High Noon at the Crabcake Corral

I didn't drive an hour and a half to have lunch by myself, but that's the way the cookie crumbles.

Or so I thought. Back on my birthday, my aunt had suggested we meet for lunch to celebrate. Because she's got great genes (and by that I mean she plays doubles tennis three times a week, looks like she's in her early '60s and, oh, by the way, she's 75), the soonest we could schedule a lunch date was today. The when and where is a constant - noon at the Confident Rabbit, formerly Bistro Bethem, in Fredericksburg - so once we had the date, everything was set.

It's not like either of us feel the need to confirm with the other the day of because we're grown-ass women who can be relied upon to show up once we commit.

I had a brief moment driving up Route 301 under roiling clouds and occasional spitting rain when I wondered if I should have confirmed our plans, but then thought, nah. Except when I got to the restaurant promptly at noon, she wasn't there and she always beats me to our usual window table. Her drive from Warrenton is shorter than my drive from Richmond, so she's reliably in place ready to greet me when I roll in.

Except she wasn't today, so I had to settle for a big hello from a charming member of the rainbow army.

For the first ten minutes, I figured she was just running late. For the next ten, I beat myself up for not having confirmed our date before wasting the time driving to Fredericksburg for a solo lunch. Then I got a grip, ordered a glass of Cremant de Loire and a crabcake on brioche with a house salad and felt much better.

Since I'd screwed up, I might as well get a nice lunch out of it and make the best of it.

Moments after ordering, I spotted my aunt coming down the sidewalk, looking tall and impeccably dressed, her spiky white hair proclaiming that she wasn't your typical 75-year old. In a flash, I motioned to our server, telling him to keep my lunch in the kitchen until she'd ordered and hers was ready, too.

"Of course, love," he said, winking at our conspiracy.

My aunt arrived apologetic but an 18-wheeler had lost control and was laying across Route 17 East, her usual route to Fredericksburg, necessitating a U-turn and alternate route. All told, the delay took her an extra half an hour and she hadn't wanted to pull over and call the restaurant to alert me for fear of being even tardier.

Meanwhile, I'm explaining to her that I'd been beating myself up all this time, convinced that we'd changed the time and I'd screwed up. "No, no, it's always high noon!" she reminded me.

Once we'd finished playing the take-the-blame game, we got on to the pleasures of eating, drinking and dishing about the family. She's a great person for me to vent to about my sisters because she knows all the characters, even sharing opinions about them. "They resent you for making choices that made you happy when they didn't do the same," she posited.

Let's just say that the satisfaction of telling her some of my sister-trip stories from April brought about a (very satisfying) dropped jaw reaction similar to what I'd felt.

That alone made me glad I'd come.

But then, so did the flourless chocolate torte that our gregarious server delivered as we chatted away until every other table finished and left. We didn't intend to be the last of the ladies who lunched at the Rabbit today, but our delayed start made it that way. Not to mention a prolonged discussion with our talkative server who hopes to wind up living in Norway sooner rather than later ("No more Virginia summers!" he emoted dramatically).

When my aunt shared that the State Department, her long-time employer, had offered her a post in Oslo that she'd turned down for one in war-torn Beirut, he was agog. "No, I like cold weather!" he insisted, although with his freshly shaved bald head (and, yes, he offered to let us rub it), he'd be wearing hats almost all the time.

Now that I think about it, he probably would have loved that, all those stylish chapeaux.

Walking down Fredericksburg's refurbished restaurant row, my aunt pointed out how garish a new rooftop restaurant looked. When I explained that it was meant to appeal to Millennials, her response was, "Yea, well, all I can say is, Millennials better vote in 2020 or we're doomed!"

Is it any wonder I drive an hour and a half in the rain to have lunch with this woman?

It's the exact same drive (and, in fact, the same restaurant, albeit under a different name) I used to make when my friend L. lived in Maryland and we'd meet there for dinner once a month. So it was an unlikely coincidence when I got home to find an email from him with the subject line, "Is nothing scared?"

He'd included an article about the Fredericksburg City Council voting to remove the slave auction block that sits on the corner near the restaurant that I'd just come from. His message was succinct: "How will we know where to meet for lunch?"

Now, mind you, he's been living in Key West for close to a decade, but I understood his point. We'd walked by that historical auction block together countless times and now city council was removing it, despite its value in sparking important conversations and its educational role in reminding us of a painful period in history.

And lest we forget, despite its prominent place in our friendship's history.

Jeez Louis, I guess nothing is sacred.

Beans Spilled

When offered the opportunity to reschedule, I said no dice.

The rain poured down when Mac and I walked this morning under umbrellas, but we didn't mind because it was also 62 degrees. I got home to a message from my intended lunch date, giving me the option (since we were both coming from an hour + away) of moving our plans to a less soggy day.

Since I am anything but a weather wimp, I scoffed at her kind offer. All systems go.

Heading up Route 301 in a driving rain resulted in moments of hydroplaning, the need to slow down to far below the speed limit and the occasional vehicle sending up a puddle spray so immense my car was doused as if at a car wash.

Not ideal driving conditions, I can assure you.

My reluctance to reschedule also had to do with the fact that it had been so long since my aunt and I had met for lunch that neither of us could remember when it had been. Definitely not 2018 and we're not even sure it was 2017, although surely it couldn't have been longer than that. We used to meet up in Fredericksburg 2 or 3 times a year and then something happened to her.

She took up tennis. That she was in her late '60s at the time seemed to matter not at all.

And for someone who came to the game late, she turned out to be really good at it. These days, she plays in so many leagues that her only reliably available day is Thursday and even those are booked way in advance.

Today's lunch had been scheduled the second week of December and there was no way I was going to the bottom of the waiting list for her next free Thursday. So I took on the rain and headed north, eventually frustrating the drivers behind me who saw fit to pass me despite the lack of visibility and puddle-slicked road.

All of that was forgotten when I got downtown and found a parking space directly in front of the Confident Rabbit - why the rabbit is confident, I have no idea - which is the new restaurant in the former Bistro Bethem space where we always meet.

And there she was, this stylish aunt of mine, sitting at a front table by the window, having watched me score the perfect parking space and eager for me to sit down and start the conversation. Her first word, in fact, was, "Spill!"

Seems her brother, my Dad, had alerted her to the news flash that there was a man in my life but he hadn't been forthcoming enough for her. "He told me he really likes him," she said, sounding exasperated. "He said you should have met him 25 years ago!"

Oh, so I had a choice in when all this was to happen?

Only a person lucky enough to find the love of his life at age 23 would be so cavalier about his daughter not "finding" someone in a more timely manner. Sheesh.

There was no sense in opening my mouth for all that until we ordered. Looking at the menu, we saw that it was restaurant week, so it was basically a matter of choosing one from column A and one from column B and our server would be on her way.

When she asked if we wanted wine, I demurred, explaining that I'd just come off a vacation that had been awash in bubbles and rum and I was taking a break. The server's eyes lit up. Seems she'd just come off vacation, too, and wanted to commiserate about how painful it is to readjust to the real world after a stellar getaway.

The struggle is real and this stranger understood.

I was in heaven. Here was somebody feeling the same pain I've been feeling since Monday trying to re-engage our brains and resume old routines while secretly pining to be back in the sunshine doing nothing. When she found out I'd been further south than she had, my aunt interjected herself into the conversation.

"Wait, wait, you just got back from the Keys?" she asked incredulously. "Okay, spill!"

Our green salads arrived as I was giving her the highlights reel of how my life took a sharp right turn once I met Mr. Wright. Sharing one of my more quotable comments from our first date, my pithy aunt remarked, "You never had any problem with confidence."

Much as I tried to keep the saga to a manageable length, she kept asking questions that required more explanation until finally, I realized she'd cleaned her plate and I'd taken three bites.

Needing to wrap this story up, I assured her we were living happily ever after and it was time to talk about something else. I wanted to hear how her tennis playing was going for a 75-year old woman playing in the 18+ league.

Regaling me with tales of championships won, deciding to get shots for leg pain and being crowned "team queen" for her mouthiness and ability to win on the court, I marveled at how she's a poster child for following your passion regardless of age.

And based on the photos she showed me of her and her teammates, she was looking pretty great - of course, I always was partial to that short skirt and leggings look anyway - doing it with her flawless skin, short, white spiky hair and hipster horn rim glasses.

For lunch, I'd chosen the curry chicken salad on housemade bread with macaroni salad, while she'd gotten the tarragon chicken salad on said bread. We'd intended to share our plates so we could enjoy both but we wound up liking our own so much that we were only willing to share a bite. Too often I find curry chicken salad to be too strongly flavored, but our post-vacation server had highly recommended it and she was right.

It was perfection, suggesting curry without drowning you in it.

Because her main squeeze was at home waiting for the Comcast repairman to come fix their spotty reception, my aunt asked me if I was still without a TV and I assured her I was. Turns out that's something she's always admired me for (who knew?), even as she admitted that she couldn't live without hers, especially in Warrenton where apparently there's not a lot else to do.

My condolences.

When my aunt and I were on the fence about ordering dessert, our server leaned in and suggested that one final shared dessert would be an appropriate conclusion to vacation mode, sort of the period at the end of the sentence signifying that once it was gone, vacation indulgence was truly over.

As if. Nevertheless, we shared a slice of black bottom chocolate mousse cake while she asked me for the latest scoop on my five sisters, but there wasn't enough chocolate in Fredericksburg to fully cover that topic.

When we finally got up to go, our server came over with a concerned look on her face. "Good luck coming down from vacation. I know we can do it if we try!"

Ah, the innocence of youth. Honey, if I was trying to come down, do you think I'd have driven an hour and 20 minutes in the driving rain to talk about my life?

Confidence isn't just for rabbits, you know.

Back to the Night

My parents are an inspiration to me, even when they're not present.

Today's lunch date had all the key ingredients: a scenic road trip up Route 301 to Fredericksburg, a reliably creative restaurant, pithy and opinionated company and chocolate.

My favorite tennis player and I had been trying to arrange a lunch date since January, canceling twice for snow and once for last minute schedule conflicts. Today's plans had happened spontaneously after I'd gotten a happy birthday e-mail last Saturday.

Choosing as my soundtrack "Joan Armatrading Classics," I rolled up 301 listening to songs about every stage of a women's life - "Rosie," a young woman's song about not coming on so willing and strong to the boys, "Kind Words and a Real Good Heart" about the more mature realization that life can be indiscriminate and "Me, Myself and I" about the reality of needing alone time.

It's as timeless a record as I know.

My aunt and I met at Bistro Bethem but sat inside since she'd just finished a match in F-burg this morning (and had another at 5 p.m. today) and was looking for a cool sit-down for a while. The salad I ordered was as good as any I've had in ages with kale, snow peas, quinoa, radishes and smoked turkey in a delicate mustard vinaigrette. I'd eat it again tomorrow, it was that good.

As we ate, we caught up since it had been over a year since we'd last met.

She's a UR grad who's never quite accepted the Westhampton campus merging with the UR campus, even going so far as to suggest that her class' 50-year reunion be held at a house rather than on campus because she doesn't care for the way the place feels and looks now.

To me, it's just a labyrinth I do my best to navigate when I'm over there for culture.

Since I'd just seen my folks, she asked how her brother/my father was, leading to some great stories about his misspent youth. Apparently he was quite the Lothario before meeting my Mom (whom she referred to as his soulmate), including one woman with whom he broke it off and who still refuses to attend an event he's at because of it.

Talking about the news (she's as savvy politically as anyone I know) I brought up free-range parenting and the debate going on in D.C. about it. She regaled me with stories of accompanying her mother, my Richmond grandmother, to Thalhimer's and Miller and Rhodes to shop before her mother went on to her job at the telephone company at Grace and 7th Street.

"Then I'd take the bus home and walk eight blocks to our apartment," she remembered. These days, DSS would pick her up and throw Grandma in jail. Different times, we agreed.

Talking about my parents and their decades-long romance, she mentioned their still active sex life, something my Dad apparently shares with her on occasion. "They were doing it in the shower in Cape Henry!" she tells me and I didn't dare ask for details.

Most interesting of all our chatting was when I turned the tables on her and asked about her life and relationship of the past 20+ years. They still live together, but on separate floors and schedules. "If I had it to do over again, I wouldn't." she admitted, surprising me.

She's still attractive, very fit (almost daily tennis), smart as a whip and dryly funny. When she said she was considering a dating website, I seconded the motion. They're not married, his health is precarious and she's still vital and energetic. How much life do you owe someone once the trappings of a relationship are long gone?

Neither of us was sure about the answer.

For dessert, I had pot de creme au chocolat with a piece of house-made nut brittle the size of my hand while she enjoyed strawberry sorbet. Asking about my plans tonight, it occurred to her that she had the perfect host in me to show her the new Richmond.

We immediately started making plans for her to come stay for a few days (after the tennis championships are over, of course) so I could reacquaint her with the city of her birth and upbringing.Maybe she'll meet someone interesting while she's here or maybe she'll just have a good time.

Since we don't get do-overs, it only seems smart to make the most of right now. That was the topic of my thoughts tooling back down 301...and probably hers as well.

Don't we all want to be still doing it in the shower when we're 82?

Tete a Tete avec Ma Tante

You can imagine the drama involved with having five younger sisters.

I sidestep a lot of it neatly by living in Richmond, my father's home town, while my sisters live in Maryland.

So when the family goings-on are at fever pitch like they are now, I do the sensible thing.

I stay clear and I meet my aunt in Fredericksburg for lunch.

She's twelve years older than me and twelve years younger than my Dad, meaning she's hardly a traditional aunt.

It had been a while, so it was good to see her smiling face when I arrived at Bistro Bethem.

She already had her wine and I just barely ordered a glass of Tempranillo when she said, "Go!"

After the second time the server came over, my aunt explained to her, "We're solving dysfunctional family problems. You may want to give us some time."

They graciously did, returning 45 minutes later to finally take our order and ask how things were going.

By then, we'd joined the Jamestown colonists in the starving time and put our orders in.

She wanted an oyster po'boy, but wasn't going to miss the tacos made of backyard-smoked pulled pork, pickled vegetables,creme fraiche in two grilled corn tortillas with a tasty little side salad.

Because there's no pig like backyard-smoked pig.

Good as it was, food played second fiddle to a robust round table.

It's fascinating to have someone slightly older who watched your family grow up and can share memories and impressions impossible for me at the center of a six-girl storm.

Let's just say I now have a much better idea why certain sisters are the way they are.

Once we hit the two-hour mark, the rest of the customers had cleared out and it was just us and the staff, beginning to prep for dinner.

We were offered dessert and with coconut cake on the menu, it was an easy decision.

No matter how often I have their coconut cake, it always takes me back to my first one, which my grandmother had set out on the fire escape when I first came to visit her Colonial Avenue apartment as a child.

My Irish twin ( the sister 13 months younger than me) and I had been put on a train from Washington to Richmond to visit my grandparents and college-age aunt for a week.

I found their Richmond apartment a marvel of woodwork, high ceilings and with fire escapes, a wholly new concept to me.

That she kept cakes out there because of limited counter space seemed exotic, although once I moved onto Floyd Avenue in 1993, I understood completely.

You take counter space where you can with an early 20th-century kitchen.

As my aunt and I sat there picking up all the last bits of coconut off the plate, she ruminated, "I wish my mother could be here for a conversation so I could talk to her with what I know now."

I heartily agreed.

And I feel certain she'd lecture me to tell my sisters to just get along now while we still can.

And then she'd tell me my skirt was too short.

Mist Me Quick

There's something to be said for a birthday lunch looking at nearly naked men.

I went for a scenic drive up Route 301 to Fredricksburg to celebrate with my two favorite sisters (when you have five to choose from, some just rise to the top).

Standing on the street corner waiting for them, I knew they'd arrived when I heard, "Hey, honey, have much  you charge?" yelled from the window of a passing car. My baby sister, the card.

They arrived bearing presents and we decided to begin at Bistro Bethem at a sunny table with a view of the street.

Rose and beer were poured and we got down to eating while talking a mile a minute since it had been six months since we'd gotten together.

After so much rich food lately, I couldn't resist the whole avocado stuffed with Dragon Creek lump crab meat and micro-greens and pine nuts scattered over it then drizzled with EVOO.

I can never get enough crab and avocado is one of the few worthy vehicles for it, in my humble opinion.

We also shared a dish of grilled asparagus spears, Serrano ham,a sunny side up local organic egg and roasted red peppers; it was a hearty side salad to my crab.

All of a sudden our eyes were caught by a trio of girls outside the restaurant. Their faces and legs were panted deep blue and they were dancing on the sidewalk.

With no identifying clues, we couldn't imagine why, but we watched as traffic slowed and people pointed. Dancing girls, whatever. Back to present unwrapping.

From there we walked a half block to Kybecca WIne Bar for another course. The outside tables were being kept temperate by a fine mist released from the edges of the awnings. It was the first time I'd seen such a thing at a restaurant.

The chef, we were surprised to see, had cut his hair and shaved his beard, making for a striking change in his appearance, but he was just as friendly as ever.

I love the way their seating is arranged against the banquette with two additional chairs, making for three-tops, something I've never seen in Richmond either.

The beer drinker was excited about something hoppy and the other two of us got the Bebe Prosecco Rose, a beautiful deep pink bubbly that suited the festive and female occasion (celebrating me and talking about the other sisters).

Despite there being no appetizers on the brunch menu, we convinced the chef to do a cheese plate for us with little effort. The Epoisses de Bourgogne, a rich and strong-smelling washed rind cheese, was my favorite, oozy and pungent.

The Fromager d'Affinois, a cousin to Brie, but a triple creme was downright decadent (at 60% fat, I guess so). With the fig compote, it was heavenly.

The Beehive Barely Buzzed cheddar, our only hard cheese, was nutty, full-bodied and unique with its lavender, oil and coffee rubbed rind. I'm not a coffee drinker, but this totally worked for me.

As we sat there sipping and nibbling on our bread and cheeses, we looked out the window to see a trio of girls leading a duo of guys on pink leashes. The guys were dressed only in black Speedos.

And before you recoil, the guys had the bodies for Speedos, so it was okay. Actually, it is awesome eye candy and about as unexpected on the streets of downtown historic Fredericksburg as I could have imagined.

Again, there was nothing to indicate who they were or why they were doing this, so we just watched and enjoyed. I was prepared to step out under the mist if overheating became an issue.

And it's only my birthday eve. No telling what I might happen on tomorrow.

Road Trip-Worthy Brunching

How fortuitous that I had a road trip planned for this beautiful, sunny day. I have a friend who is a food writer in DC and instead of meeting there, we had arranged to meet in Fredericksburg for a change.

So I joined the clusters of guys on Harleys that inevitably show up on Route 301 on sunny Sundays and made the scenic drive to wine and brunch with my friend. We were even trying a new-to-me destination, Kybecca Wine Bar.

Oh, I've been in the wine shop many times but never in the restaurant, so I was looking forward to catching up with my friend and seeing what the kitchen could do.

We were smart to meet early because the place continued to fill up the longer we were there, which was a good four hours' worth. We took a three-sided banquette table, but I admired the community table as we walked by it. Had I been alone, that's just where I would have sat my tights down.

Since it had been a while since we'd broken bread together, we started with the pretty and festive hibiscus cocktail, made with Riondo Pink Prosecco, a touch of hibiscus syrup and an (edible) hibiscus flower.

We found they went down like water (and the flower's sweetness, described by our server as "rhubarb and raspberry," was delightful) and moved on to a bottle of the Bebe Prosecco Rose to stay in pink mode.

It's my friend's habit to taste around the menu, so we did (it's one of my favorite reasons to eat with him).

I chose the chorizo and scrambled egg crepes (two crepes filled with locally-raised chorizo, duck thigh meat and scrambled eggs, topped with Cypress Grove's lamb Chopper cheese mornay sauce).

He chose the fried egg and bacon baguette (toasted baguette filled with two over-easy eggs, crispy bacon, cilantro mayo, shaved Pecorino) and yeast-risen waffles with fruit, house-made whipped cream, berries and Virginia maple syrup.

The point in ordering the waffles was the menu's claim that in order to achieve the incredible texture of light and airy on the inside and crispy on the outside, they start the batter the night before.

Well, we'll just see about that, we decided. And the waffles were stellar, light as air, with deep squares for obscene amounts of cream and syrup.

The baguette was, to say the least, challenging to eat once the yolks had broken, but the generous amount of bacon and mayo made it downright decadent. The baguette butt made the perfect sopping vehicle for everything that dripped onto the plate.

But I'd have to go with my crispy crepes as the standout; when the chef saw me all but licking my plate, he came over to see how I'd liked them (or collect compliments, but I don't want to presume).

He turned out to be a charming and friendly guy ("No ring, either," my friend prodded me) who appreciates a duck-lover. We got a second order just to verify our first impression, which pleased him no end.

Since it had been a while, I had lots to share with my friend and he's always got great recommendations for me of new and obscure places to eat in my hometown. Anacostia, here I come.

With plans for several upcoming trips to DC, I actually made a few notes so I won't forget his suggestions (because he will ask and he will chide me if I don't try them and have opinions).

By this point, it was mid-afternoon and the place was full, except for the outside tables, but the wine was gone and we still had room for a little something. And we were nowhere close to done talking.

I chose the Kung Fu Girl Riesling (because I'm a big fan of Charles Smith's wines) to go with the pound cake panino (two slices of poundcake with Nutella inside and grilled with a panini maker). Friend got the chocolate pot de creme, knowing I'd eat what he didn't.

The panino was stellar, crispy and smeared thickly with Nutella between the slices. The blackberries and strawberries from the waffles reappeared on top (no doubt from south of the equator at this time of the year). We devoured this first and then moved on to the excellent and creamy pot de creme.

When our server came back to collect our plates, she actually asked if we wanted anything else. We laughed and declined; it was nearing 4:00 and we both had plans for the evening, so hitting the road was in order.

And after all the talking we'd done (this is one guy who can talk as much as I can), I was ready for a talk-free trip home.

And, of course, I ended up singing the whole way back. How can you not when you're driving down 301 listening to Band of Horses and The Stills?

Just Bring Me the Skate Wing

I had my biggest couple date ever tonight (five of them plus me) and I drove further for it than I usually do to share a meal with the mated.

But an occasion was involved (my father's birthday) and all the couples were related to me somehow (including my favorite sister as well as my least favorite sister; the other three didn't attend) and I never mind a relaxing road trip up Route 301 to Fredericksburg.

We met at the Kenmore Inn for cocktails because several of the attendees were staying the night there. It's a quaint old house and a great place for wine and cheese in front of the fireplace.

Naturally, we lingered longer than we should have to make our reservation on a timely basis, despite the fact that it was a mere two-block walk away.

My Dad had chosen La Petite Auberge, a mainstay in Fredericksburg since the chef/owner left La Nicoise in DC to open LPA in 1981 and give the locals traditional French cuisine in a very old-school-looking dining room.

The only fly in the ointment was that it was the dreaded Restaurant Week, a virtual guarantee of crowded restaurants and slow service.

Luckily, we were in no hurry; even better they put us in a smaller room just off the main dining room and assigned us two servers, one for drinks (Tippy) and one for food (Jody), no doubt a strategy to contain us in the room.

In addition to the regular menu, there is always an extensive list of daily specials and tonight there was also the Restaurant Week menu, making for an infinite number of choices, or so it seemed with our large group.

My choices were narrowed down immediately because one of the specials was skate wing with capers and black butter.

What followed was a table-wide discussion of how nobody had ever seen skate on a menu before (one guest wouldn't consider eating it because she "likes" skates; must be their winning personalities). This is the point where I start looking for strength to deal with my family.

It took a while for Tippy just to get all the wine and drinks to the table, an unenviable job considering how well lubricated this crowd already was.

And now I have to mention the music because a) it was so unexpected given the restaurant and its clientele and b) it plucked on my last nerve for the four hours I was forced to endure it.

Classic rock. In a French restaurant.

I spent the evening listening to Bob Seger, Steely Dan, Led Zeppelin, the Eagles and worse. Every time the guy next to me recognized a song but couldn't remember the artist, he turned to me for the answer.

In quick succession, I satisfied his curiosity: Argent, Cream, The Band. I know the pain was written all over my face.

Luckily the food was a good distraction. My mesclun with shaved Manchego, dried cranberries and pine nuts was a nice little combination before an entree I knew would be obscenely rich.

And was it ever. A generous portion of skate wing sat in a pool of black butter with capers scattered about and snow peas on the side so that my arteries wouldn't close immediately; the potatoes Lyonaise I never touched. I love the sweetness of skate; it reminds me of scallops without as much texture.

Around me, others got rockfish (the fish my family grew up eating at least every other Friday for my entire childhood), stuffed flounder, salmon, mussels, crabmeat, steak; two of my favorite people at the table couldn't resist the calf's liver special, endearing them further to me.

After all the disdain for my skate order, two people requested a bite of mine and one came back for seconds.

Both proclaimed it delicious, but the others remained highly skeptical. Sometimes I wonder how this family produced me. Make that often.

But extended family conversations are great fun because everyone has different memories of the same event. It was hysterical hearing different people's versions of long-forgotten vacations, conversations and escapades; I shared nothing for fear of being trampled underfoot. Who hit whom with a broom that summer in Maine?

And because we are a family raised on the principle that dessert is an inalienable right (we had a different dessert every single night growing up), all kinds of sweeties showed up after the meal.

There was chocolate mousse, key lime pie (in a chocolate cookie crust and drizzled with chocolate sauce), poached pears, creme brulee and chocolate ganache cake, which was my choice.

After-dinner drinks and coffee abounded, but not a drop of cream or a hint of sugar were to be found anywhere on the table. I come from a long line of people who consider it a personality flaw to drink coffee any way but black. It doesn't affect me, because I don't drink it at all.

By the time everyone was pleasantly replete, we were just about the last customers in the restaurant.

We bundled up, said our goodbyes to each other (some of these people I only see once a year at this dinner) and made our way out to the frigid street.

It was a beautiful and bright drive home thanks to the magnificent moon that followed me down 301. For long stretches, I was the only car on the road, which made it all the easier to relax into my thoughts and my music.

Without naming names, you can be sure I didn't play anything remotely resembling classic rock.

Okay, Decemberists followed by Lissie. I felt infinitely better before I even hit Bowling Green.

I Will Miss His Frequency

Old friends are best. King James used to call for his old shoes; they were easiest to his feet.
~John Selden (1584- 1654)

One of my oldest friends is moving from Maryland to Key West, which means our monthly get-togethers for lunch/dinner/theater in DC/Fredericksburg will end. I'm completely bummed about this upcoming change even as I celebrate the new chapter in his life and wish him the best.

Today we had our next-to-last meal together at Bistro Bethem in Fredericksburg at our usual table and it was a little bittersweet. We tried not to spend too much time on the subject of his departure, but it was the elephant in the room, so there was really no ignoring it.

I love this guy for many reasons, not the least of which is that he's my biggest cheerleader, here. He brought up the perfect woman theory yet again today and I still find it hugely gratifying because this is a guy who has been happily in a relationship since the day I met him, yet whose high opinion of me has never wavered. We are proof positive that men and women can be the best of friends without ever crossing that line in the sand.

And soon he will move to a place he has been visiting since before I met him and will only return to the area a couple of times a year. I will miss his raunchy sense of humor and his well-informed take on life and love. I will miss seeing a sharp-dressed man walking down the street grinning at me in anticipation of our time together.

I will miss someone who remembers me before I was fully formed (although he would say I was always exactly the same as I am today). I will miss trying new restaurants in DC with him and losing track of where we were because we were in our own little world. I will miss how easily (and loudly) he made me laugh.

I don't want to get too downbeat, because the friendship isn't ending. It's only the frequency which is changing and some is better than none, at least in this case. But like comfy old shoes, this is one of two friendships in my life that is so easy, so stress-free as to be effortless.

Not that I wouldn't have been willing to work at it, but it was never once necessary in all these years. And I have a feeling he will still be my biggest fan, no matter where he lives. Believe me, I know how lucky that makes me.

Serenity Now...Before My Head Explodes

It's a good thing I already had plans for a road trip today because I was in desperate need of some time to think...and reflect...and maybe think some more. So much seems to be happening lately and sorting it out away from the computer and other distractions offered the best way to get my head around it all.

I had plans to meet an old friend, this guy here, for lunch in Fredericksburg; our last three assignations had been in D.C., but I wanted to drive Route 301 today, knowing it would be a scenic drive after the recent snow. It was, too, with endless snow-covered fields that invited contemplation and almost nothing to distract me from my thoughts.

When we arrived at Bistro Bethem, they put us at our usual table and my friend got his usual lunch, the wood-oven pizza. I had potato leek soup and the three-cheese grilled cheese with bacon and tomato. We finished with the pot de creme au chocolat with pine nut brittle (I do love brittle of any kind and despite my grandmother having told me it would pull all my teeth out, they're all still there).

Since he's been a fan since before I was legal, I can tell him anything and I had loads to share and solicit his opinion on. He knows me too well ("This is what you should do and this is what you'll actually do," he told me honestly) and still makes me laugh out loud; one outburst was so noisy, he actually apologized for making me react so loudly. You have to hang on to friends who can do that for you.

Of course, there are no solutions to all the things swirling around in my head except how I alone choose to react and I'm leaning towards just being myself up and seeing what's offered. I can't be sure that this state of mind is not of my own design; even I can only overthink things for so long. Besides, maybe these aren't thinking issues so much as feeling.