mann talking and while it was really good stuff (her developing methods, her shooting strategies), it was only a fraction of what she'd shared with the audience before we arrived.
Over-sized mounted copies of one of Mann's photographs were given to the audience, so there was that unexpected gift, but either of us would have preferred listening to Mann for an hour to a consolation prize.
On the other hand, we got to hear Mann talk about her work for ten minutes and for that we were grateful.
It doesn't excuse the RTD's sloppiness (or my error in taking them at their word), but we had to appreciate the satisfaction of a Saturday spent hearing about the art of photography past and present.
And that, I'm afraid, is what makes us nerds.
Once again, they have shown their ineptitude, this time with something as simple as a fricking calendar.
But the afternoon wasn't a complete loss because the book talk at Fountain Books with Chip Jones, author of War Shots: Norm Hatch and the U.S. Marine Corps Combat Cameramen of WW II, was fascinating and supplemented by some of the most compelling WW II photographs I've ever laid eyes on.
Using images shot by the very cameramen he writes about, Jones talked about former Marine Hatch and his happenstance route to becoming the preeminent photographer of the island-hopping campaign late in the war.
The kid who couldn't afford college ended up documenting the key moments of the war and eventually becoming an advisor to Hollywood on war films.
A photo of Hatch wading ashore with a hundred pounds of film and photo equipment on his shoulders to avoid the waves said it all.
All I could think was that it was a good thing he was young and strong, although Jones said Hatch still has amazing upper body strength, even at 90.
There were photos of Hatch shooting fires, the devastation after Nagasaki and flag-raising at Iwo Jima, all striking for how dangerous his work in documenting the war effort was.
When Jones asked Hatch about how he dealt with being surrounded by such awfulness and death, Hatch claimed "emotional detachment," a difficult thing to believe given what he witnessed.
The audience was full of former Marines, no doubt sharing Jones' sentiment that hearing Hatch's stories somehow gave them a window into their own fathers' wartime experiences.
Without that frame of reference, my interest was mainly in hearing a first-hand witness' take on it all.
I had been joined by my fellow nerd James, who claimed to Fountain owner Kelly that we compete to attend the most nerdy events.
Trying to impress James with my event knowledge, I asked if he was going to the artist talk after the book talk.
Since he didn't even know about it, that round went to me.
Reynolds Gallery was hosting a gallery talk with artist Sally Mann at 1 (or so the unreliable RTD had printed) and James was beside himself about it when I told him.
All of a sudden, we were heading straight from Fountain to Reynolds for more shared learning.
So you can imagine our mutual disappointment when we walked in to a full house and owner Bev Reynolds immediately apologizing because the gallery talk had been earlier.
She told us to come in for the question and answer session in progress and apologized profusely for the RTD error. I lost all my points right there.
Sorry, James.
I don't know who looked the most crestfallen, James, me, or the other latecomers clustered around us.
We only got to hear about ten minutes worth of Mann talking and while it was really good stuff (her developing methods, her shooting strategies), it was only a fraction of what she'd shared with the audience before we arrived.
Over-sized mounted copies of one of Mann's photographs were given to the audience, so there was that unexpected gift, but either of us would have preferred listening to Mann for an hour to a consolation prize.
On the other hand, we got to hear Mann talk about her work for ten minutes and for that we were grateful.
It doesn't excuse the RTD's sloppiness (or my error in taking them at their word), but we had to appreciate the satisfaction of a Saturday spent hearing about the art of photography past and present.
And that, I'm afraid, is what makes us nerds.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Beauty in Brevity
I couldn't resist going to Fountain Books to hear a blogger (The Book Lady, aka Rebecca Joines Schinsky) interview author Susan Gregg Gilmore ( a journalist turned novelist). Writing geeks talking about books; what a great way to kick off a Monday evening.
Gilmore's new book was born out of a return to her hometown of Nashville after thirty years away. While house hunting, she looked at a house in which she had played as a child, a place that brought back happy childhood memories. But unbeknownst to her back then, the basement housed the servants' quarters, which she described as "Concrete walls, no windows, a dark, dank place." A seed was planted.
Then she met a woman named Bezillia, moved to a place called the Grove and after much researching of society pages and obituaries from old newspapers, began the book that became The Improper Life of Bezillia Grove, the subject of tonight's reading.
Gilmore said that many of the book's themes developed from her own youth in the 60s and 70s: the Southern Freedom Movement, the beginnings of feminism, wanting to take a stand but fearful of falling short, even wanting to date a black guy in high school, but afraid of her father's reaction.
When The Book Lady asked her about her influences, Gilmore cited Southern icons like Eudora Welty and Flannery O'Connor. When she added contemporary Southern writers such as Lee Smith, Fountain owner Kelly Justice reminded the audience that Smith had been a speaker at the book store in the past. For the first-timers in the audience, Kelly informed them that, "This is where you come to hear writers before they're famous."
As to what the author is reading these days, Gilmore cited short story collections and, due to her reading speed, being a huge fan of flash fiction. At 1,000 words or less, it's ideal for the slow reader or attention-challenged, but still provides the arc of a story and an ending.
When an audience member asked about the unfamiliar genre, Gilmore explained it eloquently. "I think of it as elongated poetry."
That was the takeaway. I needed to go to that reading just to learn that beautiful way to describe a short piece of writing. Nerd quotient satisfied.
Gilmore's new book was born out of a return to her hometown of Nashville after thirty years away. While house hunting, she looked at a house in which she had played as a child, a place that brought back happy childhood memories. But unbeknownst to her back then, the basement housed the servants' quarters, which she described as "Concrete walls, no windows, a dark, dank place." A seed was planted.
Then she met a woman named Bezillia, moved to a place called the Grove and after much researching of society pages and obituaries from old newspapers, began the book that became The Improper Life of Bezillia Grove, the subject of tonight's reading.
Gilmore said that many of the book's themes developed from her own youth in the 60s and 70s: the Southern Freedom Movement, the beginnings of feminism, wanting to take a stand but fearful of falling short, even wanting to date a black guy in high school, but afraid of her father's reaction.
When The Book Lady asked her about her influences, Gilmore cited Southern icons like Eudora Welty and Flannery O'Connor. When she added contemporary Southern writers such as Lee Smith, Fountain owner Kelly Justice reminded the audience that Smith had been a speaker at the book store in the past. For the first-timers in the audience, Kelly informed them that, "This is where you come to hear writers before they're famous."
As to what the author is reading these days, Gilmore cited short story collections and, due to her reading speed, being a huge fan of flash fiction. At 1,000 words or less, it's ideal for the slow reader or attention-challenged, but still provides the arc of a story and an ending.
When an audience member asked about the unfamiliar genre, Gilmore explained it eloquently. "I think of it as elongated poetry."
That was the takeaway. I needed to go to that reading just to learn that beautiful way to describe a short piece of writing. Nerd quotient satisfied.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Girls' Night Out with Guys (but what guys!)
What an interesting night.
We started out in search of a meal and covered so much more ground than expected.
Exes, music, restaurant critics and lust; all topics explored and resolved.
Okay, love issues still up in the air.
Wanting to increase my brain cells before killing a few, I began at a book reading at Fountain Books.
The writer was Tony Williams, the book was The Pox and the Covenant and it was about the colonial resistance to smallpox inoculation, of which a young Ben Franklin was a huge part.
The concept of using an African folk cure (immunization) was unacceptable to many at the time, not that we hadn't started using Native American folk cures for rattlesnake bites and the like.
I met Williams upon walking in: he was smart and funny and, as a former teacher, not above correcting the grammar of a student in the audience.
Nerd quotient fulfilled.
And then the real fun began. I collected my girlfriend and then it was just a matter of deciding where to go.
Tuesday means wine is half off at Acacia, Sette and Six Burner.
We both voted for Six Burner since we know so much of the staff and it turned out to be the right choice, because who else was eating at Six Burner?
That's right, Dale Reitzer, so we wouldn't have been the beneficiary of his cooking last night anyway.
The last couple of times I'd seen Josh, the bartender, had not been at Six Burner, but at the National and he'd read me the riot act about my absence at his bar, so I knew it was going to be a great evening when he sarcastically and enthusiastically welcomed us.
The kitchen, most of whom I know, too, seemed to be happy to see us as well, because it wasn't long before an amuse bouche arrived to accompany our half-price Albarino.
Picture a white anchovy draped over a Mediterranean potato salad of the tiniest pieces.
The flavors were transporting; we really could imagine eating it on a seaside balcony somewhere.
By this time, our twosome status had been augmented by the addition of a Y chromosome, a handsome, charming guy I am just getting to know these past few months but who knows my friend much better.
Freshly showered and shaved (as much as a bearded guy shaves), he was just what we wanted to shake up the dynamics of the evening.
Just as we're trying to decide on entrees, another surprise course arrived; this time it was Alaskan octopus with olives, tomatoes, potatoes, paprika, olive oil and lemon juice.
The consensus was that truly amazing octopus comes from our fiftieth state, although Chef Phillip Denny's preparation gets a lot of the credit, too.
Again with the Mediterranean flavors, it impressed us all as being worthy of vacation eating. Only then did we finally place our order.
In a nod to sundresses, motorcycle rides and spring in general, our next course was shad roe, sun choke puree, farm egg, arugula and Parmesan.
The fish cake-like shad roe was beautifully enhanced by the drippy egg yolk and delicate sun choke puree. Appropriately, the man among us did the final sopping of the last bits of roe and egg, as only men can do.
At this point we decided to switch grapes because the beauty of half price wine by the glass is being able to do so throughout the evening.
They went Malbec but not me.
Josh wanted me to try something new, in this case the most popular red grape in Austria, Zweigelt. I tasted the Austrian Cherry Zweigelt and happily took his recommendation; it was smooth, round and spicy with, surprise, hints of cherry.
With loins having already been a hot topic that evening, I'd ordered the lamb loin, salsify, local mushies, asparagus, carrot puree in a red wine sauce.
My girl had gotten my first choice, the barramundi and chorizo and my guy ordered the grilled quails with beluga lentils.
All three were superb and provided an ideal variety of tasting possibilities for the three of us.
That is, when we weren't discussing how happy and in-love parents set impossible role model standards for their children, a group which included all three of us.
It's fortunate to witness those kinds of successful long-term relationships, but we agreed that it sets such a high standard, not that we're not all still looking and hoping to nail it ourselves.
By this point, most of the staff was starting to trickle to the bar, leading to a discussion of the Ruth Reichl lecture I'd just seen and food critics in general.
Having been recently reviewed, the staff was way into the subject.
On my way to the bathroom, I stuck my head in the kitchen and thanked Phillip for a truly spectacular meal, enumerating the highlights and wanting him to know how appreciative we were.
His response was modest but his face looked as pleased as punch.
Once Josh changed into jeans and tucked a cig behind his ear, we knew we needed to find our next destination.
Balliceaux seemed likely to still be going, but actually, we just made last call.
Our bartender was Peter and he ended up having plenty of enticing things to discus with me.
Turns out we have very few degrees of separation on certain key people and that provided some excellent surreptitious chatting; he also held his own on the topic of music, so I hope to be back for more.
Meanwhile, gal pal had run into an "old friend" and they were deep in discussion about their past.
And then it was closing time.
Our final stop was Ipanema for dessert (chocolate cake with coffee icing and gluten-free carrot cake) and to do a recap of the evening.
We're both very fond of our guy pal, attributing it to his strong and elegant mom raising him to be the kind of guy that women seek out: intelligent, clever, hard-working and just generally fun to talk to and be with.
He scored major points with me when Josh and I were discussing upcoming shows and as I ticked off which ones I was soon attending, he started singing to me.
Karen, I'm not taking sides
I don't think I'll ever do that again
I'll end up winning and I won't know why
Are you kidding?
A man who knows that lyric off the top of his head?
So, yes, I now have a (strictly) friendly companion for the show and dinner next week. Life is good.
Karen, put me in a chair, fuck me and make me a drink
I've lost direction and I'm past my peak
I'm telling you this isn't me
No, this isn't me
Karen, believe me, you haven't seen my good side yet
And to that, I would say, well then show me your good side, gentlemen.
I'm all ears.
We started out in search of a meal and covered so much more ground than expected.
Exes, music, restaurant critics and lust; all topics explored and resolved.
Okay, love issues still up in the air.
Wanting to increase my brain cells before killing a few, I began at a book reading at Fountain Books.
The writer was Tony Williams, the book was The Pox and the Covenant and it was about the colonial resistance to smallpox inoculation, of which a young Ben Franklin was a huge part.
The concept of using an African folk cure (immunization) was unacceptable to many at the time, not that we hadn't started using Native American folk cures for rattlesnake bites and the like.
I met Williams upon walking in: he was smart and funny and, as a former teacher, not above correcting the grammar of a student in the audience.
Nerd quotient fulfilled.
And then the real fun began. I collected my girlfriend and then it was just a matter of deciding where to go.
Tuesday means wine is half off at Acacia, Sette and Six Burner.
We both voted for Six Burner since we know so much of the staff and it turned out to be the right choice, because who else was eating at Six Burner?
That's right, Dale Reitzer, so we wouldn't have been the beneficiary of his cooking last night anyway.
The last couple of times I'd seen Josh, the bartender, had not been at Six Burner, but at the National and he'd read me the riot act about my absence at his bar, so I knew it was going to be a great evening when he sarcastically and enthusiastically welcomed us.
The kitchen, most of whom I know, too, seemed to be happy to see us as well, because it wasn't long before an amuse bouche arrived to accompany our half-price Albarino.
Picture a white anchovy draped over a Mediterranean potato salad of the tiniest pieces.
The flavors were transporting; we really could imagine eating it on a seaside balcony somewhere.
By this time, our twosome status had been augmented by the addition of a Y chromosome, a handsome, charming guy I am just getting to know these past few months but who knows my friend much better.
Freshly showered and shaved (as much as a bearded guy shaves), he was just what we wanted to shake up the dynamics of the evening.
Just as we're trying to decide on entrees, another surprise course arrived; this time it was Alaskan octopus with olives, tomatoes, potatoes, paprika, olive oil and lemon juice.
The consensus was that truly amazing octopus comes from our fiftieth state, although Chef Phillip Denny's preparation gets a lot of the credit, too.
Again with the Mediterranean flavors, it impressed us all as being worthy of vacation eating. Only then did we finally place our order.
In a nod to sundresses, motorcycle rides and spring in general, our next course was shad roe, sun choke puree, farm egg, arugula and Parmesan.
The fish cake-like shad roe was beautifully enhanced by the drippy egg yolk and delicate sun choke puree. Appropriately, the man among us did the final sopping of the last bits of roe and egg, as only men can do.
At this point we decided to switch grapes because the beauty of half price wine by the glass is being able to do so throughout the evening.
They went Malbec but not me.
Josh wanted me to try something new, in this case the most popular red grape in Austria, Zweigelt. I tasted the Austrian Cherry Zweigelt and happily took his recommendation; it was smooth, round and spicy with, surprise, hints of cherry.
With loins having already been a hot topic that evening, I'd ordered the lamb loin, salsify, local mushies, asparagus, carrot puree in a red wine sauce.
My girl had gotten my first choice, the barramundi and chorizo and my guy ordered the grilled quails with beluga lentils.
All three were superb and provided an ideal variety of tasting possibilities for the three of us.
That is, when we weren't discussing how happy and in-love parents set impossible role model standards for their children, a group which included all three of us.
It's fortunate to witness those kinds of successful long-term relationships, but we agreed that it sets such a high standard, not that we're not all still looking and hoping to nail it ourselves.
By this point, most of the staff was starting to trickle to the bar, leading to a discussion of the Ruth Reichl lecture I'd just seen and food critics in general.
Having been recently reviewed, the staff was way into the subject.
On my way to the bathroom, I stuck my head in the kitchen and thanked Phillip for a truly spectacular meal, enumerating the highlights and wanting him to know how appreciative we were.
His response was modest but his face looked as pleased as punch.
Once Josh changed into jeans and tucked a cig behind his ear, we knew we needed to find our next destination.
Balliceaux seemed likely to still be going, but actually, we just made last call.
Our bartender was Peter and he ended up having plenty of enticing things to discus with me.
Turns out we have very few degrees of separation on certain key people and that provided some excellent surreptitious chatting; he also held his own on the topic of music, so I hope to be back for more.
Meanwhile, gal pal had run into an "old friend" and they were deep in discussion about their past.
And then it was closing time.
Our final stop was Ipanema for dessert (chocolate cake with coffee icing and gluten-free carrot cake) and to do a recap of the evening.
We're both very fond of our guy pal, attributing it to his strong and elegant mom raising him to be the kind of guy that women seek out: intelligent, clever, hard-working and just generally fun to talk to and be with.
He scored major points with me when Josh and I were discussing upcoming shows and as I ticked off which ones I was soon attending, he started singing to me.
Karen, I'm not taking sides
I don't think I'll ever do that again
I'll end up winning and I won't know why
Are you kidding?
A man who knows that lyric off the top of his head?
So, yes, I now have a (strictly) friendly companion for the show and dinner next week. Life is good.
Karen, put me in a chair, fuck me and make me a drink
I've lost direction and I'm past my peak
I'm telling you this isn't me
No, this isn't me
Karen, believe me, you haven't seen my good side yet
And to that, I would say, well then show me your good side, gentlemen.
I'm all ears.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Mute by Choice
Since becoming unemployed, I have had fewer opportunities to talk to others than I used to, which is not necessarily a bad thing. At least, according to Anne LeClaire, the author of "Listening Below the Noise: A Meditation on the Practice of Silence." This woman has spent 2 days a month for 17 years being silent for the entire day and shared her experiences with a curious audience at Fountain Bookstore tonight.
And as she explained, there are different levels of silence. There's no talking, of course, but there's also no TV, computer or music in the background. Apparently some people can have the radio on and believe they are "in silence." Not so much, says LeClaire.
The rewards of silence include an inner peace, an ability to delve within oneself and an ability to focus absolutely. In her own experience, silence allowed her to finally address some long-ignored issues within herself that she'd been avoiding for years. She found the silence opened her up enough to finally allow herself enough space to examine them.
I've been referred to as "a good talker" and "an excellent conversationalist" so not talking would take a fair amount of restraint on my part. On the other hand, I seem to have adjusted just fine to far less conversation now that I am no longer in an office. Who knows, perhaps the benefits of less talking and noise have helped me keep my equilibrium during these jobless months.
And as she explained, there are different levels of silence. There's no talking, of course, but there's also no TV, computer or music in the background. Apparently some people can have the radio on and believe they are "in silence." Not so much, says LeClaire.
The rewards of silence include an inner peace, an ability to delve within oneself and an ability to focus absolutely. In her own experience, silence allowed her to finally address some long-ignored issues within herself that she'd been avoiding for years. She found the silence opened her up enough to finally allow herself enough space to examine them.
I've been referred to as "a good talker" and "an excellent conversationalist" so not talking would take a fair amount of restraint on my part. On the other hand, I seem to have adjusted just fine to far less conversation now that I am no longer in an office. Who knows, perhaps the benefits of less talking and noise have helped me keep my equilibrium during these jobless months.
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