Minor Key with Straw Hat

I am not and never have been a weather wimp.

So, despite a forecast of sunny and 90 degrees, I found a willing partner to go to King Family Winery for a polo match on Sunday afternoon.

Although we arrived after the match had begun, we found an ideal spot under the shade of a large tree not far from the stables.

Yes, there was a trio already in place under the tree, but they gave us permission to join.

With a view of the action, the shade of the tree, the breeze across the field and a picnic, we were almost all set.

A detour to the tasting room yielded a bottle of Crose, a refreshing rose tasting of grapefruit and cranberry in an ice-filled bucket, and finally we wanted for nothing.

With the satisfying sound of horse hooves on the field, we opened our picnic and immediately had a guest.

The winery's corgi showed up the second I unwrapped a baguette with soprasetta on it.

And not just showed up, but sat so close that its hair tickled my bare legs.

Soon a couple with a beagle walked by and the girl called, "Love your dog!" as if this rogue corgi was mine.

I told her I was just going to say how much I liked her beagle.

Later a guy walked over to pet "my" corgi and I had to correct him, too.

I'm a beagle person, not a corgi person, just for the record. Can't you tell just by looking at me?

Polo has a certain thrilling aspect because of the presence of large animals galloping towards the edge of the field where small people sit.

But it's also because of the sense of history that comes with polo playing, as I'd been reminded more than once at the "Maharaja" exhibit yesterday.

I'm just happy somebody's playing polo regularly so I can watch the pageantry. Who wins is of no real interest to me.

Oh, this is a competition and not just spectacle?

Once the match ended, the field was fair game for the visitors so soccer balls and kites came out.

I'll take kite-flying at the beach over kite-flying anywhere else, but I have to admit they were pretty in the sky against the nearby mountains.

Many people bolted the moment the match ended, but we were not among them.

Our picnic lunch took some time to eat and who wants to rush through a bottle of rose, even when it is ridiculously quaffable on a warm day?

Once it got to be close to winery-closing time, though, we finally packed up and headed east for music.

Tonight was the first of the Fan's Meadow Park concerts (I try to make them every year), so we arrived early enough to secure a partially shaded bench for the show, no easy feat given the setting sun and the park's western orientation.

But there is a distinct pleasure to early evening summer sun. A little sweat should be par for the course in mid-June.

The park was especially pretty tonight because of the presence of dozens of paper cranes, origami-folded constructs of various pastel colors, hanging from trees and in bushes.

Young families with children were everywhere and Susan Greenbaum was playing a mix of covers and originals.

Beginning with Paul Simon, she then did a song called "Fireworks," her own "Everything But You" and even some Norah Jones.

"As long as I'm playing songs in minor keys," she said before doing a fine cover of  Sting's "Fragile," and satisfying us minor key lovers.

Greenbaum reminded us from the stage that there was free ice cream courtesy of the Fan District Association and she only had to tell us once before we high-tailed it over to score some.

I chose a cone of chocolate royale and my companion got strawberry which we enjoyed back on our bench.

When we finally went to leave, we heard our names being called.

Going in to Garnett's was a friend and her beau, so we crossed the street to join them on the colorful park chairs outside the restaurant.

We heard stories of kayaking, temper tantrums (no, they don't have kids) and scalpings before he started dropping hints about pie.

Once his words sunk in and we all agreed that wine and pie were just through the nearby blue door, we got up to get some.

"I made that happen," he said under his breath, in a most satisfied tone.

And he had.

Companion and I had just had ice cream, so we weren't particularly thinking of pie then, but within moments, there was a bottle of Gabriele Rausse Vin de Gris on the table and pear with mixed berry pie and coconut cream pie followed in short order.

Pie and wine put us all in mind of a future time when we don't have to do anything we don't want to do.

Someone mentioned running a bed and breakfast because of the amount of free time that would allow for pie at any given moment.

Call me lucky, but I'm pretty open to pie (and wine) just about any time already.

And if they present themselves on a sunny day with the dust of the polo field and the sweat of a warm picnic already on me, all the better.

Only a weather wimp would hold that against me.

Birthday Scrapple

We have established that I'm a fan of the Roosevelt.

Hell, I was a fan of Lee Gregory's cooking back when he was at Six Burner and no one was paying attention.

So of course now that he's cooking up all kinds of fresh takes on southern cuisine, I'm bound to show up in Church Hill regularly.

Tonight it was at that perfect moment when the crowds had not yet descended and there were plenty of spaces at the bar.

We assumed the position and ordered a bottle of Gabrielle Rausse Vin de Gris, a particularly lovely white Pinot Noir.

My favorite Church Hill neighbor was there, the man I'd met the first week The Roosevelt opened.

"It's so good to see you again, Karen," he said very sweetly.

He'd already ordered his dinner and was planning to finish his beer, take his dinner the block home and eat it in the recliner watching his favorite show.

I could appreciate his plan but couldn't ever do it myself.

The early evening light was sublime in the room, highlighting every corner of the room and eliminating the need for artificial light.

And I found friends in attendance.

I wished the birthday boy many happy returns ("They say it's your birthday, Well, it's my birthday, too, yea") and had an animated discussion of the recent Ghostlight Afterparty with another of the attendees.

Bartender T's understated charms were working the bar hard, but he found time to tell us the specials, and thus decide our fate.

We started light with Virginia crab, bacon, grilled corn, avocado and lemon vinaigrette.

Huge hunks of backfin met creamy avocado while tender pea shoots held it all together. A fine start.

One of my old Floyd Avenue neighbors came over to say hello. It was his first time at The Roosevelt and he was happy to see a familiar face.

He admitted his confirmed bachelorhood, gave a nod to strong-willed women and confirmed a reliance on the same restaurants and dishes, all for lack of nerve.

I've seen it time and time again; if they stay single too long, they become cat-petting, Hulu-watching amoebas who rarely leave the house except to run errands (surely a code word for something far more boring even than errands).

Next up was the standout of the evening, a lamb scrapple.

And, unlike in Washington, D.C. where I last ordered scrapple, I wasn't asked if I knew what scrapple was.

Made of lamb belly (oh, my!) and lamb shoulder, cornmeal and spices, it arrived with a soft cooked egg atop it and a divine chimichurra sauce.

I don't care what you think of scrapple, whether you've had it and hated it or accept it as a necessary evil, this scrapple was heavenly.

Coarse and savory, it became something sublime when coated with the yolk of an egg.

It was my companion's first-ever scrapple but his affection for lamb made that a moot point.

On a roll now, we moved on to the pork belly with pickled green strawberries, regular strawberries and pork rinds.

Fatty, sweet, fatty, tart, fatty, crunch - every flavor and every texture came through on this dish.

Yes, pork belly has been done to death, but this was absolutely a new take on it.

Not surprisingly, we also succumbed to one of the evening's specials, fried chicken skin and chicken oysters with a Sriracha/honey sauce.

It's a rare and wonderful week when you get chicken skin two days in a row.

Licking our fingers, we were unexpectedly greeted by friends coming from Eric Schindler Gallery, a place we'd intended to visit tonight had our taste buds not insisted we remain within spitting drooling distance of Lee's kitchen.

Our buttermilk panna cotta then arrived (creamy mouthfeel, slightly tangy flavor and fresh strawberries atop it all ) and we decided to enjoy it outside while chatting up our friends.

Which hill towns should be visited in Italy? Why do middle schoolers think probability and balls are so funny? If a father finds a hangover amusing, does that bode well for the future groom?

There wasn't enough Vin de Gris at The Roosevelt to solve such major issues, but we tried anyway, as customers strolled by and buses charged around the traffic circle in the moonlight.

The waning crescent moon overhead is still in Aries, no doubt gathering its strength to soon deliver Gemini, my sign.

Tonight's feast of scrapple and chicken skin were just the kickoff to my upcoming birthday week celebration.

How long can I stretch out this birthday revelry?

Stay tuned. I'll do my best.

Time Won't Let Me

"If you go to them, you have them for life." ~The Edge aka Josh

I'm not sure there's a heaven, but if there turns out to be one, I think it might have an all-belly menu.

Or maybe that's just what I'm hoping after tonight.

A quick stop at Bistro 27 for a glass of wine got me a taste of mixologist Bobby's latest creation, a Hardywood Mocha Porter frozen custard.

All I was expecting was some Gavi so the mousse-like mocha custard with hints of banana fully engaged my palate with its subtle flavors and creaminess.

And I don't even like beer.

I made sure to clear out well in advance of the first restaurant week reservations of the evening and headed due east to the non-participating Roosevelt.

It was all but empty upon our arrival.

Diving into the Gabrielle Rausse Vin de Gris, that lovely white Pinot Noir I could drink every warm day, it was a fine accompaniment for potato gnocchi, Virginia clams with roasted garlic and herb broth.

My dining companion was so sure the clam and gnocchi combo wouldn't work, so I insisted on ordering it just to prove him wrong.

I think he may have even been glad he was wrong.

We followed that with crab and avocado salad with fennel, grapefruit, radishes and chili aioli. The heat of the oil gave a welcome zing to the subtle crab and avocado.

Putting a bite of the salad into my mouth, I noticed something.

I've been to The Roosevelt enough times to be familiar with their usual music and tonight's was not it.

Asking the bartender where the music was coming from, he said, "Good or bad?"

Turns out it was his iPod and he feared for his taste. Not to worry, it was right up my alley.

Tuna belly with bacon jam was our next course and while it was my first tuna belly, I feel certain it was superior tuna belly.

Of course, anything served with bacon jam is going to be worth eating, but the combination proved once again how much I like pig and things that live in the water.

I saw a friend whose show I'd missed last week by mere minutes, which led to a discussion of playing music and fans.

He told me once that his band has a good-sized soccer mom contingent and tonight for the first time, he explained why.

His band had played shows in their subdivisions and the moms were hooked.

Now they came into the city to see them. Because apparently, once you take the music to the moms, they are yours forever.

After digesting that nugget, we went on to our second belly of the evening, lamb belly with tomatoes and capers.

Surely this is what heaven tastes like. Fatty, but not overly so and with a depth of flavor well complemented by the salty capers, we were in love.

With belly.

Dessert was apple blackberry pie with glasses of King Family Loreley to make a sweet course sweeter.

When we left, every seat was taken but no one's grins were bigger than the two of us after our two-belly meal.

Music followed at The Nile with a triple bill and a small but enthusiastic crowd.

Harrisonburg's Malatese had been billed as post-rock, a personal favorite, but turned out to be more post-punk.

So I got more driving energy but with unexpected vocals.

Tungs were local, even louder and more aggressive, more rock, less indie.

After full-on thrash, we got to the reason I was there, Chicago's Netherfriends.

I'd seen this guy play a house show a while back and been blown away by his hooky, poppy sound and mad dance skills.

Using a guitar, drum pad and Casio keyboard, Shawn (because Netherfriends is really Shawn, shh, don't tell) played a dancier set than I'd seen last time, but every bit as fun.

My favorite moments were when he came out from behind the keyboard to dance across the front of the room.

This is possible because he loops so the music can carry on while he does a mean James Brown.

He finished with "You Gotta Fight (for your right to party)" because, well, because he could and wanted to.

This is a guy who puts his hand out to emphasize a lyric (stop in the name of showmanship!), so clearly he enjoys his work.

And I enjoyed him.

Not quite as much as all that belly, but close. Very close.

I'd asked my partner in crime what part of me he'd want to eat after I'm dead (no, I don't know how I come up with these things) and he didn't hesitate.

His answer had been my belly, probably because he saw its potential for being well marbled.

Ever canny, he'd suggested that I stipulate in my will that belly rights went to him.

I may want to add a codicil that it must be served with bacon jam.

Just like in heaven.