Sepia-Toned Afternoon

Birthdays were always high holy days in my family. The celebrant chose the meals.

Which means I shouldn't have been surprised when  I got to my parents' house Monday and Mom announced that today's lunch would be my birthday lunch, even though it was a couple days away. Not only that, but she gave me two choices, knowing they're both life-long favorites of mine: cheeseburgers or fried chicken.

And don't you know that despite having had cheeseburgers for my chosen birthday dinner my entire childhood and beyond, I requested fried chicken this year. "What else?" she wanted to know. Gherkins and clementines was all I desired to accompany my thigh and wings.

"I'll have some potato salad with mine," my Dad announces from his chair on the screened porch, making it clear that he thought gherkins and clementines inadequate sides for fried yard bird. It was a fabulous birthday repast (what meal that ends with greasy fingers isn't?) made even better because it was with the two of them.

It was a perfectly gorgeous day to be on the Northern Neck - mid-70s temperatures and a spirited breeze off the Rappahannock - and after I'd planted some moonflowers and hung some pictures, we all settled on the porch to enjoy the afternoon.

When the topic turned to the current administration (as it always does when you put three lifelong liberals together), I didn't expect to hear my Dad say, "I wish I was going to be around to see how history treats Trump."

I understood where he was coming from because Dad's been a lifelong student of history, meaning most of his pleasure reading is about the past, especially war and politics. As a kid, I just thought that was because I had the coolest and smartest Dad ever.

So naturally he's curious about how this era will be depicted by future historians.

But it turned out that his comment came from a deeper place. An athletic and active man all his life, he's been in a lot of pain lately from a bad knee and back problems and it's finally starting to get to him. After climbing a ladder to hang the refilled hummingbird feeder for him, I asked if there was anything else he wanted.

"Yes, a new body!" he admitted with no irony. That set me wondering what age he'd like his body to be again and he said twenty-two.

"I was 22 when I met your mother," he said by way of explanation and then turned to Mom. "Like that picture of us upstairs from when we were in our bathing suits at the beach when we first met." That black and white photo is a family classic of my 6' tall father standing next to my 5' mother, long before they knew they'd have six daughters and stay happily married for over six decades.

Yet again I was reminded of how fortunate some people are to meet their "person" so early on in life and stay with them through all that comes with children, careers and changing interests. It's a luck I never knew.

Talking about Dad's years abusing his body playing baseball and softball, he said that when Mom started coming to his games, she didn't even know how the game was played. She was quick to defend herself, though, saying that her family had always listened to baseball games on the radio, but she'd never had any visuals to go with it.

This was new intel for me. Baseball had been a big deal in Mom's family growing up?

Next thing I knew, she's telling me how my grandfather O'Donnell (known to us kids as "Papa") started playing on an Irish baseball team (because of course all the Irish kids would have played together back in the '20s) when he was just a kid.

The team's name? "Little Potatoes Hard to Peel."

Every time I see my parents, they make me laugh, tell me stories I didn't know or remind me of things I no longer recall.

The best part of my birthday isn't a surprise fried chicken and gherkin lunch, it's that I'm still lucky enough to have these two wildly eccentric people in my life.

Now that's a gift.

I Feel Like a $3 Shirt

I have a crush on a new theater collective and I'm being really obvious about it.

How obvious? Four days after I saw Nu Puppis' deconstruction of "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers," I wanted to see it all over again, to see if my response had been solely a first time thing or if I'd still be laughing (or grimacing) throughout.

Bingo.

Because my delight in this production is so great, I had to bring a like-minded friend along, hopefully to experience the same jambalya of reactions I'd had. We met at my house and walked to Saison for fried chicken night first.

You don't approach this kind of ritualistic millennial mocking without a full belly.

Even though it had been months since I'd made it there on a Sunday night and despite a full reservation list, we were lucky enough to slide into the bar with no problem. My thirst after a busy day was quenched with a rosy combination of grapefruit juice, passionfruit juice and Cheerwine and arrived in a funky 60s-looking glass with palm trees adorning it.

Today's sides were redskin potato salad and squash casserole with still-recognizable squash in it, so neither cooked to death nor buried under too much cheese, but as I told our server, it didn't matter what the sides had been, my order wasn't changing.

Quarter chicken dark meat, washed down with my fruity libation. If only all Sunday suppers were so satisfying.

The plan was to arrive early enough at Firehouse to ensure getting tickets, a smart move given how quickly the room filled. Unlike with "American Idiot" when we were instructed to use our phones, tonight we were told to turn them off because there was no such thing in the '50s when it was first written, nor even during the 80s when it became a play.

So it just wouldn't be right. "We don't want to open up some weird wormhole," artistic director Bassin informed us. No, we don't.

Next thing you know, Max Erlich was belting out "Bless Your Beautiful Hide" and I was thrown back into the Oregon Territory circa Hollywood 1954. It was glorious.

Everything I'd been smitten with last week was just as (choose one or many) funny, irreverent, off-color, snarky, hysterical, smart-assed, well-rehearsed, culturally referenced, corny, stirring and memorably performed as the first night.

You haven't lived in the theater until you've watched a gaggle of 20-somethings show off their stage fighting skills or stuff their faces with microwave pancakes.

Seeing it a second time showed me where the ad-libs were and how different they were from night to night. The twenty actors were just as nimble and their voices harmonized even more beautifully from tonight's better seats. The actors' posturing and asides were every bit as side-splittingly funny.

Best of all, my friend reacted precisely as I'd hoped, doubled over laughing, grimacing at the sound of fist fights and gasping in amazement at some of the stuff that came out of their mouths, the sly side looks and creepy innuendo. In awe of young bodies springing, jumping and arching, oblivious to concrete and metal.

Bottom line: the kids are putting on a show capable of bursting every musical theater notion you might have in your pretty little head.

Get over it. If this is the direction Richmond theater is taking, it's a wonderful, wonderful day.

The Enormous Sighs

Stayin' close, keeping it Southern.

It would have been wrong to have eaten anything else before a Tennessee Williams play, don't you think? Sure, I knew Mama J's Kitchen would be crowded at prime dinnertime, but there was only one of me, so I figured I had a much better shot at a seat than the groups around me.

Skulking about close to the bar, I spotted a guy easing out of his stool and quickly made my move, asking if it was now free. "Have a seat," the man said graciously. "Look at you, being all aggressive or else you're just a pro at this."

Ten years in Jackson Ward, my friend, I know how to score a seat in this place. Busy as it was tonight, it was nothing like I've seen it on some occasions and despite the hostess having told me that it would be an hour and a half wait for a table, people were being seated in far less time.

Waiting for my dinner to arrive, I was entertained by the dishwasher when he brought out a rack of glasses. "Look at those glasses glistening like diamonds!" he said to me smiling. "I am so good at my job!"

The woman next to me wanted the same drink she'd had last time she was in, except she had no idea what it had been. "It was red and fruity and really delicious," was about all she could offer the bartender.

When my plate arrived, it had three pieces of fried chicken instead of two and the bartender explained it away by saying, "It's because the breast was kind of small." For the record, the breast was nothing like small, but who am I to complain about extra fried chicken?

Only problem was that three pieces plus sides put me way over my full threshold, so I didn't get a slice of cake, despite the guy near me raving about how they finally had German chocolate cake (his was already boxed up while he finished his third drink), although it was the black and white cake I had my eye on tonight.

I had to thread my way through a crowd of fifteen or so to get to the door, but I bet they were all seated before I even got to Virginia Rep a few blocks away.

Tonight I was seeing Williams' "Summer and Smoke" for the first time and walking into the theater, the audience was rewarded with just the kind of southern Gothic set you'd hope for. A massive "stone" angel fountain with water spigots dominated, with Spanish moss hanging everywhere and two smaller Victorian-looking room sets in front.

This production has great sentimental value because it is Virginia Rep's artistic director Bruce Miller's final directing job after 41 years with the company. Appropriately, the evening began with the actors talking about the formation of Barksdale Theater, which eventually became VA Rep.

It was a fabulous story: In 1953, six young NYC theater actors risked everything by buying a dilapidated old tavern (no indoor plumbing, no glass in the windows) with plans to turn it into a theater. A week later, they did a reading of "Summer and Smoke" in the basement for no one but themselves.

You could move to New Orleans and have a mysteriously colorful life like your aunt.

Out of necessity, every morning, the group, with a bar of soap in one hand and a towel in the other, would head up to Taylor's Pond to bathe. Naturally, hearing this just made me curious about the pond and I intend to find it next time I go to a play at Hanover Tavern, you can be sure.

There are women who want to love and be loved in a physical manner.

Miller had brilliantly chosen a deliberately young cast - a nod to those actors who'd come to Hanover - and while it was a tad jarring at first to see a 20-something playing the father of a 20-something, the talented Charley Raintree pulled it off.

Remembering last night and anticipating the next one...

The story of a frustrated preacher's daughter and the wild and undisciplined doctor's son who lives next door had all the usual Williams tropes: mentally unbalanced mother, the Southern belle hoping to be saved by a man, traveling salesmen, a hot Southern setting, men in white suits, all enhanced by excellent staging and nuanced acting (it's almost painful to watch Alexander Sapp's character's dissolution over the summer, so believable is his acting).

I've settled with life on the most comfortable terms.

Not knowing the story added a great deal to tonight's experience because while I never expected a Williams play to end happily, I couldn't have anticipated seeing two characters effectively change mindsets with each other, she finally craving the physical and him the spiritual.

Amen, sister. I'm dewy at the thought.

Bruce Miller picked a hell of a way to go out, effectively marrying the nostalgic - the original troupe's first reading 63 years ago - with one of Williams' under-produced but compelling plays and making sure it was done incredibly well.

Sexual repression dealt with, now I'm ready for that piece of cake.

Gems from the Jitney

Good vibes carried me into a Sunday evening.

When I walked into Saison for dinner, there was a friend I hadn't seen in months but who'd apparently been thinking about me earlier this week. He'd tuned in to the blog to see what I'd been up to and it made him want to see me.

Wishing had apparently made it so.

We took so long catching up that by the time I got to the bar and ordered my quarter chicken, the bartender told me it would be a while because an order for four whole chickens had just gone in, so the fryer was full.

It was well-timed news after all, because a guy walked in, sat down in the stool next to me and began chatting like we were old friends. It was his first time at fried chicken night and he was unsure about all of it, but finally put on his big boy pants and ordered a half chicken.

Minutes later, he looks at me and asks, "What do you wager I can't finish a half chicken?" Are you kidding? You're a grown ass man, of course you can finish half a chicken, I assure him. When he sees my quarter chicken delivered, he feels more confident about his order.

When it arrives, the bartender asks if he wants another cocktail. Gesturing at my Mexican Coke, he says, "She's got the right idea. I'll have one of those."

As we eat together, I learn that he's a restaurant worker, leading us down the rabbit hole of the nature of the hospitality industry and those inhospitable people who have no business in it (he works with a few). He obviously loves it, with an eye on opening his own place someday.

When I comment about what an appropriate Sunday supper fried chicken is, he looks at me askance. "Maybe here, but not in my family," he announces. "My family's from Maryland, Italian Catholics, and we always have lasagna for Sunday dinner."

Next, as if the dish is foreign to me, he explains the arduous and multi-hour process of lasagna making - "...and then there's the bechamel..." - and how anyone who thinks ground beef belongs in lasagna has a screw loose. These are things he clearly feels strongly about.

Saison's chicken, as usual, shatters into crispy bits with every bite of the moist meat and this week's sides are classically southern: braised greens and a biscuit with sorghum butter, all of which which beats pasta any day in my book. Don't talk to me about lasagna when I've got fried yard bird in hand.

We chat so long I have to suddenly pay and leave when I realize my play starts in ten minutes. It's only at this point that we finally introduce ourselves and he insists that I come by the restaurant where he works for more conversation and, he assures me, an excellent meal by their new chef.

Will do.

Then it's on to the Basement for the second night in a row, except this time it's for a one-night performance of "Blacklist: August Wilson," a night devoted to spotlighting the works of this most significant black playwright.

Since it was general admission, I found a single seat, conveniently located next to a talkative guy who turned out to be a park ranger by day and a playwright by night. Considering I'd spent an hour listening to a park ranger earlier today - and everyone knows Mike Gorman - it was like we had multiple things in common from the get-go.

Where he far surpassed me was in his August Wilson scholarship, having read most of them and already certain that "Joe Turner's Come and Gone" was his favorite. I'm not completely Wilson illiterate because I recognized the names of three of the plays, although I'd never seen one produced. I wasn't proud of that.

Introduced by Mary Shaw, who along with Carolyn Meade had conceived of and created the event, she made a point of saying, "There were murmurs around town that if you do this kind of work, people won't come. Thank you."

The beauty of it was that she was saying it to a full house.

A group of twenty talented black actors had come together to learn scenes from Wilson's "Century Cycle," a group of ten plays, one for each decade of the 20th century black experience, with musical segues featuring music from the appropriate decade before each scene.

Not knowing the plays, I could  glean a little from the monologues and scenes we saw, and the benefit of this was that it was all about the acting. And, holy cow, what acting!

So many times tonight, I found myself dazzled by an actor I'd never seen before. Scenery was chewed by talent I'd never so much as heard of and I'm a regular theater-goer. If there are this many extremely talented black actors in this town, shouldn't more of them be cast more often?

I got a kick out of one scene from "Joe Turner's Come and Gone" because it involved a fried chicken dinner ("Now, my Mom, she could fry some chicken!") like the one I'd just enjoyed, but "The Piano Lesson" told a heartbreaking story of a piano traded for a slave and a half, a horrific concept.

It wasn't surprising to read that "Fences" had won the Pulitzer and a Tony because the scenes we saw were electrifying (Father to son, "Liking your black ass wasn't part of the bargain").

The audience responded to the stories within the scenes viscerally and loudly. When a wife finds out her husband has cheated on her, she says, "Where was "we" when you was rolling around with some god-forsaken woman?" or, "You're not the only one with wants and needs," and a spontaneous chorus of "Mmm-hmm" and "That's right" went up from the people in the seats around me.

"Two Trains Running" appealed to me because it dealt with the '60s, the height of black power, and the different reactions blacks had to the changing social climate, but, honestly, I'd happily see any one of these ten plays produced in full.

Do you know the last time I saw an all-black cast in a play? This will date me, but it was when TheatreVirginia did an all-black casting of Tennessee Williams' "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof." And while it was a fascinating thing to experience, it's not the same as seeing parts written for blacks by a black playwright.

As I told one of my favorite artistic directors tonight, Richmond has a terrific theater scene but the casting could better represent the city's demographics. He heartily agreed. Tonight's performance proved that we have more than enough talent to do that.

Seems like it's about time to do the right thing.

Playing Old Maid

Sometimes once isn't enough.

Today began and ended in a theater with yard bird in between, because what better day for it than Sunday supper?

It was cold and windy when I walked to Movieland for my annual viewing of "White Christmas," arriving early enough to score a prime seat before the masses showed up. Plenty of people seemed to be newbies to the Movies and Mimosas concept (no previews, folks), showing up as much as 10 minutes into it and bumbling around in the dark looking for seats.

Many of them chose to sing along despite the fact that the crowd had come to hear the film, not them. Next to me was a much older woman who giggled at much of the movie's corny humor as if she were hearing it for the first time in a while. It was adorable.

In one of those overlap moments between film and real life, I spotted an army blanket on a cot in the medical tent scene, reminding me that just a few days ago, I'd ridden with my Dad in his ancient truck atop his folded up army blanket on the passenger side. It's probably the same army blanket we used to make a tent out of in the back yard as kids.

Then there were the charming 1954 period details: fishnets with seams, a match striker on a table, men's sock garters. A more stylish time in every way. I recall as a kid that the scene where the general rolls his own cigarette seemed so old-fashioned but of course now plenty of people do it.

I could say everything old is new again except I feel quite certain we'll never return to a time where people dress for dinner, spend so much time traveling on trains or use "gay" to mean cheerful and lively. Too bad, really.

It was while reading the Sunday paper in the living room and trying to catch the last of the day's sun through my south-facing windows that I decided on tonight's plan: dinner and a movie (again). Kind of like a date with myself.

My dinner destination was a no-brainer because Sunday is fried chicken night at Sasion, a short walk from home. I have to admit I was surprised when I walked in to find things very low-key with only four people at the bar.

On the speakers was Bob Marley, appropriate because the Wailers were playing at the John Marshall ballroom tonight. Sure, there's only one original Wailer remaining at this point, but eventually he'll be gone and then there'll be none, yet I bet someone will still tour under that name. And isn't one original better than none?

Soccer was on the TV, the bartender already knew my order, asking only light or dark (duh, dark) and letting me know that tonight's sides were cole slaw (peppery) and a biscuit with honey butter. Sign me up.

The bartender was refilling my water glass when I commented on how peaceful it was tonight. "For now," she laughed. "I never know with Sundays whether it'll be busy at 5 or 8:30." No doubt the holidays further skew any prognosticating.

I didn't quite qualify for the clean plate club, mainly because although I'm a biscuit hound, these weren't really my kind of biscuits. They were more of the refrigerator, flaky style while I prefer a more traditional dense and floury biscuit like the kind my Richmond grandmother made.

But I'm also a firm believer in the no biscuit left behind movement and given that the guy to my right had finished his in about three bites, I leaned over and asked if he'd want my remainder.

His eyes lit up asking if I was sure. "Seriously? I was  just going to order another biscuit," he said. Only problem was his friend looked envious, so I explained to friend that the offer had been extended to the closest person and he was entitled to half. Both were thrilled with any additional biscuit forthcoming.

After collecting the car, I returned to the Criterion to see "The Homesman," Tommy Lee Jones' latest directorial and acting endeavor. As usual, he's playing an ornery old SOB, in this case one who elects to help spinster-to-be Hillary Swank cart three mentally ill women from the Nebraska territory back to the relative civilization of Iowa.

Shot to make the territory and plains look like the most monochromatic and least welcoming place on earth, the film follows the quintet's journey from west to east through Indian territory, snowstorms and days without food.

I'll admit I haven't seen enough westerns to have a qualified opinion about them (both versions of "True Grit" and "No Country for Old Men" and not much else), but this one was atypical, I feel sure. Swank played a most unusual woman for the time (1850s): unmarried, a landowner who farms and not too proud to propose to (and be turned down by) multiple men in hopes of finding a partner and companionship.

Boy, if living on the frontier was tough, try being a spinster.

Hearing multiple men tell her she was too bossy and too plain ("plain as a pail" one phrased it) to marry was heart-wrenching. Remind me never to propose to a man for fear of how he might respond.

And maybe all westerns have a lot of plot twists and sudden mood changes, but I doubt it. This one was full of surprises and unsettling scenes coming out of nowhere. Yet there were moments of humor to leaven things. Add in Oscar-worthy performances by Jones and Swank and it turned out to be a most enjoyable night of cinema even without popcorn.

Walking out of the theater beside the couple who'd been sitting near me, the woman said, "Makes you glad you're not a spinster, doesn't it?"

Oh, contraire, my dear. I am an unmarried woman past the usual age for marrying who is considered unlikely to marry. Some would even say I'm bossy.

On the plus side, that's what gives me license to offer my honey-buttered biscuits to strangers.

I'm just glad he didn't turn me down.

Never Enough Sun and Sea

Fall is making its imminent arrival known and I'm not at all happy about it.

You see, I'm a summer person, never happier than when it's warm enough that I need a minimum of clothes. Unlike so many people I know, I'm not into scarves, layers and jackets.

So while parts of my walk this morning on the North Bank trail were delightfully sunny and warm, the shaded parts were feeling cooler than they have all summer.

When I got to Texas Beach to wade in, the river was not the bathwater temperature it's been for months now.

That leaves me hoping for many weeks of Indian summer but acknowledging that Fall is just around the corner. Sadly.

The only thing I like about the approaching season is that the cultural calendar is back in swing, meaning things such as UR's international film series, which kicked off tonight.

Before taking on an Italian film on a serious subject, though, I scooted over to Saison for fried chicken night, sliding into the one remaining bar stool between two guys watching football.

The one to the left was gracious, making sure I had enough room and welcoming me while the other was deep in his crossword puzzle.

When he asked if he could have a vodka and pineapple juice, the bartender paused noticeably and then said okay.

Both his friend and I noticed the pause, assuming that the bartender wanted him to consider the cocktail menu and perhaps order something more interesting.

His friend insisted he try something different, but the guy held fast even after tasting the other's drink ("too spicy!").

You have to respect a guy who knows what he wants.

Their half chicken arrived shortly before my quarter chicken did and it was as I was carving into my thigh that the vodka drinker said, "Look at you using a fork and knife."

Putting them down, I explained that I was only cutting into it to release some heat so I'd be able to eat it sooner with my fingers.

"Look, don't mess with her," his friend said cutting into his own. "She's been to fried chicken night here before and knows the deal."

I was pleased to see that tonight's sides were different: a cucumber and red onion marinated salad and cornbread, but not that sticky sweet variety that passes for cornbread so many places these days.

No, this was a much drier crumb and not nearly as sweet, much closer to my Richmond grandmother's classic cornbread.

You know how I do, smearing honey butter all over it, but Mr. Vodka couldn't get behind the honey butter. Too weird, he claimed, although he loved the cuke salad.

When I abruptly got up to leave for my movie, he turned to me smiling and said, "Thanks for our first dinner date."

Went pretty well for strangers, don't you think?

Then it was on to University of Richmond where I joined a decidedly mixed audience, half students and half middle-aged and up.

Tonight's offering was "Miele," which means honey and was the title character's nickname, interesting because her occupation was assisting people with suicide due to terminal illness.

The directorial debut of Valeria Golino, it was a beautifully shot, gorgeously lit character study highlighting the beauty of life and the importance of music.

What struck me was that the film didn't take a position on assisted suicide, just showed suffering people who had made the decision to check out, so Honey felt she was helping them with their request.

That is, until a man asks for her to provide the drugs to do it himself (a first since she always attends the ritual, providing the drug and often the music), which she reluctantly does.

Only afterwards does she learn that he has no terminal illness, he's just depressed and tired of life.

The rest of the film follows their relationship as she tries to talk him out of it and he holds fast to his plans.

Spotting the stud in her tongue he asks about it and she explains it has Aztec roots but he's unimpressed.

"Contemporary idiocy knows no limits," he observes. Amen to that.

When he finally comes to visit her at her tiny and spare oceanfront house, he comments, "Too much sun, too much sea, too much wind," summarily dismissing her choice of habitation.

Oh, and P.S., there's no such thing, in my humble opinion.

Not one but two older couples got up and walked out after seeing the second assisted suicide, not at all a violent thing to watch but most definitely a sad one to see the reaction of the loved one who remains.

Their loss. They missed a visually stunning film, honest to its core, with the kind of complex characters superbly acted rarely seen in American films. A film that never came to Richmond.

My summer days are waning and Fall is beginning to seem like an inevitability but at least the culture quotient is seeing an uptick.

And no matter the season, there's always the beauty of life and the importance of music..honey.

G-ville Fry Day

It was a splendid day to go to Virginia's fast food emporium of the 1870s.

So with no plans for the afternoon, when I spied a blurb about today's Gordonsville Fried Chicken Festival, I thought why not?

Sure it's an hour away, but a lovely day for a drive. True, I'd just had fried chicken on Mother's Day, but can you ever have too much fried chicken? And alright, I had no clue if it'd be worth it or not.

So with road music in hand, I headed west through the rolling hills of Orange County hoping for the best.

Given that Gordonsville is pretty much a one-street town at an important railroad junction, the festival, which was in full swing when I arrived, was a cinch to find.

And while I've been there several times, once for an interview and several times to eat, I'd never seen anywhere near so many people there.

Given, it's a one-horse town so it doesn't take all that many people to look full, but it was definitely happening today.

As a former visitor, I knew all about the women who used to sell their fried chicken to the passengers when trains stopped there, having seen the pictures and read the history, so I understood the reason for six hours devoted to yard bird celebration and consumption.

I immediately got in the "order here" line to get me some chicken.

Although the order line was short, the pick-up line, both of them, stretched back to the wine garden where Well Hung Vineyards and Wilderness Run Winery were pouring.

And, just for the record, more than a few guys - oenophiles undoubtedly - were walking around in Well Hung t-shirts.

Waiting in line for my lunch, I chatted up the two women in front of me, one of whom was explaining how her Texas grandmother had taught her how to fry chicken and she was wondering how hers would fare against what we were about to eat.

I said I was willing to put my Richmond grandmother's fried chicken up against anyone's in the world (if she weren't long gone, that is), resulting in her asking me where I lived.

When I told her, she was amazed. "You came all the way from Richmond? Don't they have good fried chicken there?"

Explaining that the point was to enjoy more than just bird, I asked where she was from. Turns out she and her companion were cousins and both had grown up in Gordonsville before moving to some place bigger.

For them, bigger was Barboursville and Troy, which, given that Gordonsville's population is 1500 and Barboursville's is 4800, technically is bigger although I can't imagine the way of life is all that different.

We continued to chat while the line slowly inched forward and I couldn't help but notice more flip phones in use than I'd seen since probably 2008. And this from a non-cell phone owner.

Finally we got our meals, I found a spot open at one of the many picnic tables and I got to dive into my thigh, wing, green beans and the unsweetened ice tea that had gotten a raised eyebrow when I ordered it.

If what I was eating was representative of the kind of chicken local women used to sell to passengers, I can only imagine there were some happy eaters as the trains chugged away from G-ville. I still think Bessie's was better, but of course I would.

The green beans were exactly like the ones she used to make, long cooked in salt pork until the beans begin to fall apart and are so salty you need a gallon of tea to keep your tongue from turning inside out like a slug caught under a salt shaker.

I talked to the trio seated down near me at the table who wanted to know if I'd paused to listen to any of the singers who were performing on the steps of town hall as part of the festival. Of course I had.

Unfortunately, I told them, I was going to miss the pie judging contest because I needed to leave before it began. A shame, really, because I just know I'd have enjoyed it.

After I ate, I walked around, using some old stone steps to get up to the railroad tracks and survey some of the historic buildings on the other side. And I couldn't very well leave without walking over to the Exchange Hotel which also served as a hospital during the Great Unpleasantness.

Strolling back through the festival, I stopped in the visitor's center because I wanted to use the facilities before I hit the road.

Telling the girl at the desk that I'm a visitor and I need to go to the bathroom, she burst out laughing. "That's the funniest thing I've heard in a long time. You're not from around here, are you?"

Is it that obvious?

A Law in Clover Time

Wine drinking at midnight on the pier, yes. Being gifted with oysters for walking out on the shell bar, sure. Spending entire summer afternoons eating crabs on the big porch, yup.

But waking up to several inches of snow on the ground with fat flakes still coming down? At my parents' house on the northern neck, never. Ever.

As in, not once in all the years I've been visiting them have I awakened to the sight of the gardens, the marsh, the pier - everything in sight except the Rappahannock river - blanketed.

Standing in the breakfast room looking out at it, my attention was caught by a portly groundhog making tracks across the yard toward the garage, no doubt looking for someplace dry.

Every bit as surprising was the small boat out there on the water as the snow continued to come down hard.

Grabbing a pair of binoculars (my father keeps a pair on all three floors of the house for ease of scoping out whatever), I zoomed in, trying to determine what the two men clad in Gorton's fisherman-like waders, one in orange, the other in classic yellow, were doing out there in all this.

Near as I could tell, these two watermen were tonging for oysters in the snow.

Me, I had loaves of soda bread and a coconut cake to make so after breakfast, I got busy on all that.

My mother put her favorite radio station on and before long, I heard the lyric, "There ought to be a moonlight saving time," totally unfamiliar to me but such a lovely, evocative turn of phrase.

There ought to be a law in clover time

to keep that moon out overtime

There absolutely ought to be.

To my mother's amazement, once I finished all my baking, I piled on layers and started out for a walk, turning in a different direction than yesterday.

I headed down the creek toward what used to be the old crab processing plant but which has since been turned into high end waterfront condos, passing pier after pier covered in a layer of snow, like a series of white diving boards perched over the water.

As I approached the condos, I spotted a low-slung brown dog crouched on the lawn of one, his owner tethered to him with a retractable leash and standing on the front porch out of the snow.

Close up, I saw he was a basset hound with ears drooping into the snow and looking as soft as brown velvet.

Asking if I could pet her dog, she reluctantly came down off the porch so sad-eyed Dax the hound could greet me. 

I told her my beagle had loved the snow and she said Dax was just as fond of it. She, however, did not seem to be.

Taking off a glove so I could feel those ears, I made a fast friend of Dax while his owner smoked and told me she and her boyfriend had come down from Fredericksburg to visit his parents but once they heard F-burg had gotten 11 inches of snow, decided to extend their visit.

After I said goodbye, I wandered back down past the tiny post office and the waterfront museum, to the very end of the other side of the point before having my fill of walking in the pouring snow.

After my final good daughter deed shoveling the walk, I cleaned off the car and started back toward civilization, passing a sign in Warsaw that cheerily read, "Happy Spring!"

What is this Spring you speak of?

Back in Jackson Ward, I was very surprised to see that the power had gone off in my absence, a rarity in this neighborhood. I've lived here almost eight years and lost power maybe twice.

After getting settled back in, I walked over to Saison who'd decided that Mother Nature had decreed that they run fried chicken night again tonight.

My menu was housed in a 1972 Time Life book called "The Missing Link" and I'm just nerdy enough to open it up and do some reading about Australopithecus and Neanderthal, my first on the subject since an anthropology class my sophomore year of college.

I could have done without the close up photograph of hyenas tearing apart a giraffe killed by a lioness, but I also learned (or, more likely, re-learned) some interesting tidbits.

My Mexican Coke had just arrived when the guy I'd met there two weeks ago unexpectedly sat down next to me to provide conversation and company.

He was tickled to learn about the extension of yard bird night, promptly ordering exactly what I had: a quarter bird with tonight's sides, scallion cole slaw and potato salad.

We got off on a tangent about trains because he's going to NYC this week and considering taking Amtrack. The bartender jumped on that, sharing her love of train travel and urging him to give it a try.

Coincidentally, I'm taking the train north Friday and very much looking forward to not dealing with traffic, instead spending the time reading and looking out the window instead of having my soul sucked by I-95. We were three train lovers feeding off of each other.

Two of us were soon sucking our fingers clean of crispy bits of chicken skin and discussing the importance of rationing our sides to come out evenly with our last bite of chicken, kind of the way it's essential that sandwich and chips come out even for ultimate satisfaction.

In another coincidence, he was carrying handbills for a show in the neighborhood I was planning to go to Thursday. "Guess I'll see you again this week," he said smilingly when I got up to go.

I always enjoy getting back to my stomping grounds.

That said, I don't know that I've ever seen a real groundhog. Those water men were straight out of a Gorton's commercial. There was no moon and Spring is most definitely not here. But there was this...

You'd better hurry up, hurry up, hurry up,

get busy today

You'd better croon a tune

to the man up in the moon

and here is what I say

There ought to be a moonlight saving time

I'd like to think that the moon, fleeting or no, the one I missed seeing at the river will pay me back in overtime now that I'm home.

Love 'Em and Leave 'Em Fast

Eat local. Drink local. Listen local.

The way I was brought up (with a Richmond grandmother in the house), Sundays meant fried chicken for dinner.

Conveniently for me, Saison, mere blocks from home, does fried chicken on Sunday nights. All the family tradition, none of the work. Like.

I found a seat at the bar, took note of the football score and ordered Espolon and a quarter chicken.

"Light or dark?" was the bartender's only inquiry, while one of the servers stood at the end of the bar mouthing "dark, dark" to me.

Don't waste your energy, friend, I was already going dark, despite once having had my hand slapped for that preference.

A date had cooked fried chicken for me and when I kept helping myself to the dark pieces, he finally called me on it, claiming the last thigh for himself.

Here there was no one to chide me, so I enjoyed my crispy dark pieces with cole slaw and long-cooked green beans, tonight's designated sides.

The couple next to me soon paid their bill to leave for dinner at Rappahannock, causing the bartender to ask them to wait.

He put a lidded condiment container in front of them and asked if they'd deliver the shot to one of the bartenders at Rappahannock.

Shot of what? Shot of...soda, he said.

They agreed and were off while I went back to sucking bones and greasy fingers.

There wasn't enough time for dessert because my ultimate destination was Gallery 5 for music, so after a brief discussion of the opening of J-Ward's latest, the Rogue Gentleman, I walked a block over to show my ID and see the Low Branches new single release show.

I was pleasantly surprised to find that it was a seated show, so I staked out a chair before mingling to chat with friends.

The instrument-maker talked about his long-term plan for a workshop. The historian wondered why she hadn't been sent the invitation to the show. The fuzzmaster said he was pleased with Friday's set.

Flu was a big topic because one of tonight's performers (Jonathan Vassar) had it, necessitating Annousheh doing a solo set to take his place.

I've seen her play with and without her band, but there's a purity to hearing just her voice and keyboards.

She did some familiar songs like the well-written "The Trouble I Find" and some equally impressive new ones done "against my better judgment," she said.

She finished with her exquisite slowed-down cover of "In the Air Tonight," a song that always reminds me of a Phil Collins interview where he said the only thing that will go on his gravestone is, "Phil Collins, He wrote "In the Air Tonight."

Truth is, her version is far more aching and haunting than Phil's ever was.

It was during that song that I looked over and saw a friend walk in, a friend who'd been on the other side of the world for the past seven months.

During the break I got up for a hug and a hello, hearing him describe that time as "tentative and exhilarating," probably an apt description for climbing rock faces, teaching schol and living without running water.

A baker at Aziza before he'd left, he's already taken up employment with Sub Rosa, detailing what a crazy re-opening weekend it had been for them.

The Low Branches' singer, Christina, had told me a little about the second band, whom I'd never heard of: Rodney "the soul singer" Stith.

Seems she and Rodney ran into each other at the grocery store many times and one of them, they discussed the song playing in the store, leading to finding out that they were both musicians.

Rodney had a backing band he referred to as "the soul system" for that voice, made up of drums, guitar, bass, keyboards and violin, leaving Rodney to sing and play guitar.

And sing he did, in a voice that channeled every vintage R & B singer worth his salt, and beginning with "Calling Out" to show how he could use that voice.

Saying he needed some participation, he then asked the crowd to sing out as the band did pieces of "California Dreamin," "Losing My Religion," "Little Red Corvette" and even the Backstreet Boys' "I Want It That Way," a song that had certain members of the audience, Christina included, dancing in their seats in delight.

Me, I was amazed that so few people knew the words to "Little Red Corvette," as masterfully metaphorical a rock song as has ever been written.

During their set, I saw more friends arrive, this time the formerly-prickly one and his charming girlfriend, so I waved them over to the two empty seats in front of me.

The band returned to original material with "a new one, hot off the press, so hot it still has ink smears on it," a song Rodney described as about how women take men for granted, hurting them and moving on.

"Just Leave Me" had him putting his guitar down to stand and sing emotively like a true crooner, all hand gestures and closed eyes.

Reminding the crowd that tomorrow is MLK day, they closed with "Free at Last," integrating U2's "Pride (In the Name of Love)" to great effect and again soliciting the audience to sing along.

Hearing the friend next to me belt it out, I now understand why she's a karaoke queen. Such a voice.

Fortunately, there were more U2 fans than Prince fans among the crowd and it was a rousing and fitting tribute to King.

Afterwards, I turned to a friend, commenting that we see a lot of bands, but never anything like straight-on soul. I'd really enjoyed it.

During the break, I chatted with an old rocker about my recent acquisition of a Grin CD, a band I knew he'd remember (he did) and with his girlfriend about the painstaking cinnamon rolls she'd made from scratch using the Cinnabon recipe.

She told me she loved my hair and he told me it was interesting and we discussed the difference in the two statements. Men and women, never the twain shall meet.

But things ended on a high note when another friend told me, "I need more you in my life."

When Low Branches took the stage, it was with Annousheh playing keyboards, a first for the many times I've seen the band play.

Now that they no longer have a drummer, Josh is back on cello instead of bass, a welcome treat since his playing adds so much to their sound.

Christina thanked everyone for coming out on such a cold night and I didn't have the heart to tell her I came to share body heat since there wasn't any extra at my house.

They played songs I knew but had never heard with the addition of keys, and then she said in her quiet voice, "This song goes out to all the ladies. This might have happened to you...yea," and trailed off.

Dolly Parton's "Jolene" gets 'em every time with its lyrics about knowing that your man secretly pines for another woman and Josh plucking that mournful cello.

For their new release, "Rain Song," Adam from Nick Coward and the Last Battle joined them on trumpet and with Annousheh playing keyboards, it was a beautifully lush sounding arrangement of a song I've heard a few times, but always far more pared down.

A friend had told me earlier that he thinks "Rain Song" was the best thing they'd ever done and not just "indie good," but the kind of song that could be a real hit, even with west end moms.

He's got a point there.

Partway through the song, Christina hit the wrong note, something I've not heard her do, and the look on her face was hysterical, but the band just paused and started a do-over, ending perfectly.

"We seem really serious up here but really, we're always just trying not to crack up," she explained.

This from a woman who prides herself on mournful songs. She once gave me a CD labeled, "Sad folk songs for Karen's birthday" and it was some of the loveliest sad stuff you can imagine.

But I've also seen her laugh plenty, too, so I understood what she meant.

Next they did "Rain Song" again, this time in Turkish, followed by a Turkish folk song, both appropriate because Christina leaves for vacation in Turkey soon where she'll no doubt eat, drink and listen locally.

And with any luck, come back knowing "Little Red Corvette" in Turkish.

Sunset on Belle Isle

A regular reader recently told a mutual friend that she's disappointed when she reads one of my posts and finds me "happy and giddy."

Apparently she finds no poignancy in my ramblings when my life is firing on all cylinders.

This brings up a good point.

My blog is a daily writing exercise for me and the fact that anyone at all chooses to read it is a bonus.

That people follow my blog, much less 108 of them, was completely unexpected.

Now I'm wondering if, like her, they were only reading to hear me long for what I wanted.

From where I sat, I'd always thought my blog demonstrated my enthusiasm for whatever life I was leading at any given moment.

When I began this blog back in early 2009, I admit my life was at a low point, with recent losses in job, health and love.

But over the past four and a half years, my life has moved on in many interesting ways and that's what I try to share.

I'm a firm believer in the journey, not the destination, being the purpose and finding satisfaction in whatever life presents me.

I hope there are still readers who find me chronicling my pleasure in the parts of my journey I choose to share worth reading.

And if not, I know there must be plenty of less happy and giddy blogs out there.

I hate to disappoint, but I am who I am.

Poignantly, this post replaces what would have been a happy, giddy post for last night.

Fried, Funk and Confetti

It was December repeating itself, but only in the best possible way.

December 5, 2012 was the last time I'd been to the Roosevelt for their infrequent fried chicken nights, so when I saw the smoke signal go up indicating it was yard bird night, all bets were off.

I found another fried fetishist and we were walking up the ramp to the Roosevelt at 5:05 in the pouring rain.

You have to understand, they start serving Lee's fried chicken when they open and when it's gone, it's gone.

And given that it's gluten-free and comes with an addictive chile/honey glaze for dipping, it goes fast.

When I was there in December, it was gone by 6:15. Ergo, there was no margin for error.

Our little five-top convened at a table, unusual for me since I always occupy a bar stool at the Roosevelt.

When our server came to take the order, it basically boiled down to fried chicken and greens: collards, brussels sprouts and broccoli.

And let me assure you, as the accountant pointed out, the only purpose of the green course was to put something between all that fried food and sudden death.

With Neko Case belting it out on the sound system, we munched chicken, dipping it into the sticky and spicy honey until everyone was in a food coma.

And still one of us took home enough chicken for his lunch for the next two days.

Our quintet splintered from there although two of us ended up at the Firehouse for the Listening Room and more repetition.

And like Lee's fried chicken, it was all worth repeating.

Instead of last month's store-bought doughnut holes at the L.R., tonight we had homemade cookies courtesy of one of the Richmanian Ramblers, Richmond's favorite Romanian gypsy band.

Emcee Chris thanked the attendees for braving the rain for music, not always the case in our fair city.

"Are there any Pacific Northwesters here?" he inquired, finding one in the third row. "This is nothing, right?"

The guy flicked his hand in a "Pshaw" manner that made it clear that he had little tolerance for weather wimps.

"Consider yourselves frontier types," Chris said before apologizing to first-timers for the kinks still being worked out while organizer Antonia is on leave.

"She's the glue of this event and she's, uh, got a newborn," he explained.

By the time she's back to running things, the boys may even have the hang of it, but no one's counting on it.

First up was Listening Room alumni Lobo Marino, who'd played December 14, 2010 on a wickedly cold night when the L.R. was still at the Michaux house.

They'd just come back from being on tour again and looked especially coordinated with Laney in an oxblood-colored dress and white sweater and Jameson in oxblood-hued pants and a white shirt with suspenders.

Sort of Richmond's very own White Stripes, at least ensemble-wise.

Lobo Marino are known for their unexpected stage goings-on and tonight's addition to the show was a voice-activated light that flashed according to what Laney sang.

With their unique assortment of instruments - harmonium, metal jug, bells on stools and ankles, mouth harp- they produce fluid songs for two voices and whatever mystical spirit moves them.

With a nod to RVA Magazine writer Shannon Cleary's best of 2012 singles list, they called friend Patrick Bell up on stage to play the mesmerizing "Stay With Me," a song they'd never played live before.

That, my friends, is why you never want to skip a Listening Room or moments like that are missed.

Lobo Marino made their set a true homecoming show, full of energy and happiness and before long, Jameson's suspenders were down around his knees and Laney moved her wide black belt back and forth between her waist and hips depending on whether or not she was playing the accordion.

For their joyous song "Celebrate," they called up four friends to assist and they arrived in pointed, shiny birthday hats (in one case, two hats, one over each ear) with tubes of shiny confetti, which they ejected over the stage mid-song.

For those of us at their last L.R. show, it was a variation on a theme; then they'd used a fan with streamers and bits of paper to shower the stage with festivity.

Afterwards, Laney looked around and observed, "I got confetti in my tea!"

I feel safe in saying that that's the first time those words were uttered at a Listening Room.

For their classic song "Animal Hands," the two did a face to face sing off, which afterwards Jameson claimed Laney won.

Which was true, but nothing could have topped the long ago December version of that song when the audience had thrown stuffed animals at the band during it.

As seems to be their latest inclination, they closed with a Hindi chant based on the story of a monkey god who picks up an entire city when a warrior needs only one herb.

They'd laid out the chant's lyrics for the crowd, asked a trio to join them onstage and set out to, as Laney put it, "Hopefully get to a state of religious ecstasy."

Sri ram jai jai ram
Sita ram jai radhey sham

A person really can't ask for more than a set that ends ecstatically.

During the intermission, I admired the tiny reason that Antonia has been missing in action from L.R. duty.

Tiny Casimir seemed right at home at the Listening Room, but given his lineage that's really no surprise.

Before beginning again, host Chris informed us that despite the L.R.'s "no talking" rule, it was okay to laugh if bands made jokes, undoubtedly good to know for newbies.

When the show resumed, it was with shoeless Zac Hryciak and the Junglebeat, who'd last played the L.R. December 18, 2009 after a snowstorm that kept many people home, but not me.

Wow, three years, where does the time go?.

Maybe it was the long time since their last appearance for this crowd, but they wasted no time with banter, jumping right into their set.

A couple of energetic songs in and Zac stopped to wipe his face, saying, "It might not look like it, but it's really hot up here. And that whole "laugh at our jokes" thing, you don't have to do that. We're not that funny."

That could be debated (he and violinist/keyboard player Jessica alone banter like exes), but with a band as good as Junglebeat, we were too busy getting into their pretty pop sound to debate it.

Three and sometimes four voices (a bass player who sings!) combining magnificently.

A kick-ass drummer, impossible not to watch, who defines their sound.

Well-placed violin. Unusual song structures. And the distinctively angelic voice of Zac.

"We get really excited when we play and then we play our songs too fast. We're blowing right through this," Zac said, just before consciously slowing down for "Colossus," a song about either Mila Kunis or Zac's masculinity, depending on which band member you believe.

Zac thanked Lobo Marino, saying, "They brought the funk and the confetti."

What more could a band want in a compliment?

Like Lobo Marino, one of their songs had been chosen by Shannon for his year-end best of list, so Zac thanked him and pointed at Lobo Marino in the front row, saying, "We're right under you guys!" before playing, "Wear a Helmet," a beautiful analogy about risk-taking when it comes to love.

Violinist Jessica reminisced about the first time they'd played that song live at the Triple, a dive on Broad Street she characterized as having only Yuenglings and pool tables.

She's right, that about sums up the Triple, may they rest in peace.

After "Babbayagga," a song about chicken legs and bad dreams, they did "Charles and Bixby," one of two songs they spent the weekend recording for a new record.

Halfway through it, Zac messed up, stopped and they restarted, leaving himself wide open to Jessica teasing him about a song they'd played "1,000 times."

Lees' fried chicken, Lobo Marino, Zac Hryciak and the Junglebeat.

Decembers redux.

A thousand times or a few times, if it's something you enjoy in life, does it even matter if you keep repeating them?

Honestly, I can't think of a better way to get to religious ecstasy.

Now is Good

You can already feel it.

The town is going into pre-Sandy mode and hunkering down. It's hysterical.

By late afternoon, I was seeing pictures on Facebook of the long lines at Kroger.

Seriously, people?

Yes, the governor has already declared a state of emergency. And that's okay.

I, for one, learned back in 2003 pre-Isabel when a state of emergency was declared and we scoffed.

No, really, my friend and I sat at Avalon and dismissed the folly of declaring a SoE before the storm even got near land.

Twelve days later when I finally got my power back (seriously, twelve), I'd lost the ability to scoff.

So with Sandy bearing down, I know people are beginning to nest.

Sorry, just can't do it.

Instead, willing accomplice and I grabbed umbrellas and put foot in path to head to Mama J's for pre-Sandy soul food.

The line was out the door.

But, as is so often the case, we got seated immediately because we were willing to sit at the bar.

Meanwhile, people in line long before us continued to stand in the rain in hope of getting a table before the place closed.

Fools.

Our bartender was sunny and attentive and I immediately displaced a former coworker with a hug when I sat down, so life was good.

We began with tonight's soup, a trout chowder, thick and creamy and loaded with corn, potatoes and the unmistakable taste of trout.

No one but Mama J's would offer such a thing, I swear it.

Next came Mama J's famous seafood salad, a combination of elbow macaroni with shrimp and crab legs in a creamy dressing heavy on the Old Bay.

Let's just say it's justifiably famous (especially for three bucks).

While people lined up at the bar to make to-go orders (honestly, some of them were ordering enough to carry them through Sandy and the aftermath), we took our time, ordering fried chicken and cole slaw next.

"It'll take twenty minutes for that, " our bartender warned, a fact with which we had no problem.

We had nothing but time.

As we watched an incident unfold where the ownership of the last piece of rum cake was in question, we noticed that Mama's was down to only two kinds of cake.

Since they almost always have five varieties, it told us that it had been a busy day/week for soul food.

Eventually our fried chicken arrived, too hot to pick up but smelling too good to ignore.

Within minutes, we were pulling the pieces apart and savoring crispy skin and hot meat, all the while keeping an eye on the cake case.

When we'd cleared our plate, we qualified for dessert (just like with my Richmond grandmother) and had a choice of chocolate cake with either strawberry frosting or chocolate frosting.

My date opted for chocolate/chocolate, the signature cake of my youth, where our motto was, "You can never have too much chocolate."

It explains a lot, doesn't it?

Once we finished as much of the cake as we could (it had been a filling meal, after all), we felt obligated to vacate our stools so some of the teeming masses could sit in our stead.

It was an atmospheric walk home in the light rain, impending fog and warm air.

You could practically smell that there's a storm coming.

My date went to work and I called a friend who answered the phone with, "What? Are you bored?"

In short order, I was invited over for bubbles and an exchange of witticisms.

Not a bad offer for a Friday night.

Passing by the Kroger, I was reminded, not of the impending storm, but of the impending holiday as I saw two gringos standing out front.

Serapes, straw hats and cigarillos made the look.

Further on, I saw Super Girl snapping on her cape before getting into her SUV.

Ah, yes, the holiday of fantasy is almost upon us.

Costume-less, I made for my friend's house.

Like any good party, we all ended up in the kitchen, the back door wide open to the damp, warm air and smell of impending doom.

Our host graciously poured Mumm Napa Brut Rose, full of beautiful bubbles, a yeasty fragrance and a hint of strawberries.

Or, as the curly-haired one observed after her first sip, "Mmmm, I could drink this first thing in the morning every single day!"

Wouldn't that be a lovely life?

Between the interesting musical selections, stuff like new Keane, old Weepies, Nick Drake, and Captain Sensible, he who co-founded The Damned and went on to re-brand himself as an alt-pop singer.

And I liked his alt-pop, if I do say so myself.

And that's a good party when I discover a musician I hadn't known and get to hear it played at party volumes while sipping the prettiest of pink bubbles from a bottle with a label one guest described as "Like pink peau de soie."

When's the last time you were at a party and someone mentioned, much less knew what peau de soie was?

When's the last time a state of emergency was declared and I drank pink bubbles in anticipation?

When's the last time I got made fun of so badly that I almost rolled off the sofa laughing so hard?

Not recently enough.

To quote a doctor I once interviewed, "If not now, when?"

Smile Like You Mean It

I visit my Dad on Father's Day for many reasons.

As the oldest and the one of his six daughters who lives closest, I feel a certain sense of filial duty.

It's a shared meal.

Lunch is always his choice, often crabs, but this year fried chicken, watermelon, potato salad and corn muffins.

I get pie.

Today's was strawberry rhubarb pie a la mode.

He makes me laugh.

Whether making fun of the conservatism of the Richmond Times Dispatch or saying he'll have to have a come-to-Jesus with their neighbor about his early-morning mowing, the man is funny.

Like me, he gets the Washington Post delivered daily and I mention a recent front-page picture of a tall ship in Baltimore, notable for the men lined up high on the masts.

When he goes to retrieve the paper, he comes back shaking his head and lecturing my Mom about "Newspaper 101."

Apparently in Dad's world, old newspapers should be found in one of two places on the back porch.

This one had been in neither.

Instead, it was discovered under a pile of watermelon rinds in the kitchen. And he was not finding that acceptable.

This resulted in a long-winded but hysterical explanation of how newspapers should be cached while my Mom shook her head laughing at him and I played audience.

And that's probably the biggest reason I go to the Northern Neck every Father's Day.

It's a chance to be the adoring fan every Dad wants his daughter to be.

And considering what he showed me about men, he deserves every bit of it.

Bones at Balliceaux

Somewhere, an old southern cook is spinning in her grave and the micro greens are only part of it.

At issue is the southern soul food staple, chicken and waffles, that long-time marriage of salty and crispy with sweet and bready. It's a combination so perfectly balanced as to leave no room for improvisation.

But this is 2011 and what chef doesn't like to riff on an old standard? The challenge, I would think, would be finding a way to improve upon something so classic without alienating fans of the original.

Balliceaux does it beautifully with their take on chicken and waffles, and I say this as someone who just ate it for lunch and had to wipe the residual grease off her fingers before beginning to type this.

Two perfectly fried chicken thighs arrived atop two Belgian-style waffle squares. The perky little micro-green gracing the thighs were nothing more than eye candy to remind the eater that this is the twenty-first century. I could have downed them in one bite, but merely smiled at their presence, pushing them to the side.

What did grab my attention at first bite was the spicy maple syrup, a definite change-up for its kick where sweetness usually delivers. The syrup benefited from the addition of red pepper flakes and it added a new dimension to both the waffle and especially the yard bird.

Subtle heat infused every bite since the syrup was not the sort of thing to be contained by the indentations of the waffle. I know because it ended up on my chin, on the napkin in my lap, and on the handles of my knife and fork.

By the time I finished eating, my fingers were a lovely mix of greasy and sticky. Maybe knowing that will reassure those dead southern cooks trying to process all this change.

But probably not. My Richmond grandmother's speciality was fried chicken and she never accepted that people stopped frying their chicken in bacon grease like she did.

Come to think of it, I had kind of a hard time with that myself.

All American Southern Fried Italian

It was me, Jimmy, Billy and Skip against the suits.

And by suits, I mean men and women in earnest corporate dress having polite chit-chat at a post-work gathering (immediately overheard, him to her: "You don't look like the beer type.") because it was expected of them, not because they wanted to.

When I walked into Stronghill Dining, the bar area was full of mingling people, but with a private party vibe. And when I asked the bartender if it was okay to sit at the bar, he said it was. You don't have to tell me twice.

I ordered a glass of wine, noting that the music was a full-on 80s mix (I was told that "women of all ages love it"), but the conversation between the bartender and the three gents to my right was centered on Slayer and Motley Crew (their drug use and music).

There was a brief digression about how difficult it is to listen to Cyndi Lauper or, as had apparently happened recently, Pat Benatar all night, and then they were right back to heroin.

At the Whisky Grill last night, the cook and I had somehow ended up talking about the importance of a cast iron skillet when frying chicken (my grandmother's first rule of chicken-making) and I had been thinking about fried chicken ever since.

There it was on the menu: two pieces of buttermilk-fried chicken with house made sausage gravy. Hallelujah and pass the biscuits.

After perusing the sides, I concluded that the house made applesauce would be the perfect sweet to accompany my salty chicken. The bartender asked me, "Thigh or leg?" which made no sense to me, but I picked thigh.

Meanwhile, the party swirled around me. At one point, a woman walked up to a group of women and announced, "Stop talking business. This is supposed to be fun." Thank god she reminded them is all I can say. It can be hard to stay on track without a memo from the top sometimes.

My fried chicken arrived looking like a Southerner's wet dream, with a crispy thigh and half breast under and over a generous serving of sausage gravy. Having had Stronghill's superb sausage for brunch, I knew I was in for some gravy goodness.

But the bowl of "house made applesauce" bore a striking resemblance to Mott's out of a jar. Eyeing it suspiciously, I tasted it; it tasted like supermarket Mott's. "Is this really housemade?" I asked the bartender with a laugh and a look.

Glancing at it, he said, "Well, I'm sure somebody's mother made it...Yes, it's house made." Yea, yea, I moved on to that delicious thigh (and then breast) and that gravy full of flavorful sausage. As I ate, it occurred to me that it was my first chicken and gravy; better late than never, but also about frickin' time.

The bartender came over and made a great, polite show of asking me, "Aside from not believing that the applesauce is house made, how's your chicken?" Smartass niceties aside, I told him it was stellar. I may even have had gravy on my chin when I said it.

It was then that the guy sitting next to me asked how I was liking the fried chicken and introduced himself and his two business partners. I found out they were regulars at the bar since their (body) shop was a couple of blocks away. Jimmy was the instigator, Billy was the stressed-out one and Skip was the shy one. They knew a lot about cars. I don't.

After licking my plate clean, the bartender asked if I wanted coffee. "No, thanks," I said, so he offered me hot tea. "I don't do hot tea," I told him.

"Crack? How about some crack then?" he suggested, barely looking up, and getting points for quickness. Crack before a concerto? I don't think so.

It was getting on toward 8:00 and I had a show to see, so I asked for my check ("Sorry, you can't leave"), said good-bye to Skip (his friends having departed to go home to the "little women") and made my way down to the Singelton Center.

The VCU Symphonic Orchestra was promising me an American composer fix and I didn't want to be late. Ever since reading Joan Peyser's biography of Leonard Bernstein and Aaron Copland's two-volume autobiography (with nary a whiff of any sort of sexual life at all...really?), I have been on a mission to hear as much of Bernstein and Copland's music live as I can.

Tonight it was Bernstein's overture to Candide and selections from Copland's Rodeo and The Tender Land. Rodeo I've heard because I've seen the ballet, but the others would be firsts live for me. The other pieces being played, Mozart, Enescu and de Falla, were bonuses.

I'm anything but a pie-eyed patriot, but I find something absolutely stirring about classical American music. It just sounds so...American. Yes, of course, partly it's that incorporation of American folk music into the works, but beyond that, it's just our un-European interpretation of classical music.

And since I know nothing about music, that's merely my way of trying to explain how I could sit there happily with my eyes closed enjoying the music of these two extraordinary 20th century men being played by VCU students. Is this a great town or what?

The only possible thing to do after the performance was find someplace open for dessert and all-American Tarrant's fit the bill, but just barely. They didn't have any actual customers, but they were busy doing all the end-of-the-shift stuff so they had to be there anyway. I was in.

"For you I'd suggest the chocolate cannoli," my friend Danny said and I didn't argue. Owner Ted explained what the cannoli dough was made of (the coffee was a surprise) and then pointed out that putting chocolate on it was desecration and that, "No real Italian would eat such a thing."

As it happens, I'm Irish so that didn't affect me. And when Ted brought it out and offered me whipped cream on top, I took it. Probably just as sacrilegious.

While I scarfed it down, one of the servers shared the story of asking a customer if he wanted a second martini tonight and him replying, "I dare not. This one is way too good." She couldn't get over the use of the word "dare," repeating it in her distinctive NY accent. "I da-uh not!"

I'm pretty much over the dare not stage and reveling in the dares. Again, about time.

Pre-Parisian Soul Food

A good friend leaves for France Sunday, which guarantees me two things.

First, I will get an artistic and suggestive postcard from him while he's away (although I'm not sure he'll ever top the Picasso postcard from Barcelona) and on his return, a pair of funky Parisian tights (he's the source of the Berlin tights in my blog profile picture, too).

Today we had our bon voyage lunch and I especially picked a place I knew a) he'd love and b) would be as unlike what he'll be eating for the next two weeks as possible. Destination: Mama J's Kitchen, right here in the Ward.

The menu at Mama J's is just what you'd expect: catfish, spare ribs, chicken-fried steak, smothered pork chops and, our choice, fried chicken. With your entree, you get a corn muffin or dinner roll (we had both) and then you get to pick from the soul sides. I got string beans and he got candied yams. Oh, yes, and we started with their distinctive seafood chowder.

I love Mama J's because it's a stylish little place (easily one of the loveliest ladies' rooms in the city) and always filled with people from the 'hood, both residents and business people. The tables are close enough together that people talk to their neighbors sociably and we couldn't resist admiring the food coming out to all the surrounding tables as we waited for ours.

Licking his greasy fingers as he put down a bare drumstick bone, my friend grinned at me and said, "This is the real deal!" Next week he'll be eating in a sweetbreads-only bistro and today he was drooling over my string beans long-cooked in salt pork and his obscenely sweet yams. That's my kind of eating partner.

You can't go to Mama J's without eating an enormous piece of one of the sumptuous cakes that Mama's sister bakes. We had the rum cake, crusted in nuts and soaked through with so much rum that we felt a little giddy trying to finish it.

Or maybe it was a food coma, given the abundance of food we'd already consumed. I don't know how people go back to work and are the least bit productive after a lunch like that. Or maybe they don't and that's why the place is mobbed on Fridays.

It can't all be travelers headed to France out enjoying a taste of soul food with a friend before jumping the pond. Or if it is, J-Ward is going to be awash in stylish tights in another month or so.

I can't imagine who'd have a complaint with that.