High Noon at the Crabcake Corral

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That alone made me glad I'd come.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jeez Louis, I guess nothing is sacred.

Beans Spilled

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

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

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

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

Not ideal driving conditions, I can assure you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The struggle is real and this stranger understood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My condolences.

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

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

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

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

Confidence isn't just for rabbits, you know.

The Lady is a Tramp

To be honest, Lady PiPi is grotesque.

Head thrown back like her throat's been cut, face frozen in a grimace, breasts pointed disjointedly at the sky, the seated figure's hands encircle her, uh, girl parts, from which a metal tube provides the flow of water. Lady Pipi, you see, is a sculpture.

And just to be clear, that's pronounced lady Pee-pee.

I'm not sure I'd have ever known about her or her namesake restaurant if I hadn't seen that the owner of Note Bene had been in Dubrovnik over the summer. Knowing I'd be en route myself in a couple months, the next time I'd been in for dinner, I'd made sure to pick her brain about must-dos.

The first words out of her mouth after, "You're going to have a ball in Dubrovnik," was, "Lady Pipi, you have to go! Fabulous food, amazing views." And no question about it, she's someone I'd trust completely when it comes to food recommendations.

And no surprise about that because the outdoor restaurant has the feel of a treehouse perched above the city, with a grapevine-draped pergola overhead and plants for "walls." On the street level is a small area with a few tables, while upstairs is an open air grill (ah, now I se the Note Bene connection) with wooden tables and a postcard-worthy view.

And while some visitors might be put off by a restaurant all the way at the top of the walled city or by their no reservation policy, we had issues with neither. So after a couple hours spent walking the side of the city we hadn't walked the day before, we came to Lady Pipi's.

Funny part was, we didn't even notice the sculpture out front, despite that I knew enough from my research online to have looked for it. That may have been because when we inquired about a table for two, the server pointed to the young Japanese woman standing nearby and informed her she'd be eating with us.

Lady Pipi is apparently too desirable a place to eat to waste a table on single diners.

But it worked out well for us because Shiho, our third, turned out to be delightful company whose English far surpassed our Japanese. Turns out she was on a two week solo holiday from her job with a film company and had come to Lady Pipi solely because her hotel concierge had recommended it.

Without, by the way, mentioning the Lady's namesake sculpture or its bared body parts.

The views were astonishing, covering the entire walled city and beyond to the Adriatic, and the couple behind us shared that they'd waited half an hour for their prime table. We were three feet away and had done nothing more than walk up and luck into our table.

To quote Rod Stewart, some guys have all the luck.

It was interesting, Himself and I naturally ordered seafood (hello, blue-green sea and its bounty), but the representative from Japan went straight for sausages and potatoes. I guess when sushi is a mainstay, it's animal parts that seem exotic on vacation.

My Buza shrimps (no menu here uses the plural without an "s") were actually head-on prawns in a creamy tomato sauce perfect for sopping with crusty bread. But opening and eating them was one step removed from eating crabs, with the added challenge of being immersed in a hot sauce. I cut my thumb on a claw and bled a little on one bite, but who's keeping track? Himself made do with a large plate of onion-filled octopus salad, a staple in these parts except breakfast.

At least so far, but the trip's far from over.

Because she was wearing a black baseball cap from "The Met," we asked how she'd liked New York City. But she'd never been and the hat was a gift from a friend who had. "And it looks very good," she insisted with a smile.

Chatting about our respective vacations as we ate, Himself, ever the planner, inquired of Shiho - mind you, she was only on day four of her trip - what her next vacation was going to be. When she looked surprised at the question, I couldn't resist explaining that this is a man who already has vacations planned through Fall 2019.

And that's just what I know of.

Shiho's mouth dropped open and her eyes crinkled as she laid her head on her hand atop the table to laugh. "Next year?" she asked, amazed and perhaps making generalizations about Americans in her head, but never spoken aloud.

Yup, you heard right. And that's only the stuff that's been nailed down.

She told us how difficult it was to find someone to travel with now that her friends are all married and knocking out kids, but also that few of her peers got two weeks vacation yet. And when you're talking about a trip that took her 30 hours to get here (and I thought South Africa was bad at 20-some), a fair amount of commitment is involved.

When I found out that Shiho knew nothing of Lady Pipi or her exhibitionist tendencies, I insisted the three of us lay eyes upon her together. I didn't give anything away, just led her and Himself downstairs and made an abrupt U-turn.

If you've never seen a young Japanese woman agog, allow me to tell you abut it. Her eyes bugged out, her face went a little pale and her mouth dropped open. Shocked as she was, she obligingly took a photo of Lady Pipi, Himself and me when he handed her his phone and asked her to. In fact, she was gracious enough to snap several.

He went on to insist on taking her picture with the Lady, fully aware that no one back in Japan was going to fully comprehend the glory of Pipi without a picture to prove it. She promptly insisted that I be in the photo with her, because what makes more sense than a crass sculpture paired with an American and a Japanese in a Met hat?

My work in Dubrovnik is finished now. I can move on, knowing my legacy here will live on in Tokyo. Godspeed, Lady Pipi.

Mid-Day Tropicale

I'll be honest, what I really wanted was a flaming pu pu platter and a hurricane.

But, alas, it was not long after noon on a dreary, rainy Monday and I was meeting Lady G for planning purposes, not to kick off a party. Although given how busy the place was - I think I passed exactly 2 empty tables being led to ours - there was a sort of festive vibe to the place.

Little Nickel is what had drawn me to southside for lunch (fact: I'm a sucker for a tiki bar) and the place delivered, from the colorful decor (c'mon, textured pink flamingo wallpaper in the loo?) and catchy menu to all kinds of dishes not seen in other Richmond restaurants.

Heck, before even sitting down, I ran into the cider king enjoying some Hawaiian nachos - that's bacon, pineapple and pork - with friends. Lady G and I immediately targeted the shrimp ukey, described as a bird's nest of carrots, sweet potatoes, shrimp, cilantro and tarot root, with a chili vinegar sauce riding shotgun, for its unique-sounding appeal.

And, yep, what was delivered looked very much like a green-flecked orange nest, which I promptly tore in half, musing to G about whether or not it was the kind of thing we should eat with fingers or forks. Before she could answer, I made an executive decision and went with bare hands, savoring every bite of the crispy, fried veggies with shrimp hidden inside.

I don't want to make it sound like we didn't discuss details for our upcoming trip (that came later), but first we had to catch up on life and love, meaning she couldn't resist reminding me, "I really miss the blog."

Sigh. Tell me something I haven't heard. And, if you ask and of course she did, I'll tell you how low I've been and why no one would want to read most of my words these days. I'm doing my readers a favor.

Then it was on to the main event. While she may have grown up in NOVA, G lived for over two decades in Massachusetts, meaning she responds to New England standards like Pavlov's dog. Translation: she ordered the filet o' Nickel, a fabulously battered hunk o' cod at least an inch thick and slathered with caper tartar sauce on a glossy bun and situated next to a mountain of salty shoestring fries.

Me, I couldn't resist the siren song of an avocado crab "cocktail" piled atop a mound of arugula with bits of grapefruit for sass and a pile of tortilla chips for scooping, should that be one's preferred method of delivery (it wasn't mine).

We took a tangent on the subject of tea (G has a multiple cup a day habit) when I told her I'd discovered Earl Grey with double bergamot (her squeal told me she's an Earl Grey fan) but it was so strong and caffeinated that it required some adjustment on my part. Given my lack of coffee drinking, I need to drink my lone cup of tea early in the day or suffer the consequences of a low caffeine tolerance.

"Just use the tea bag 3 or 4 times," she advises me. "All the caffeine's in the first cup. Make it and throw it away and then use the teabag for the other cups." Brilliant.

When we finally got down to the business of our getaway itinerary, it soon became clear how spoiled we are. Between the Smithsonian's various museums and the VMFA, Lady G and I rarely pay for art (the Phillips Collection being a notable exception), so she was gobsmacked when I told her nearly everywhere we were going put a price on our heads.

It'll be worth it, no doubt, but it did require some mental adjustment on her part. Then there were the choices: oddities or contemporary? the '60s or Monet? airborne or black history? Decisions, decisions.

By the time we'd worked out a non-stop itinerary, our smiling server was asking about dessert. Remembering our mid-century childhoods, we went with warm pineapple upside down cake, even better than our memories because Little Nickel's is rum-soaked and Mom's wasn't. Fortunately, the maraschino cherries are still just as artificially red and cloying as they always were, so some things never change.

It only took us two and a half hours to gorge ourselves and nail down 48 hours in the city that's been cholera-free since 1866.

These days, I'm not setting my sights very high. But at least I'm getting my sour puss out of town.

No Regrets, Just Questions

It's a whole different perspective that male friends offer.

Granted, I do find hearing the male point of view nothing short of revelatory but since I grew up without brothers, I am still trying to grasp how the male psyche works, even at this late stage.

Let's cut to the chase: it's mystifying. Perplexing. Confounding.

Or maybe a double shot on a sunny morning that required me being up at 8:45 was just more than my Saturday brain could handle.

The first friend occupying my time today needed costuming help for a party - even going so far as to say he took direction well - and heaven knows dressing a male friend is light years easier than dressing a boyfriend.

So easy, in fact, that we had plenty of time left over to discuss his latest dilemma, which pretty much mirrors the entire crux of "When Harry Met Sally," a fact I didn't mention.

Can men and women be friends without sex entering into it? Can sex be an addendum to a friendship without destroying the friendship? Is sex the only difference between friendship and relationship?

Of course, I'm probably the last person anyone should ask about such things since my take on male/female interaction skews decidedly non-traditional. I'm not convinced that cultural norms have to be considered when determining how two people fashion their association, an opinion I did mention.

Having girl parts, my advice to him was the feminine go-to: talk to her about it.

Verbalize what he wants and find out what she wants and, since they're both grown-ass people, see if there isn't room for both to peacefully co-exist.

And most importantly, leave pre-existing presumptions at the door when they do so. Anything goes as long as it suits both people.

Harry might have told Sally that no man can be friends with a woman he finds attractive because he'll always want to have sex with her, but I've experienced exceptions to that rule. Of course, if Harry is correct, they wanted to and just didn't let me know.

In any case, I think that the best friendships and relationships are shaped on a backbone of open communication that allows both participants to be clear about what they want and don't want from each other. Translation: lots of conversation on the subject.

Now whether his male psyche allows him to utilize my advice or not remains to be seen, but I've offered it for the taking.

We went our separate ways so I could walk, getting home only minutes before another male friend was picking me up for lunch. I barely got in his car and said hello when he wanted to ask me about his relationship.

Despite its relative youth (a year), the relationship already involves co-habitation and, as of last week, engagement. And, for the most part, he's crazy in love with her.

Our nine-year friendship provides an interesting complement to their relationship because there are things I know about him that she's still learning. He's the first to admit that he gets a different kind of energy from me (he once told me I was like a drug he needed on a regular basis for mood enhancement). On the other hand, she's experienced things with him I'll never know.

But they're still working out issues of neediness, personal space and unilateral decision making, all of which were on his mind today as we lingered over lunch in front of an open door. Listening to him air his grievances, part of me couldn't help but remind him that most of that was just growing pains for a new relationship.

This, after all, is the friend who justified the breakneck speed of their relationship with something very "When Harry Met Sally"- like: he'd found the person he wanted to spend the rest of his life with and he wanted that life to start immediately.

I love the romance of that attitude but I told him I don't understand why he hesitates to share his thoughts when she does something that bothers him. Why internalize when you can start a conversation?

Said no man ever.

Fortunately, I don't have to fully understand men. What I can impart to those who call me friend is this: what two people have together is something nobody has to understand but them.

Sally: So you're saying that a man can be friends with a woman he finds unattractive?
Harry: No, you pretty much want to nail them, too.
Sally: What if they don't want to have sex with you?
Harry: Doesn't matter because the sex thing is already out there so the friendship is ultimately doomed and that is the end of the story.

Except there's never an end to the story of men and women trying. Praise be for that.

Someday We'll Be Together

Would anyone really want to read yet another sad saga about my attempt to see a play being thwarted by summer weather behaving badly?

That's what I thought.

Better instead I share my walk up a deserted - it was prime church time - Chamberlayne Avenue where the clerk at Walgreens told me he'd driven through heavy fog to get to work this morning. That fog had become pea soup and I'd sweated my way through it to get there.

Walking home, I crossed the bridge over the paddock where two mounted police horses were casually grazing in a mostly dirt field, the one gnawing on some higher branches out of necessity. I remember the first time I'd spotted the horses there and the feeling of amazement that horses lived a quarter of a mile from me.

When I passed Perly's a bit later, the line waiting for seats was almost to the corner. People who wouldn't consider eating outside were willing to stand out there indefinitely in hopes of some beef bacon.

No, you explain it to me.

The shank of the afternoon was spent on lunch and then the matinee of "Dreamgirls" at the November Theatre, which, it must be noted, was completely full and satisfyingly diverse.

I understand that blue hair lives matter, but it was nice to see a matinee crowd who didn't all qualify for Social Security for a change.

With the usual gaping holes in my pop cultural literacy, I'd never seen "Dreamgirls," not the play, not the movie. To my credit, I'm enough of a Supremes fan to have held on to half a dozen pieces of their vinyl all these years, and I've certainly read plenty about their backstory.

So I knew the essence of the play's plot before the razzle-dazzle production kicked off with a parade of '60s and '70s fashions, falls and wigs to designate the passage of time, songs that were well-executed but never truly grabbed me and a lot of choreography I very much enjoyed.

As I did conversation with the charming man who'd moved to Hampton in 1960 and his lovely "friend" ("My wife died 15 years ago," he explained after calling her "friend") next to him, both avid theater buffs who happily discussed venues there and restaurants here for post-theater dining.

To be helpful, I provided a list.

Because it felt like a two-musical day, the later plan was to meet a friend at Dogwood Dell for a performance of "Spamalot," except it was up to me to go and stake out territory until she got off work.

When I got there, the orchestra was chatting among themselves, rows were gradually filling up with a mixture of beach chairs, tall chairs, blankets and, among the young, grass-sitters. It was like being out of town because I didn't see a soul I knew.

Which was only slightly problematic since I was meeting a friend. Later, she calls to tell me she hung with strangers when she couldn't find me, ran into the restaurateur I recently introduced her to and then proceeds to give me the "man dish," at least right up until he calls.

An announcement was made from the stage that there was to be no ball or Frisbee throwing in the seating area, as if civilized people wouldn't presume this. The "no alcohol or glass" announcement was met with no reaction, undoubtedly due to the number of people imbibing.

A few drops of rain, a little heat lightening and the performance was delayed 20 minutes. Lightening got bolder and we were sent away.

Believe me, I know the drill.

Waiting in the bottleneck to leave the Dell, I saw a guy ask about the year on a shiny blue Mustang ('67, classic stuff) and a couple of guys tossing a Frisbee between trees in the parking lot. Making lemonade, folks, that's all they're doing.

Cruising home, listening to the radio sing, "I got a picture of you over the hazard light," and silently giving thanks that young men still write such things, I was caught unaware when, yet again, the Weather Service started warning that Richmond and a lot of nearby places were about to get slammed.

ETA in Jackson Ward: 9:10, which you know means I was determinedly driving east trying to take shelter before any bad weather hit. Why take them so seriously, you ask? Last time they provided a strong warning and time, devastation touched down within two minutes of their prediction.

Seems they are right on the money sometimes.

After deciding not to take out my contacts so as to avoid a near-sighted, impressionistic view of the storm, I took up a completely unsafe position on my balcony, watching as lightening lit up the sky. Never bolts, just enormous flashes and far-off thunder.

Then suddenly, the wind whipped up trees two stories taller than the houses beneath them in a way that said nothing good could come out of such fierceness and a steady rain began to fall.

Two minutes later, the frenetic trees are completely still and the air is palpable. I hate a damp cold, but I relish a damp pre-storm heat.

Before long, a gentle rain began blowing toward my legs and face as I sat sprawled in an Adirondack chair facing the alley. Rain caught on the tendrils of moonflowers twining through the balcony railing, dripping onto my legs.

Sure, I was getting wet, but not soggy wet like yesterday when I decided to walk three miles to drop off rent. I got almost two miles in - I was right in front of Redskin Park with all the weekend fans watching the team grunt practice - when rain started and didn't let up, so I slogged on to my landlord's house, at that point, mainly to borrow an umbrella.

He graciously gave me one and I got two blocks up the street toward home when the rain stopped and the muggy sun returned to start drying out my clothes as I walked home.

By the way, carrying a cumbersome walking umbrella all the way. Grateful/not grateful.

No, tonight's rain was less direct so more enjoyable, even as the lightening and thunder got more and more distant, the temperature seemed to drop and sirens began wailing from a couple different directions.

Inside, without the waning visuals, the storm amounts to no more than the steady patter of rain broken up by the sound of cars on wet pavement and the relentless drip of gutters. It stops as suddenly as it began, kind of like the man dishing.

I may aspire to eat ham and jam and Spam a lot, but clearly there's no double dipping on musicals in one day. Mother Nature says no.

Same As It Ever Was

You think you know a place, and you realize you don't even how it was named.

Next month, it'll be a decade since I abandoned the staid Museum District for the wide open frontiers of Jackson Ward, almost immediately falling in love with the far more historic and quirky nature of a neighborhood "in transition," whatever that means.

Yet it took a visit to the Branch Museum of Architecture and Design today to see the new exhibit "Drawing on History: Infill Design Competition" with a favorite photographer to finally learn how my beloved 'hood got its name.

Short answer: a saloon!

No kidding, it was James Jackson's beer garden at Second and Leigh that Jackson Ward was named after, a fact that gives me no end of delight to discover. I was almost as tickled to read that it's also the least altered residential neighborhood in all of Richmond.

And if you really want me to brag, let's get as hyper-local as my own street. Clay Street specifically is considered to have one of the finest collections of architectural cast iron in the entire U.S.

Shucks, this old ironwork? Why do you think I had the bushes taken down and planted a complementary garden using it as a fanciful backdrop?

After a fabulous lunch, I suggested a visit to the Branch, knowing that, despite my friend's current Southside address, his years in Church Hill and J-Ward would make him curious about an exhibit showing the possibilities of infill building.

For icing on the cake, I told him I'd walked by the Branch yesterday only to discover that block of Davis Street closed because three enormous old trees had come down, completely altering the look of the block and didn't he want to see that?

Arriving to find the trees now removed, his attention went at once to one of the remaining cars that had born the brunt of a fallen tree and he made a beeline for it.

"Ooh, destruction!" he said with glee. Only a guy would want to inspect a car with its roof crushed to the console, full of shattered glass, branches and debris, with rain and broken glass in the cup holders.

Inside, discussing the new look of Davis Street, one of the staffers said his Mazda had also been crushed, but he also looked pretty happy at the prospect of a brand-new car.

Moving on to the gallery, we got an eyeful looking at the design submissions for the many empty lots in two neighborhoods that deserve attention: Union Hill and Jackson Ward.

It wasn't hard to see why the grand prize winner had been chosen. The three-story house design for Union Hill had it all: the same proportions as the surrounding houses and exactly the same feel. And unlike so many more modern house designs, it had eleven (eleven!) windows on the sides of the house and that counts as one window those that were actually three-part windows.

This is a really big deal to me (and should be to more people) because of the past 50 years of building houses with no thought to cross-ventilation, which is completely unlike the houses around it built in the 19th century, pre-A/C.

But the winning design also had an appropriate front porch and two levels of back porch, an essential design element for the neighborhood, even if the reason for back porches - for the "help" to do chores on out of sight of people on the street - speaks to our entitled past.

Let's never lose sight of the first rule of community-building, kids: good porches make good neighbors. That may be an old chestnut, but I find it impossible to get behind houses in 19th century neighborhoods that don't have front porches for sitting and visiting on.

What I could get behind was suggestions by architects for the proposed designs to use re-purposed materials from nearby dilapidated residential buildings in the construction of the new. Brilliant.

Not all the entries were houses and some of the commercial buildings we saw offered fresh ideas on how to integrate innovative spaces into older neighborhoods.

One  three-story building had a ground level space for an herbarium, shop or market, with a one-bedroom apartment on the second floor, a rooftop garden and a three-level public greenhouse behind it. How cool an addition to Union Hill would that be?

Another design had an artists' loft that put artists in full view of passersby, with the goal being creating spaces for artists in gentrifying neighborhoods.

Leaving the exhibit, FotoBoy and I marveled at the variety of ways these architects and architectural students had envisioned houses and buildings that not only transformed vacant lots, but would also become part of the fabric of the area.

Lunch and an exhibition, a practically perfect way to wile away a hot July mid-day. Someone needed more, though, once again ogling the smooshed car. What, again?

An appetite for destruction is apparently written on the Y chromosome. Happily, his X is also strong.

Drive It Like You Stole It

No one wants to be Debbie Downer. It gives me no pleasure to find a restaurant disappointing.

Just about everyone who finds out that I write restaurant reviews as part of earning my living as a freelance writer expresses some level of envy, whether about the exposure to the newest spots, the underwriting of meals out or even the questionable role of being an arbiter of taste.

But the truth is, there are times when I go out to eat at a new place and over the course of that one meal, I realize if I weren't being reimbursed, I'd have absolutely no need to return. The problem is that I would never be so cavalier as to review a restaurant based on one visit.

So I return, not just once but twice, so that I can have an informed opinion after a total of three visits. And still sometimes, there just isn't a lot positive to say.

That's when I try to go into humor mode, so at least my review can be a good read of a bad place.

So when my latest review, here, made it clear that I'd been underwhelmed, I braced for a backlash and instead was rewarded with the opposite.

This review is beyond any doubt the most entertaining I've ever seen in Style. Thank you!

No, thank you for getting my humor.

Best restaurant reviewer in town. Always a great pleasure to read. Thank you.

Somebody gets my writing, so this is all kinds of affirming.

Ripped. To. Shreds.

That's a succinct summary, but it makes it sound like I didn't have a single kind word, which I did. The guacamole and tequila were delicious. Period.

But dining out so much also means I have plenty of experience when it comes to picking where I want to eat.

That means when a social companion suggests lunch, I politely ask if they have any preference where, only to be hit with options such as Casa del Barco, Third Street Diner or Bottoms Up, none of which will do and if you'd like to know why not, please ask.

Others wisely defer to my choices, asking simply what place and time and I mull and make a suggestion.

Today's bright idea was My Noodle & Bar, perched in the "treehouse" booth and with a stellar soundtrack of dream pop, except once when a '20's Tin Pan Alley song showed up in the mix and jarred the entire restaurant out of its reverb reverie.

When I immediately questioned our server on this musical gaffe, the woman at the booth next door said an emphatic, "Thank you!" to me because she'd had the same reaction to the shift in musical direction. Don't mess with guitar effects and synths when there are fans in the room.

It was a gorgeous day to be in the "treehouse," with the restaurant's front doors open wide, sunlight streaming down the dragon-painted steps and neither of us on a schedule.

Being the least ladylike eater on the planet, I cleaned my plate of chicken and broccoli with carrots and black beans in brown sauce while my friend and fellow avid reader barely finished half his sesame chicken and required a box.

I could say there's no shame in a hearty appetite, but it was likely the six-mile walk that proceeded lunch that ramped up my appetite. For that matter, when you're going to chat for four hours, a fair amount of sustenance will likely be involved, no?

Walking home afterwards, I run into a J-Ward neighbor and a gallery curator I know. As we approach high Gemini season, I'm discovering I know far more other Geminis than I realized.

One of the best comments on the subject came courtesy of a sunny Gemini who wasn't happy to hear of other people's negative take on our multi-faceted personas, saying, "I think most Geminis use their powers for good."

Realizing the power we wield, I know I try to.

I also try to see all of Irish director John Carney's movies - I saw "Once" in Philly and then got in the car to drive home, ruminating on it for the entire trip - which tonight meant seeing "Sing Street" at Criterion with a crowd of seven people.

The audience was so sparse that when the screen reminder to turn off your cell phone came on, the man behind me joked to his wife, "I'm turning it off even though we're the only people in here."

Turning around in my seat, I asked him what was I, chopped liver, a comment he found hilarious.

Set in the '80s, the movie told the story of nothing more than a boy named Cosmo who starts a band during the MTV era to win a girl (that old chestnut). The distinct pleasure in it was both the inclusion of period music (A-ha, Duran Duran, Hall and Oates) but also music newly written to sound like that period some of us know so well.

Naturally, the band's outfits and make-up follow whatever band is in their sites at the moment.

And the music humor is delicious. The Cure's music is explained as happy/sad music and that's as apt a description of any I've heard since fans began obsessing over it three decades ago.

When older brother Brendan learns that Raphina, the object of his little brother's affection, has a boyfriend who listens to Phil Collins, he assures his brother that the boyfriend won't be a problem.

"No woman can truly love a man who listens to Phil Collins," he advises. Chances are, she'll have a hard time with a man who wants to eat at Third Street Diner or Casa del Barco, too.

No amount of Gemini powers can right some wrongs.

To Dote or Not to Dote, That is the Question

Dote (verb): to bestow or express excessive love or fondness habitually

Only in my family could we spend a good chunk of a pre-Mother's Day luncheon discussing who dotes and who doesn't, not to mention what constitutes doting.

The subject arose because Sister #5 doesn't care for her daughter's beau, openly stating such despite the fact that he dotes on her.

When Dad tells us that we should all be so lucky as to have a man who dotes on us the way he dotes on Mom, it opens the door to doting discussion.

"So whose husband does dote?" Sister #2 asks of the table.

Sister #6 quickly clarifies that her husband does not and has never doted, despite a long and successful marriage. We all agree that Sister #3's husband dotes unabashedly, but even Sister #4 herself isn't entirely certain if her husband qualifies.

Someone cracks that neither Sister #2 nor Sister #5's husbands dote, but both take issue with this, bringing up meal-making and housecleaning as examples of doting.

Wait, aren't those just examples of shared responsibilities?

Discussion is tabled when housemade ice cream - limoncello, peach, chocolate - arrives, but then Sister #6 remembers a critical point.

"None of us has ever doted," she reminds us. It's true and whether that's a failing or not is up for debate, as is practically everything in this family.

Fortunately, the day ends with a friend who not only wants to hear all about the sister round table, but is willing to knead the family-inflicted tension out of my shoulders after I share it at 821 Cafe over black bean nachos.

I reward him with an evening at Firehouse Theatre seeing "Maple and Vine," a play about an overly stressed couple who abandon focaccia, cell phones and Google for life in a gated community that recreates life in 1955.

Women are pretty and persuasive but men wear the pants in the family, crab puffs and charades constitute a party with neighbors and wives attend Authenticity Committee meetings to ensure they are living properly buttoned up and politically incorrect Eisenhower-era lives.

Their lives are no longer information-saturated, over-scheduled or diverse, so they are more present in their own lives now, even if their roles in it are more strictly circumscribed. But are they happier?

What it comes down to, of course, is how each person defines happy.

Happy (adjective): feeling pleasure and enjoyment because of your life or situation

Now there's another concept ripe for discussion.

Keep Calm and Eat Lunch

You can lead a man to creative food, but you can't make him step out of his comfort zone.

When a newish friend suggested lunch, I countered with Vagabond, knowing it was two blocks from where he worked. "I haven't been there since the name change," he tells me and we set a time.

Arriving first, I spot a hungover-looking bartender eating lunch at the bar and catch up with him, barely returning to my seat when a newly-blond friend approaches, having spotted me from across the room. We finish up just as my friend arrives.

I could tell from looking at his face as he scanned the menu that it was not to his taste, a fact confirmed when I asked where he usually eats lunch. His answer told me everything I needed to know: Joe's Inn, the Hill Cafe, Tarrant's. His current weekly favorite is Bandito's.

Seems he used to be a huge fan of Home Team Grill but thinks the quality of the food has declined. Was it ever elevated, I wonder?

Eventually he decides on the chicken salad sandwich (I'd already guessed it would be that or the egg salad - not for him the likes of braised pork cheek tacos or even barley), despite its inclusion of cranberry, pecan and orange.

I could see he was hesitant about the accompanying green soup du jour, a killer potato asparagus from the taste I'd had, but he eventually lapped it up, sounding shocked about how tasty it was.

Only a Vagabond virgin would be surprised at how good the food was.

Meanwhile, over on my side of the table, I was totally digging two filled-to-bursting shrimp tacos laden with charred pico de gallo, hot sauce crema and, yes, popcorn, accompanied by a magnificent side salad that could have been a standalone it was so well executed.

Where we had lots to talk about was on the subject of his mid-century modern house and the fabulous updates to it, including plenty of before and after photos that proved what the house I'd toured on Riverside Drive had: that a '60s box of a dwelling has plenty of room for improvement with a bit of creativity and a little effort.

Kind of like that elevated chicken salad sandwich. If only it were as easy to improve a boring eater's habits.

The East of my Youth, the West of My Future

An epic road trip called for an epic bon voyage lunch.

You know, "Nothing behind me, everything ahead of me, as is ever so on the road," as Kerouac put it.

The honor of my presence was requested at Can Can at 2 p.m. by the friend doing the departing so we could have one last gabfest before she and her man took off for places unseen and adventures unimaginable as they cross the country to the West coast and back.

Unwilling to sit inside (for some unfathomable reason, the front windows were closed on this beautiful Spring day), we took a table on the patio next to the flower vendor and partially shaded by a large tree, where I heard about the minutiae of planning a trip of this kind, which involves, it seems, picnic backpacks, plastic bins for clothes and a 30-year old sleeping bag acquired by her man from redeemable points on Marlboro cigarette packs.

No less than Kerouac himself would have approved of the procurement method.

Taking Orson Welles' advice, "Ask not what you can do for your country, ask what's for lunch," we did, matching our choices to the warm day.

Both of us wound up choosing the plat du jour of seared scallops over a cucumber/avocado gazpacho with crisp seasonal veggies (beautiful radish slices as thin as a postcard) and paprika oil, an exquisite combination.

I got to hear about the itinerary, tickled to hear that the first stop was in Memphis so I could recommend a hotel right on the Mississippi where I'd stayed, then on to New Mexico next for the serious camping experience.

The funny part? My friend has never, well, actually camped.

Truth be told, I haven't either unless you count one night in the back of a VW Squareback when it was raining so hard my then-boyfriend took pity on me and set up camp in the way-back rather than subject a camping virgin to the hell of a soggy first time.

Smart man. He didn't last for other reasons, but that was his second most brilliant move in a three year relationship.

I give my girl high points for even agreeing to take this trip, although I wasn't surprised to hear that the original time frame of three months on the road has wisely been shortened to four weeks. Even so, she's a bit worried since she was more than ready to get home after only two weeks in France.

And that trip included Paris.

It's hard to say what my tolerance for such a trip might be, although the idea of fresh vistas, all-new experiences and endless conversation opportunities certainly appeal to me, even if the thought of campgrounds and sleeping bags don't.

Of course, they can always bag the trip at any point and set the GPS for Richmond, although it might be harder to do if only one person is having a miserable time.

Like Kerouac wrote, "The best teacher is experience and not through someone's distorted point of view." There's only one way to get an "A" in that class and that's to strike out for places unknown.

Dessert was a given - the darkest of chocolate pot de cremes for me, profiteroles for her - as she ticked off the many tasks she still has to complete before their intended departure Thursday. She's already angling to move that to Friday so she can vacuum and change the bed linens before they go.

Just like a woman, always thinking ahead and, in this case, wanting to come home to a clean house. She's a better woman than I am for even thinking of such a thing.

After a couple of hours, we had to part ways because she had more trip errands to do and I needed to work. I expect my next contact from her will be a postcard showing fields the color of love and Spanish mysteries.

Whether she makes it the entire trip sleeping in that ancient Marlboro sleeping bag or not, she will be the hero of her own epic adventure. She's got miles to go before I see her again.

But no matter, the road is life.

Lunch Friday?

It's a personal best: I went to the Northern Neck four out of the last five days.

Today's trip was twofold. After scheduling a late afternoon interview, I'd received an unexpected lunch invitation, with the qualifier, "Wherever you wish."

I was quick to remind  my lunch date that my mother taught me that when you're invited to lunch, you let the host choose the place. Almost immediately, I heard back, "Let's go to the Kilmarnock Inn. It will be quieter there and we can have a nice lunch."

Honestly, we could have had a nice lunch anywhere on the coastal plain today given what a drop-dead gorgeous day it was, the sky a brilliant blue and the breeze warm enough to have the car windows down as I blasted Ryan Adams' "1989" and Tim Buckley's greatest hits.

Sailing past the turnoff to Merroir - where I'd been just last night - I thought about how much I'd been out at the river this week, how I'd have crossed the Rappahannock six times and the Pamunkey four times by the time I got home tonight.

Looking down from the top of the White Stone Bridge, I saw a couple of boats out on the water, reminding me of the times my favorite cop took me under the bridge, once because we were chasing a pod of dolphins.

As beautiful a day as it was, I couldn't help but notice how different the light is in mid-March as compared to late summer.

All I can say is, bring on the bright light.

The restaurant at the inn was hopping but we were led to a table with two wing chairs, making for an enclosing-feeling space tucked in a corner. Housemade cheese biscuits to start the meal didn't hurt, either.

Despite the season, I ordered the Crab Louie salad, aware that I wouldn't be eating local crab, but craving lumps of crabmeat (and fried croutons) nonetheless.

Tasty as the salad was, the conversation was every bit as good, as we discovered all the things we had in common, from school memories of like eras to a fondness for email communication to dreaming up second acts.

Things got a little raucous more than once (I always hear my Richmond grandmother's voice in my head, saying, "Karen, no one wants to hear you making all that racket"), but because we outlasted most of the dining room, it wasn't our problem.

When our chipper server offered dessert, I said sure, my host jumped on the bandwagon and we managed to stretch out our conversation for close to another hour, all in the service of eating decadent slices of chocolate chocolate cake.

To our everlasting credit, we at least refrained from housemade ice cream on our cake.

By the end (or nearing the beginning of dinner for the staff), we both admitted that lunch had lasted a lot longer and been a whole lot more fun than we could have hoped for.

It was a damn good thing my work assignment was nearby.

I was interviewing a former first lady's secretary, not because of her former job but because of what she'd created out of the former slave quarters on her house's property: the most incredible outdoor dining room imaginable.

We're talking an early 19th century building completely restored and redone as the best party room a person could hope for. A giant wooden chandelier from Mexico hanging from original arched ceiling. A trap door in the diamond pattern-painted floor leading to a bricked root cellar. Doors that opened out with a view of the property, 125-year old sycamores and lush fields of a nearby farm.

Turns out the owners of Good Luck Cellars, a nearby winery I know well, were at their celebratory first shindig last Fall. We agreed about the convenience of starting at the winery and ending up here for dinner and conversation late into the night.

It was getting late in the afternoon, very late, but the convivial space had a hold on us and she kept showing me finds - numbered bricks unearthed from the old foundation, a liquor jug a former neighbor recalls seeing in the building as a child, pieces of cracked pottery from inside the walls.

As I was getting ready to hit the road, she told me I needed to come back for a dinner party.

My mother taught me that when you're invited to dinner at a charmingly-restored slave quarters, you say yes to the hostess immediately.

This second act is working out awfully well.

Skates and Unicorns

And people say I play my cards close to the vest.

To think that I could know someone for 20 years and just now find out he's not only a member of the Screen Actors' Guild, but that he was in a film with Harry Connick, Jr.? That he's been in multiple commercials? What?

The only reason it even came up was because I casually asked if he'd seen any good movies lately, at the theater or on Netflix. No, he tells me, he doesn't bother because he gets DVDs sent to his house by SAG. You know, so he can watch them and decide what to vote for.

Which, incidentally, he doesn't do. Watch or vote, that is. About all he does is pay his dues and occasionally act, it seems. But that's apparently a luxury people who bought Apple stock in 1994 have.

All this came to light over lunch at Can Can, not usually one of my first choices, except today's plat du jour was fried skate wing frite, so there was no place I'd rather have been.

I wasn't alone in that, either, since the food runner who dropped it off looked at it longingly and said, "I wish that was for me. It's amazingly good, but we only get a limited number and there's never any left by the time my shift is over."

The perfectly crispy golden exterior, the flaky white meat, the creamy butter sauce and the pile of fries the size of my head made for a pretty spectacular lunch, I have to say. Meanwhile, my friend had a Caesar salad with salmon (shoot me now) and regaled me with stories of the karate classes he's taking for the first time since college.

When he described a particularly gruesome kick to the shin that resulted in a knot the size of a baseball, I asked to see the collateral damage but he denied me a gander at the black and blue stage (I"d rather look at your legs"). Just wait till it gets to the green and yellow stage, my friend.

Not long after asking me to explain gluten and carbs - I continue to be astounded at how little basic nutritional knowledge some people have - he began telling me that he's found the easiest thing to give up in life is sweets. Conveniently, our server soon arrived with the dessert menu, explaining that the pastry chef was a CIA graduate who made everything in house.

"She's like the unicorn of Can Can," she said earnestly. "She comes in the middle of the night and then there are desserts in the morning, but people who've worked here for years have never actually seen her." When I cracked wise about the odd hours, she quipped, "Oh, it's definitely an alternative lifestyle."

Yea, and who among us doesn't have one of those?

Soon, two spoons arrived followed by three profiteroles stuffed with housemade ice cream and swimming in a bath of chocolate Chambord sauce with toffee topping. For somebody who finds it no big deal to eschew sweets, my companion's spoon worked its way down the plate almost to mine.

But then, living without sweets is an alternative lifestyle nobody really wants, or at least, nobody I want to have lunch with.

All Eyes on Cool Beans

Valentine's Day in the rear view mirror (with apologies for my tardiness):

It was a bittersweet walk to Dixie Donuts for their last day but since theirs are my favorite Richmond doughnuts by far, it was non-negotiable.

The cases looked a little depleted, but right in the center was a tray of pink and white Valentine's doughnuts with conversation heart wisdom written on them in icing - "Will you be mine?" and "XXOO" - so I ordered one sporting "You are cool beans"  and looked in vain for my fave.

About to settle for something else, I lucked out with my timing and a tray of chocolate chocolate doughnuts came out moments later, the chocolate icing still dripping off them. I ate it standing up at the window looking out on Carytown.

The owner made sure her staff knew that I'd walked all the way over from Jackson Ward - a 5 1/2 mile round trip - and they acted impressed, but what's a little walk for a fresh, oozing doughnut?

Walking back past the Lowe's on Broad Street, a man stopped me to ask why the flags were at half-mast. Clicking my brain into gear - or maybe just smacking it out of its sugar rush - I explained that a Supreme Court Justice had died yesterday and refrained from sharing my opinion of the deceased.

Probably too soon, but I already have a favorite death joke: Antonin Scalia requested cremation in his will, but millions of women will meet tomorrow to discuss if that's really best for his body.

 Sorry, it made me laugh.

My favorite Valentine came in the mail  from Holmes and Beloved. Addressed "To Karen aka "ff" (Holmes refers to me as Femme Fatale), it read, "You're a charmer, Valentine" and was surrounded by figures from "Toy Story."

It wouldn't be Valentine's Day without Holmes' annual miniature missive reminding me of the February swaps back in elementary school. And unlike back then, no one told him he had to give me one.

Mid-afternoon, I called a friend to see what he was doing and while he claimed to be "chilling," he sounded a little down, so I insisted he come pick me up for lunch and some chatter.

We wound up having a blast, meeting a group of 20 or so strangers who'd driven up from Virginia Beach for a group lunch and welcomed us into their party, for which we became the official photographers.

Let's just say when he dropped me off, he was in a far sunnier mood than the one he'd arrived in, no surprise since he once told me, "You act just like a drug on my mood" and fortunately, he wasn't referring to heroin.

And because everyone wants her friends to think of her as some kind of drug.

Over the course of two restaurants - Camden's and Lucy's - I met two couples celebrating not just Valentine's Day but also their anniversary. The ones who'd been married 31 years were the cutest because he admitted without hesitation, "We like to be together all the time" while she nodded and smiled ear to ear.

Not sure I could do the "all the time" part, but I am in awe of long-time, still-happy couples (like my parents) and wonder what they had that I didn't. It's not just luck, is it?

The other couple had gotten married last year at Lucy's, so tonight's Valentine's dinner was particularly evocative of last year's festivities, albeit with more strangers than friends. They were adorable, too, dressed to impress (each other, no doubt), one in a red sweater and blue tie and the other in a blue sweater and red tie.

It began snowing while we were eating duck breast and goat cheese polenta at Lucy's and listening to the Lord Huron Pandora station which focused on earnest-sounding male songwriters. For my money, any station that works in St. Lucia's "All Eyes on You" on such a determinedly romantic day is fine by me.

Cause I hope 
We will never have to take back
What we said in the night
I hope that I will always have
All eyes on you

Sounds romantic to me, but what do I know?

Girls on the Go

Here's to the ladies who lunch -
Everybody laugh
Lounging in their caftans
Planning a brunch -

Just two of us at Can Can, and definitely not wearing caftans. Can't say I've ever worn a caftan, although I have wondered if it's a distant cousin to the muu-muu.

We are laughing, too, because we find each other funny and it's been too long. But mostly we're gabbing non-stop with very little planning happening.

Off to the gym
Then to a fitting
Claiming they're fat 
And looking grim -

Neither of us goes to the gym, although she did mention recently taking her first exercise class on a bike while lifting weights, if that counts. And fittings? How very 1950s that sounds!

Lunch had more of a '70s feel to it. My lobster, leek and Pecorino quiche (because real women do eat it) loomed over lightly dressed mixed greens but we were both mainly into the cone of frites placed between us. Part of the privilege of age is that neither of us claims to be fat. That's a young woman's game.

And here's to the girls who play smart
Aren't they a gas?

Smart friends are the only kind of friends to have and this one definitely qualifies. Between us, we dissected the bike race, media blitzes for restaurants that never open and why some people insist on playing the popularity game Not for us.

A matinee, a Pinter play
Perhaps a piece of Mahler's -

Our entertainment was the brasserie theater of Can Can, chosen last week by my friend as our destination because, to her, it always seems sunny there, a quality that was highly desirable during that non-stop precipitation.

Older couples enjoying wine with lunch, young mothers with babies and their mother in tow, and what looked to be regulars at the bar buzzed around us. Walking in, I'd been greeted by a familiar face on his lunch break from his wine job. He was such a gentleman that he found me once he'd eaten to give me a kiss on the cheek goodbye.

And here's to the girls who play wife
Aren't they too much?

Sometimes, but not always. My friend is a wife but an interesting enough one not to need to clutch a copy of "Life" to stay in touch. She has Twitter and Facebook for that.

Another chance to disapprove
Another brilliant zinger
Another reason not to move
Another vodka stinger -

Disapprove? Not us. We decided jointly that we don't care enough to bother. We only need to approve of us and how we handle ourselves.

But disinterest, that's another story. We've got it to spare. A protracted discussion of Tinder leads to my friend announcing, "I only hope I never have to date again," effectively summing up the hopes of all single middle aged women.

And please let the record show, vodka was nowhere in evidence. Another cup of obscenely rich hot chocolate after my first? Even I couldn't manage that.

So here's to the girls on the go --
Everybody tries
Look into their eyes
And you'll see what they know
Everybody dies -

True enough, but there's so much to enjoy before getting to that. Three satisfying hours at Can Can dishing about everybody and everything, for one.

A toast to the invincible bunch
The dinosaurs surviving the crunch
Let's hear it for the ladies who lunch -

Let's do. We're a dying breed and the replacements seem lacking. Too bad there's not a Pinter play addressing that.

Just Getting Warmed Up

For me, the attraction was the weather. For others, it was the night before.

We may end up with no more than a dusting of snow, but baby, it's cold outside.

Monday means Shoryuken Ramen is up and running at the Lunch space, so I made sure I arrived at 5:00 sharp to get a a stool (I had to displace a woman's large, silver bag to do it) and a bowl.

I was remembered from my last visit and the first question was if I'd been at the Elby's last night. Holding up my still-sore feet now encased in flats after last night's platforms, she laughed saying she couldn't hang with the restaurant crowd. "Too hardcore for me. I'm in bed by 9:30."

She was right. No way she could hang with that crowd.

Explaining that the weather had brought me in, she said some people suffering from Elby hangovers had called this morning hoping to get delivery of soul-reviving ramen to their homes mid-day. Unfortunately, it doesn't work that way.

Luckily, only my feet were hurting this morning, so my ramen needs didn't arise until an appropriate dinner time.

Even tucked into a corner, every time the front door opened to admit new guests, an icy gust would sweep through the dining room. A woman I had seen talking to a man in a car outside came in to ask for a table for two, despite being alone.

"He's outside, but he's coming in, even though he doesn't want to," the woman explained to a server. When the man did come inside, it was only to sit sulkily across from her while she ate a bowl of ramen. The things we do for love.

The door kept opening. One of last night's Elby award-winning restaurateurs and a friend came in for dinner. A friend of a friend I'd run into just the other night at Dutch & Co. arrived, saying she'd gotten off work at 4:00 so she could ensure making it to the pop-up in time to score a table. Her husband and a friend were joining her and she kindly invited me to be their fourth but I demurred, not wanting to horn in on other people's plans.

Anyway, I soon had company at the bar in the form of a young couple who were making their first visit to Shoryuken after being bitten by the ramen bug eating at noodle shops in San Francisco.

They were the last two people to slide in and find seats in the first wave. After that, newcomers had their names put on a  list and went to wait patiently either in their cars or next door at Supper.  This time of year and in this weather, tiny Lunch barely has room for its legal number of occupants and their accompanying big coats.

Tonight's special - because it's always classic ramen or a vegetarian version plus one special - was Thai peanut ramen, a double soup ramen with pickled papaya, peanuts and Thai basil. The smell coming from the kitchen was beyond enticing and the girl near me said as much as they waited to order. "The smell is killing me," she moaned.

It didn't help when my bowl arrived and I began slurping up noodles while they eyed me hungrily. They were right to covet my bowl because the depth of flavor in the broth spoke to the beauty of combining two types for a complexity that would have been fantastic any day, but on a windy cold night like tonight, was sheer perfection, especially along with assertive but not fiery Thai heat. And the yolk of the soft-boiled egg was that one perfect bite that required eye closing to fully appreciate.

As much as I want to try the classic ramen one of these days, Chef Will keeps offering these killer specials (last time it was wontononmen) I can't resist.

But the couple had gone classic and once their bowls arrived, we chatted while we all ate. They were aghast when I told them about the man who'd eaten nothing while his wife ate and amazed at how small the Lunch space was.

It makes sense, though, as  a friend who lived in China said that noodle shops are tiny places there. Clearly they've nailed the authenticity on that point. Our stools faced directly into the kitchen, causing my dinner companion to observe, "We've got the best view in the house."

It was true. Watching the ebb and flow of movement as the kitchen staff put together bowls of ramen was a study in anticipation as people leaned and ducked to allow others to finish a movement as bowl after bowl got the final touches.

I was the fifth person of the first wave to finish and much as I might have wanted to continue the chat with my fellow bar sitters, seats are at too high a premium for that, so I made my way over to talk to the people who'd invited me to join them and meet their friend.

Like me, all three had ordered the Thai peanut ramen and its tantalizing aroma was wafting up from the table as we talked restaurants and movies. But you can only stand in the aisle and block servers for so long before you know it's time to cede the space to the second wave.

It was only fair. My soul had been fed, my belly warmed and now it was time to address my lingering post-Elby's pain. Time to soak my disco-weary feet and start a new book.

Maybe not the most exciting Monday night, but all in all, not a bad way to spend a frigid evening. Unless, of course, I get a better offer.

Meantime (Little Notes)

Reasons why this is already shaping up to be a fine day:

A cloudy walk to Chapel Island with a view of raindrops dotting the canal.

An Amtrack conductor hanging out of the stopped train waving to me from the tracks overhead as I walk the Capital bike trail. Hello, stranger.

The shift from clouds to sun as I reach the island and walk over to a favorite spot on the far side to survey the river. Nothing much happening today.

Crossing Cary Street and hearing my name called by a friendly wine rep and stopping to chat about the pleasures of outside showers and  rooftop bars, both past and future. Top of the Tower? Nope, before my time.

Running into a culture-loving friend in front of the National box office waiting to buy tickets for Trampled by Turtles. He looks at me like he's never seen me in walking attire - shorts and a t-shirt - before, which I then realize he hasn't.

Coming home to a message from a good friend saying, "I miss you! Pick you up at 12:30? Yeah!"

Lunch right here in the 'hood at Lucy's, which is satisfyingly mobbed with eager eaters. A former Floyd Avenue neighbor stops to chat, I wave hello to the cattle farmer and the proprietor tells us there's a real estate convention in town.

The shrimp po' boy salad is stellar, full of fat fried shrimp under a drizzle of thousand island dressing with picture perfect end-of-the-season grape tomatoes still bursting with flavor.

Conversation tumbling out out of both of us as we discuss Cape Charles, not fitting in, out of town restaurateurs and Gullah culture.

Dessert of panna cotta with strawberry coulis, a worthy substitute for our usual post-lunch Rose, off limits since my friend has a meeting after we finish. 

Writing assignment completed and ready for my final edit tomorrow, still several days in advance of deadline.

And it's only mid-afternoon. Feeling as sunny as the day turned out to be.

Off the Chain

Took a new walk, tried a new dog.

While I've been doing lots of new to me walks lately - I did the floodwall west Friday, ending up in the SunTrust parking lot on southside, and Randolph and the cemeteries there Saturday (even heard gun shots followed by a bugle playing "Taps") - today's jaunt had two major things going for it.

The historic nature of the slave trail, heartbreaking as it is, and the practically perfect weather, sunny, breezy and absent humidity.

I walked all the way to the Manchester docks where I met three gentlemen fishing and shooting the breeze.

They suggested I join them but I politely declined.

Coming back, I decided to circumvent the last part of the walking trail and instead clambered up the rip rap to access the bridge and save myself quite a few steps in the process.

Despite not being the clambering type, the good news is I neither dropped my keys nor scraped up the moneymakers.

Back on terra firma, I took the pipeline walkway, did a leg soak and climbed the hills home, where I immediately picked up the phone and called a friend for lunch.

A six mile walk will give you an appetite no matter how much breakfast you ate.

Last time we'd gotten together for lunch, he'd been in the midst of a terrible, awful, no-good day but today's mood was considerably sunnier.

Making our way through gaggles of VCU students with not a clue how to navigate crosswalks, sidewalks and streets (one young twerp stood in the right lane of Broad Street to light her cigarette), we ducked off of Broad and into Unleashed Gourmet Hot Dogs, dodging cold drips from the air conditioner over the doorway in the process.

Inside, it was cool, empty and a laundry list of imported and housemade hot dogs greeted us. A server at Empire had turned me on to this place, raving about the quality of the dogs.

My only complaint? Not one was named after that noblest of breeds, the beagle, nor was a picture of a beagle among those hung on the walls for decoration.

I'd call that a gross oversight.

When I asked the owner what was so great about his dogs, he boasted of importing some and making others.

"They're the best," he said. 'Let me know after you try one."

Friend went straight for the English pointer, a smoked sausage with roasted pepper, sauteed onions and honey mustard while I selected the Mutt International, a crisp-skinned oversized wiener that snapped when I bit it, with beer-roasted barbecue pulled pork and cole slaw riding atop it.

Both of us were impressed with the non-traditional rolls, more a crusty, toothsome bread pocket than a typical bland hot dog roll.

Russian potato salad, bright red with beet juice and a nice tang, went down easily as we sat at the window counter and watched the colorful street theater of Harrison Street parade by.

"So?" the owner called to us from his perch behind the counter.

Mighty fine dogs, sir, we answered and he beamed. "I told you!"

Now just hang a picture of a beagle on the wall and this place'll be practically perfect.

And, I might add, only a short walk from home.

Stay Outdoors and Spoon

Technically, it was work. But it didn't feel much like work.

A drive to Westmoreland County on a pitch perfect summer day to do an interview yielded the expected (music blaring, scenic views, an interesting subject) but also the funny (Plunk Farm Road?) and surprising.

While I expected his house to be on the water - he is an oyster gardener after all - I couldn't have imagined the splendor of the view stretching seven miles across the Potomac all the way to the green shores of Maryland.

Nor would I have been so presumptuous as to anticipate being offered oysters once I finished interviewing him.

Saying he'd pulled them from the river a few hours before, he excused himself to shuck them while I was left to languish on the screened porch watching birds diving for fish and waves rippling the shore.

He served them with locally made hot sauce in a Mason jar, a simple accompaniment to oysters so creamy and buttery they really needed nothing at all.

I'm only mildly embarrassed to admit I ate way more than he did.

After a leisurely drive back to the city, I took care of some e-mails before setting out for food.

I was hoping Supper was finally open, but alas, no, not that I wasn't perfectly happy at Lunch instead.

The place was jam packed with a large group celebrating a birthday - so singing and raucous laughter were involved - but fortunately there was a lone bar stool free and I nabbed it.

Next to me turned out to be an art educator visiting Richmond for a class and out of his element because his wife wasn't with him.

As it turned out, he lived on Grace Street from 1977 to 1980, having transferred from ODU to VCU and leaving with a degree in painting and printmaking.

"I didn't know then that you couldn't get a real job with that degree," he said chuckling, so he went back to become an art teacher. I think they warn the kids about that now.

Of course, he was thrilled with his food (although confused about the assemblage of chicken, pulled pork, bacon and cheddar, but that's just how Lunch rolls) as was I with my luncheonette salad with two fat, spicy crab cakes atop it.

A couple came in and sat down at the bar seconds after the stools were vacated and were soon drowning in far more food than they could ever eat. Rookie mistake, I told them.

I could have warned them ahead of time, I probably should have, but there's no shame in leftovers. In fact, if they knew me, they'd thank me tomorrow.

Replete with oysters and crab (and, sadly, not enough room for hummingbird cake), it was time for music, namely NYC's Jessy Carolina and the Hot Mess (whom I'd been wowed by back in April) at Balliceaux.

Part Dixieland, part Tin Pan Alley and part bluegrass, their secret weapon is Jessy's voice, part little girl, part crooner and always full-bodied.

It was a small crowd, no doubt Monday related, but it meant I had no trouble getting a good table and gradually more people arrived to help fill up the room. Not many familiar faces except songbird Allison and one of the many DJs I know.

Like last time, there was Jessy, the leader, who played washboard, cymbals and sang in a beautifully powerful voice, while three talented guys provided accompaniment: an upright bass player, a guitarist and a guy who played trombone and trumpet.

I remembered their cover of "Shine On, Harvest Moon" sung in her lovely, languid voice from last time and it was every bit the knockout it had been then.

This is the kind of band that brings out a dancing crowd and before long, a couple were showing off their moves to a Mills Brothers' song and the crowd's delight...and Jessy's.

"Feel free to move around and talk," she'd instructed us. "We want you to fun. We want you to have fun!"

A couple of women got up and danced together, matching each other's intricate steps like a mirror image and a lot of attention swept from the band to their fluid moves because they were so good.

Having been out dancing three times in the last ten days, I kept to my seat, but partially because there's a lot to be said for just watching someone so talented belt and play washboard.

After all, we'd been told to fun. I was just following instructions for a change.

Mid-Afternoon Thrash

They pick up their conversation like it was the next day and not a full year since they last saw each other.

His drive down 95 from Washington lasts an excruciating three hours so lunch doesn't begin until 2:45, but fortuitously she has chosen Dinamo because they don't close between lunch and dinner.

The restaurant is cool with air conditioning, a welcome respite from her 90-degree apartment, and devoid of people except staff. Interestingly enough, the music is atypically thrash, not unwelcome but probably not what plays during dinner hour.

Eager to get busy talking, they scan the menu for cool, summery dishes to suit the sweltering day, deciding on the cold seafood salad (easily the best in Richmond), eggs in tuna sauce and after a heartfelt recommendation from the server, squash salad.

His pick for poison is a Negroni (still recalling with fondness the one Bobby K. made for him several summers ago here) while hers is a glass of Trebbiano and with chilled libations delivered, they dive into the conversational pool.

As the plates begin to arrive, he shares experiences -good, bad and ugly - from his recent trip to Africa as well as updates about the book he's currently writing and revising, an odyssey through art, family and choices.

The seafood salad, a wonder of olive oil, red onions and lemon juice over fresh seafood, is worthy of an Italian seaside cafe. The tuna sauce turns the soft-cooked  eggs into something obscenely rich and sensuous. And ho-hum squash transforms into the essence of summer as the centerpiece of a cold dish with tomato sauce and onions. A memorable cold meal.

They use his phone to look at intense, expressionistic paintings by Oskar Kokoschka, an Austrian artist she's never heard of until now but plans to do some research on. He tells her she should be reading Lucky Peach, which he is sure Chop Suey carries, and she makes a mental note to look for it.

When he inquires about coffee, the server tells him it's the best in town, a fact he doubts because it's Illy, not usually a favorite of his, but orders it anyway and is pleasantly surprised at how good it is. A non-coffee drinker, she takes his word for it.

Generously, he tells her she looks younger than the last time he saw her and compliments her longer hair, even the cut of it. When he notices the server's hair is similar, he makes a joke about it being all the rage in Richmond.

Lunch ends (with him marveling at the tab, so different than lunch prices in D.C.) because he has dinner plans shortly and needs to pick up a bottle of wine with which to gift his hostess, a three-named southern woman.

She directs him back to her neighborhood to Saison market where a small group is watching the World Cup, sipping happy hour beer and munching on bread and cured meat.

The visitor winds up with not just wine for the hostess, but a large cube ice tray and a set of vintage Italian coasters he considers under-priced, fearful if he doesn't buy them he will regret it later. Or so he tells himself.

Leaving the market, they see that the sky has darkened to the point of a storm announcement but since they are mere blocks from her house, they make it back before the heavens explode.

People are sitting on the porch next door watching and commenting on the lightening show when he drops her home and minutes later, the rain is pelting down in sheets.

Before he goes, he reminds her that it's her turn to come to Washington for dinner and she agrees, always happy to have a reason to see her birthplace.

Whether that dinner happens sooner or later, it's likely they will continue the conversation where they left off. Mid-paragraph.