A Summer State of Mind

And just like that, my summer has (unofficially) arrived.

I say that not because of the marathon birthday celebration that lasted all last week featuring stellar meals at Dinamo, Lemaire and Metzger, although it was a fine excuse to debut some of my newest thrift store summer dresses and pack away the leggings until Halloween.

For that matter, surely I could be forgiven for designating this year's first visit to Quirk's rooftop - with posse in tow, several of whom had yet to experience the beauty of Jackson Ward laid out before them from on high - as the kickoff to the most wonderful time of the year, but it wasn't.

And I don't say that my favorite season is upon us because of spending a day last week on the Outer Banks, despite the pleasures of a crabcake sandwich lunch at Frog Island Seafood, a cookout in the backyard of a soundfront cottage and the distinct pleasure of a major first: riding bikes from sound to ocean.

Technically, I could even make a case for the commencement of summer as the first night that required not only open windows (they've been the norm since April) but the additional machinations of the ceiling fan, the table fan and the upright fan, all wafting moving air directly at my bed. But I won't do that.

Another worthy indicator might be the hissing of the sprinkler saturating the continuous waves of flowers - heirloom roses, Asian lilies, Gerbera daisies, dianthus, petunias, clematis, pincushion flowers - in my little front garden. It seems like every time I'm down there moving the sprinkler, a stranger walks by and smilingly tells me some version of, "I love looking at your flowers." A woman with a toddler in a stroller has walked by repeatedly, explaining that she made my block part of her route solely so they can enjoy my garden.

No question, I could say that attending my first Sundown at Scuffletown show earlier this week qualifies as some sort of musical announcement that summer is here. The dusky interludes are one those established things (this is, what, the sixth year now?) I continue to do that never get old because the best things never do. It doesn't hurt that I always run into familiar faces, either.

As new to me as my latest summer dresses, the Billy Bacci Band - keys, guitar, bass and drums - delivered a solid set of keyboard-based indie music as the sun set behind the trees. Even Billy seemed thrilled with the outdoor venue, noting, "This is the best gig ever because I live a block from here!" But is my first outdoor show this year worthy of being the harbinger of summer's arrival? I think not.

What did make it feel like summer without a doubt was - wait for it - Mac and I finally being able to walk the Pipeline.

That it occurred on my birthday only made it all the sweeter. Uncharacteristically, we hadn't been able to get on the pipeline since last October, despite regularly attempting to do so only to find it submerged. Thanks to a record-setting soggy 2018, the pipeline has been partially or mostly underwater for months, depriving Mac and I of our favorite daily walk.

All I know is that as of May 23, the pipeline was back and we could experience the particular pleasures, both sight and sound, of walking on water again. Which means as far as I'm concerned, my season is here.

Let the hot fun in the summertime begin.

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.

Anything for You

Every window open. 'Nuff said.

These past two days have been glorious reminders that spring really is coming, that this dreadful winter is winding down and my favorite time of the year about to unfold. For the past two days, it's been warm enough to walk bare-legged (instead of in leggings) and leave the windows up night and day (necessitating more mindfulness about how loud I play my records).

Spring, how I've looked forward to your arrival.

After my walk, the real tragedy of yesterday's 81-degree sunshine was how much of it I had to spend inside doing interviews and at a board meeting when all I really wanted to do was goof off outside. Didn't Confucius say something about how it sucks to be a grown-up sometimes?

Happily, once all that played out I had dinner plans that involved a window seat, my favorite restaurant soundtrack and a Metzger virgin, a surefire recipe for a fabulous evening.

Because Fate seems to be keeping an eye on me of late, it was as I was busy explaining to my date that the vintage soul music we were listening to was courtesy of DJ Mr. Fine Wine that one of the owners came over to give me news he knew I'd want to hear: Mr. Fine Wine is coming back to Metzger for another late night dance party to grace us with his stellar DJ skills.

And he was right, this was indeed wonderful news - I would dance to Mr. Fine Wine anytime he's willing to come down from N.J. - at least I thought so right up until he told us the date. Uh oh, no go, some of us will be out of town for the big event.

Evidently the disappointment was written all over my face because the owner was quick tor reassure me. "I know how you enjoy these, that's why I wanted to tell you" he said. "Don't worry, we're gonna have him back in the fall, too."

Whew, except fall seems like a lifetime away to someone currently reveling in spring. On the other hand, who doesn't like having something - dance parties, vacations, music shows - to look forward to?

More good news arrived with the oyster selections, which included Morattico Creeks from the Northern Neck town where my parents live and Blackberry Points, my choice to accompany my Hugl Rose, because our server assured me they were the brinier of the two and briny is always my goal with bivalves.

Our server kept coming over to take our order before we'd made any decisions, so I finally quashed that with a fib, telling her it was a first date and we were trying to get acquainted before ordering. It wasn't true, but she got the hint.

After caving to decorum, we shared a mustard green salad gussied up with beets and blood oranges, beer-battered cauliflower with white anchovies and garlic crisps and whole roasted maitake with potato rosti in a garlic cream sauce, an obscene take on a vegetarian entree, though probably not as obscene as the dark chocolate torte I only managed to finish half of.

Although we lingered over wine and dinner for three-plus hours (twitterpation will do that to you), it was still as warm as afternoon when we walked out, a reality that felt nothing short of miraculous after so many months of winter's unpleasantness.

Today was even better because it was already warm when I woke up and headed to the river, which is still teasing me by keeping the pipeline inaccessible from Brown's Island. Seems like ages since I could get on it from the west side, what with all the rain coming down from the mountains the past month.

That's not a complaint. With life so good these days, I can take a little inconvenience.

Tonight's outing involved Lady G accompanying my hired mouth to dinner, our first chance to catch up since our superb road trip to Philly last month. Much conversation was involved because although I don't want to say there's been a seismic shift in my world since then, there's been a seismic shift in my world since then.

And no one wants to make her friend cry with good news, but it beats making her cry with bad news, right?

Her main request for the evening had been that we have a smart cocktail, so we celebrated afterward at the Jasper, where the front windows were open to the Friday night bustle of Carytown and the place was packed.

Snagging a small table under a window, Lady G ordered the Spaniard on the recommendation of our Spanish-blooded server (the Old Overholt rye didn't hurt, either) while I stayed true to form with a glass of Domaine Brazilier Brut from the Loire Valley. Despite having recently polished off a full dinner and dessert, we saw no reason not to dive into hen liver mousse with red onion gelee, slathering it on baguette slices with impunity, or maybe just giddiness.

Spring seems to be having all kinds of effects on people right now. I know all I can do is smile.