Giving the Peace Sign

The things you have to do at Thanksgiving.

When asked to fill out a foil "leaf" with what I was thankful for and hang it on a small brass tree, I reduced my gratitude to its simplest level: I am grateful for all the people who love me. And I am.

While I've always been thankful for devoted parents, siblings who can finish my childhood stories and friends who choose to spend time with me, this year's list got longer with the addition of Mr. Wright, a partner who not only braved the gauntlet of meeting my family, but talked me down after the madness ended.

Part of how he accomplished this, it should be noted, was by ensuring that the three mornings after Turkey Day all involved waking up on the water. Those who know me know that this is a sure-fire way to get me to my happy place.

Now that I think about it, I didn't get my usual pre-sisters stress zit, either, so maybe his presence in my life is working in myriad ways.

To prepare for the psychological demands of spending the day with family, I'd made a point to do my usual Thanksgiving Eve blowout with Holmes and Beloved.

Beginning at Acacia, where the vibe was low-key and quiet but the crab fritters, grilled mahi mahi and beet/feta salad (the latter so good it won over the beet-hating Holmes) and chocolate cremeux were stellar, and then at Holmes' man-cave, where we listened to countless records - Elvis Costello to the Zombies - our evening was devoted to toasting the ghosts of Thanksgivings past with Graham Beck Brut Rose.

It's a tradition that goes back to 2010 for the three of us and shows no signs of letting up, no matter where any of us wind up having our turkey.

Come Thanksgiving Day, we motored to the house of Sister #6, a true hostess with the mostess and it's not only because her celebrations involve her husband shucking Old Saltes for anyone who will slurp them, although I'll be honest, that is my favorite part of it all. I'd stand there chatting with him, slurping 3 or 4 oysters and then taking 3 shucked beauties up to my Dad before returning to do it all over again. And again.

Because the 30 family members in attendance were seated at four tables over three rooms, my sister had come up with a plan for FFF - that's forced family fun, a phrase I first learned on a bev nap - to shake things up. Someone would get up, plate and glass in hand, and tap someone else on the shoulder, thereby usurping their chair and changing the make-up of that table.

The purpose, she claimed, was for everyone to get a chance to sit at the table with my parents, but I'm not sure she ran that plan by them first. I know that by the time I got to the fourth table, everyone was either in a food coma or tired of talking, which is saying a lot for this group.

All I'm saying is, it can be exhausting to eat and drink for seven hours with family.

But Black Friday dawned in Deale, Maryland, a little town on the Chesapeake Bay that offered up a big marina and, after a drive through its nearly empty waterfront streets, a cozy lunch (because they'd stopped serving breakfast five minutes before we'd arrived) at the South Country Cafe, a place where the cashier calls you "hon" and a stack of housemade pies sat on a ledge near the door.

Carter's Creek provided the wake-up water-views come the weekend, along with the usual pleasures of small-town life in Irvington. A walk to the Local Cafe for a bagel meant seeing lots of visitors to the Tides Inn and Hope and Glory Inn out and about on inn bicycles, a holiday market going on at the Steamboat Museum and, promptly at noon, a steady rain that ensured a snug, indoor afternoon.

Best of all, I'd brought along one of my recent  library book sale finds, a petite blue edition of "The Playboy Interviews with John Lennon and Yoko Ono" from 1981, a book guaranteed to occupy me for as long as it took for Mr. Wright to gather reference materials for an upcoming course he's teaching.

From the executive editor's foreword to the interviewer's introduction, I was immediately taken with these extensive conversations between John, Yoko and the Playboy writer because Lennon was willing to talk about everything. In fact, that had been the starting point for the book because the magazine interview couldn't include a fraction of what the couple had shared over multiple interviews and it was such good stuff.

That said, after reading for less than two hours, I pulled that chenille blanket over me and took a rainy day nap the likes of which can only be explained as sleeping out the final vestiges of Thanksgiving Day stress.

Post-rain, we headed to the Quays, an upscale Irish pub, meaning the fried fish fillets were mahi mahi and served over rice/quinoa instead of with chips, but also the sort of place where an appetizer of Dublin rolls (corned beef and cabbage in eggroll wrappers) arrived long after our entrees and not that far ahead of some pretty tasty butterscotch bread pudding.

Northern Neck charm or clueless management? You make the call.

From there, we only had to cross the hall to Walkabout Creek, where a DJ was onstage, lights were flashing and the locals were just getting cranked up for some serious Saturday night dancing, first to country, then to pop and hip-hop, and fortunately, with enough classic soul thrown in to get us up there, too.

Everybody dance now.

Today dawned so warm and sunny that all indoor activity was suspended so we could make the most of such late-November splendor. My walk took me across the grounds of the Dog and Oyster Winery and through their back 40, depositing me on the main drag which, as I quickly leaned, meant waving to every Sunday driver that passed.

While Mr. Wright assures me that in my short, pink athletic skirt, no one was going to take me for a local, I am nonetheless working on getting just the right Northern Neck wave mastered.

That and 79 cents will get me a copy of the Rappahannock Record at the gas station.

Down at the dock, the creek was muddy from yesterday's rain and the tide so high that it felt like we were on a boat. While checking the oyster garden float, we found it full of pine needles but no bivalves because apparently a storm had broken the frame and released the bottom.

Mr. Wright was the brilliant one who suggested that maybe a new oyster reef will form with the escapees, perhaps just beside the dock for easy shucking and slurping. If so, it'll give me one more thing to be thankful for next year.

Not that I need anything more given how good I have it these days. Like Reba McEntire said, "I have a lot to be thankful for. I am healthy, happy and I am loved."

Finally, the trifecta. Now if I could just nail how to wave to passing trucks, I wouldn't ask for anything more.

Striding up That Hill

Out of countless quips that had me doubled over in laughter, surely this was the best line of the weekend: "Roundabout. Dig it!"

Commentary followed by directive, Yes, sir.

Since I last blogged Thursday, I've been to six restaurants - Metzger, Dinamo, Lee's, Adrift, The Walkabout and Willaby's Cafe - not including the one that shall remain nameless because I was reviewing it.

Of note was the brisket at Metzger, our kickoff to soup season at Dinamo (fish soup and matzoh ball soup) with a side of travel planning, a server named Karen at Lee's ("Open since 1939!") who referred to me as "this lovely lady," the mystery man taking notes at Adrift who wouldn't tell us why he'd come to Irvington 29 years ago or what's kept him there so long (and I asked), tequila and dancing at a dimly-lit Australian Outback-themed pub to the classic rock ramblings of Right Turn Clyde and a waterfront seat for what is still one of the best crabcakes on the Northern Neck at Willaby's Cafe.

Our only food miscalculation was in not having a slice of pie after lunch at Lee's, but I'd foolishly followed the lead of the large man in the booth next to us who, when asked about pie, patted his ample girth and declined by saying, "Nah, I think I'll save today's dessert for after dinner."

That's all well and good until an hour later when you want to kick yourself for not just going ahead and scarfing two desserts in one day.

I was supposed to have seen two movies, but "Psycho" in Chimborazo Park never happened because the organizers opted to show "Monsters, Inc." instead. Why, you wonder, especially after I'd donned fleece leggings jeans, two shirts, a sweater, gloves and a jacket had they let us down? Because "Monsters, Inc." had been the scheduled film a week earlier when Hurricane Michael blew through and they'd had to cancel. 

Judging by the crowd of couples, not families, around us, I'm going to go out on a limb and say we weren't the only ones looking forward to Hitchcock, although we were the only ones who packed up our chairs, blankets, wine, bourbon-laced coffee and took the party to Pru's porch a block away instead.

In addition to bow tie-tying lessons, it was there that Beau decided to delve into the origins of When Mr. Wright Met Karen and Pru repeatedly insisted to him, "You broke her!" when she wasn't giving a Power Point presentation about my past and my proclivities ("She would never!"). Meanwhile, the menfolk sipped single malt Scotch and those of us with no circulation mainlined Grillo while availing ourselves of the porch's heat lamps.

Beau and I weren't shy about saying yes to slices of Pru's freshly-made peach clafoutis, even if I am allergic to peaches. Moaning with pleasure as he ate, Beau also insisted it would make an ideal breakfast food when warmed, not that everyone is as dedicated to that meal as he and I are.

They must not wake up hungry every single day like I do.

What Mr. Wright and I did manage to see was "The Old Man and the Gun," purportedly Robert Redford's final acting role and a fine (and true) yarn that highlighted the excellent chemistry between Redford and Sissy Spacek while telling the story of a string of '80s bank robberies perpetrated by what became known as the "Over the Hill Gang."

The film opens with a caveat: "This movie is, also, mostly true." So while it wasn't a documentary, it at least came out of real life and we all know how much that appeals to me.

Exactly once I was mistaken for a Cubs' fan, mainly due to the over-sized sweatshirt I had on for warmth on my morning walk through Irvington. The thing is, I've learned that that logo is also an excellent tool for identifying guys from the south side of Chicago since it seems to get a sure-fire reaction in Virginia. 

At least three or four times, there was protracted discussion of indulgence and specifically, why, at this stage of life, it's perfectly fine to operate in such a mode. In other words, if you're going to mention interest in a piece of art located in a place you've never been, chances are someone is going to think it's a splendid idea to make plans to see it.

A file folder naturally follows and next thing you know, a plan is in place.

The past two weeks since we returned from Athens have been a sort of no man's land, not quite back to pre-travel status quo - witness I only walked once last week - with three road trips this week alone. I keep expecting life to settle down to something approximating normal, except I'm not exactly sure what that is anymore.

Hence the lapse in blogging.

But given how wildly happy I am, I'm not sure that I need to. It's enough to wallow in it, play catch-up with work and reading my stack of Washington Posts in between and look forward to whatever's next. Dig it?

This blog post is, also, mostly true.

As Dreams Make Way for Plans.

I can see the t-shirt now: I spent three days in Irvington and all I got was a lousy coffee mug

Except that's nowhere close to all I got during the time that Irvington - and my host with the most - were spinning their three-day charm offensive on me.

And I can say that even after slogging through a grueling Friday afternoon traffic jam on I-64 (the sign warned of a vehicle on fire at mile post 209, a vehicle long gone by the time I made my way past the mile marker) that turned an hour and 20 minute drive into a solid two hours, one hour of which was spent creeping along at 5 to 15 miles an hour happily listening to Paul Westerburg's "14 Songs."

On your mark
Here I am
I'm your spark
Runaway wind

I didn't mind a bit (windows down, sunny skies, weekend plans to look forward to) considering what (and who) was at the end of the journey. And while my new mug may be the only tangible souvenir (besides photos), I returned to the city with some pretty wonderful memories.

Like a trip to the River Market for picnic supplies where the affable and aproned owner Jimmy was kind enough to come from behind the counter to meet me and then extol the virtues of his hand-prepared food (the Thai noodles were stellar). He was invaluable in helping us choose our picnic fixin's for an evening at Good Luck Cellars sipping their Vidal Blanc and Petit Verdot while listening to a rather talented musician cover the discography of my youth.

Or like a mid-morning canoe ride on Carter's Creek accompanied by a who's who history of the houses, docks and boats we were gliding by. Electric boats? Who knew? And while I did do some rowing, there's also photographic evidence of me taken from the back of the boat that shows the paddle across my lap and arms leaning back on the sides of the canoe, that prove how easy I had it.

There was the second picnic of the weekend, that one at Belle Isle State Park on the Rappahannock, where a foreboding gray sky couldn't diminish the serious blues chops of the surprisingly young Tom Euler and his trio. Think John Mayer without the bad decision-making.

And speaking of decisions, I knew the performance was doomed when a park ranger stood nearby scoping out the thunder and lightening providing the light show. Only an hour into it, she told Tom that for safety's sake, they needed to stop the show. The trio obliged by playing the whimsical "Mary Had a Little Lamb" as picnickers packed up chairs, blankets and pic-a-nick baskets to head to safety.

But not to go home. If you know me, you know I love a good storm, especially on the water, which is how we ended up moving the truck to a better vantage point facing the river to watch the sky unleash its fury. Let's just say the drive home resembled nothing so much as driving through a monsoon with occasional roadside stops.

The after-affects of all that rain was on full display when my brilliant host suggested a walk at Hughlett Point Nature Preserve the next day. Whether walking on trails or a slightly raised boardwalk through forest and wetlands, we were surrounded by mosquito breeding pools standing water on all sides thanks to last night's torrential downpour.

But the payoff was emerging from that to - ta da! - a pristine sandy beach that fronted the Chesapeake Bay and had not a soul on it besides us. With nothing built anywhere nearby, it was like being on an abandoned island, with the warm waters of the Bay lapping at our feet as we walked.

There weren't even any footprints in the sand. When a small wave hit at just the right angle, it sent a drop of salty water flying into my open mouth, as if to make the moment completely unreal.

What we did come across was the equivalent of a sculpture installation: a dozen or so massive pieces of driftwood, most of which were still the size of full trees, albeit laying on their sides. It was unreal and beautiful, occupying almost the width of the narrow beach not long after high tide. A small part of the beach was closed to walkers because of nesting shore birds and the northeastern beach tiger beetle, whatever that is.

I have a new favorite place on the Northern Neck and I have my considerate host, ever the planner, to thank for giving it to me. Among other things.

There were breakfasts eaten on the deck overlooking Carter's Creek, a walk into town and a stop at The Local for drinks, a bagel sandwich (bacon and cucumber on an everything bagel, yum) and a look at local art, and more conversation than any other two people could possibly stand.

As for that mug, it now holds a place of honor on my desk, a reminder of a most memorable weekend and what could be considered my new life philosophy: "Keep calm and love an architect."

Nothing like stating the obvious. I mean, thanks, but both are already second nature.

The Beagle and Bivalve Assignment

I know it doesn't sound like I'm working, but really, I am.

The interview I'd originally scheduled for Wednesday got moved when my interviewee had to deal with "family matters" (I didn't ask), so it was today I headed east to Irvington to interview one woman in the flesh and the other on the phone from Florence, Alabama, apparently near Muscle Shoals.

As in, sweet home and all that southern garbage.

No question, it was a beautiful day for a drive past things such as vegetable stands (one with Chad's Dad BBQ sending up smoke signals right next to it), two guys and a pickup truck with a hand-written sign, "Fresh Clams," an electric business with a sign reading, "July is National Horseradish Month" and a house with a hand-painted sign out front saying, "Crabs $15/dozen." I came this close to stopping at that one.

When we finished our interview, the woman asked if I was "driving all the way back to Richmond" now. Nope, I figured I'd make a stop as long as I was out this way. The story I was working on will pay well, so why not enjoy some residual benefits from it early?

I okayed an advance to myself on the spot.

I was so close to the Dog and the Oyster Winery, with its inviting screened porch tasting room, that I could have left my car and walked over from her offices, but I didn't.

Pulling up, I saw that four or five of the umbrella tables were occupied while two couples sat on the porch, which had lost its screened doors since I was last there. But the really big change was the tent set up next to the porch where lunch was being served.

Well, this was something new.

After tasting their Rose', Rosie, the pourer asked if I was hungry. Always, I told him, netting me a big smile. "I'm only asking because they stop serving in 15 minutes." Needless, to say, my Rosie and I shuffled over to the tent to order.

I couldn't resist a dozen Antipoison Creek raw oysters (or the story of John Smith being stung by a stingray there) which had been pulled from the water at Windmill Point at 9 this morning and were being served at the winery by 11.

Great balls of fire, they were some of the best oysters I've put in my mouth, with a delicate salinity (love my salt) and a crisp mineral finish. The cups were deep, holding copious amounts of oyster liquid and they weren't overly chilled, making them taste like the oysters I'd been given by a retired judge right out of the river one day.

When my server dropped them off, she politely explained the mignonette to me with the caveat, "It's pretty strong, so just use a tiny bit on your oysters." Honey, these oysters were so fabulous I wouldn't have put anything on them, not even lemon (not that I was offered any).

The old gray-muzzled winery dog came over to say hello laying her head in my lap as I sipped my pink. Her head was hot because she'd just come in from outside but her eyes were knowing and friendly.

I'd taken a seat at the long wooden table piled high with oyster shells decorated by happy customers. Most people had written a remembrance on their shells.

55th birthday 7/16/15
Excellent wine, nice lecture!
Don't drink the water, fish pee in it!
a picture of a sailboat and the artist's signature (Drew)
Love making memories around the state- Navone hearts David

And anniversaries, lots of anniversaries: 11th, 25th, 35th.

While their son decorated a half dozen shells (after being told he was only allowed to do two), the couple at the far end of the table sat glued to their phones. She was particularly excited that after she'd posted where they were, 13 (thirteen!) friends had commented about how much they liked Dog and Oyster. They were so busy responding, they could have been on Mars for how much they were enjoying the view.

Their loss. My chair faced the verdant vineyards and the giant corkscrew sculpture that greets guest on the road, whether they arrive on foot, bike, car or trolley, all of which I witnessed sitting there.

After chatting with a couple from north Jersey ("Five miles from the city but we never go in. We hate it, we're country people." Uh huh, I can see that by your braless turquoise halter top, hot pink shorts and bleached blond hair...and she looked to be about 65), I finished the last of my wine and snagged a doggie treat out of the jar on the tasting counter on my way out.

I'd spotted the winery hounds on the other side of the fence and there was one I needed to say hello to, a beagle, of course. I can honestly say today was the first time I've ever sat in a vineyard with a beagle in my lap, scratching his ears and neck while I breathed my wine breath on him and he shared his dog breath with me.

But really, I was working before that.