Heard It through the Grapevine

Outhouses, tigers and Norton, oh, my!

A gentleman caller invited me out for a trip through Goochland, a place I hadn't been for nearly two years since my excursion to Nadolski's butcher shop to watch a side of beef broken down.

This trip involved no animal parts that weren't cooked.

Passing the bucolic-looking  Correctional Center for Women, my companion commented that if a person was going to be put away, a place with rolling hills, picaresque barns and cows grazing looked better than most.

I was more interested in eating than incarceration and it wasn't long before we stopped at Tanglewood Ordinary, a place adorned with cans of "dehydrated water" and "Florida sunshine," and a bathroom door with a cutout of a crescent moon on it.

More importantly, home of grandmother's Sunday dinner.

Having grown up with a chicken-frying grandmother, it wasn't far off for me.

And because nothing pairs with fried yard bird like bubbles, we got a bottle of Zonin Prosecco to accompany our chicken, mashed potatoes, greens, mac and cheese, green beans and gravy. Oh, yes, and barbecue.

I'm not dissing T.O.'s grandmother or anything, but seems to me she overcooked the breast pieces, so we soon requested of young Ian, our strapping server, that he bring us all dark meat.

Much better.

Ian was a pro, coming over after a while and giving us a knowing look. "Slowing down, aren't you?" he said with some pity.

We were indeed, but we were also well-sated, so no more bowls of food were forthcoming.

On the way out, we stopped to buy t-shirts as souvenirs of our mega-meal, with the cashier trying to convince me I didn't want to get a small.

"We mostly have those for kids," she said, suggesting I try it on.

Even over a tank top and a shirt, the t-shirt fit just fine and I took it despite her warning.

Perhaps if I ate at the Ordinary more frequently, I could qualify for a respectable medium, but not so far.

It was a gloriously sunny afternoon so we made our next stop Byrd Cellars, where the owner warned us outside that there was a lively group already in the tasting room.

True that with a group of women celebrating the 30th birthday of the one in the orange boa loudly and enthusiastically.

We waited out on the deck with half-glasses of pink sangria to placate us until they finished tasting, bought celebratory wine and headed outside to the pastel-colored Adirondack chairs on the grassy hill overlooking the James.

Our pourer was a talker, tasting us through everything from the Meadowsweet, a a white wine tasting of strawberry and apple to Raven Red, a blend that included Chambourcin (a grape of which I'm fond), and named after Poe because of their son's affinity for his work.

As we sipped, she not only gave us wine information, but regaled us with stories of a two-week trip to Ireland for a wedding, a month-long trip to Scotland and a funny story about a southern lady who was highly offended to enter the tasting room and find Dahlgren's Raid red on the mantle.

Oh, my dear, that simply isn't done! As the pourer put it, laughing, "We compromised. She didn't buy any of our wine and we didn't take it off the mantel."

150 years out and still fighting for the Lost Cause.

We took a bottle of 2010 Cabernet Sauvignon out to the Adirondack chairs, the winery owner's little granddaughter following us, chattering away.

"Don't go down the hill!" she cautioned, eyes wide and all sincerity. "There's tigers down there!"

Well, that's one way to make sure a little one doesn't go too far afield.

During the time we sat there sipping, we saw no lions, tigers or bears.

Elk Island Winery, named after a nearby island in the James, was literally next door but mercifully without the emphasis on spiced wine and sweet apple wine.

Walking in to their tasting parlor, a charming name for the tasting space, we found the same birthday group just finishing up a tasting.

Once they moved to the deck to cut the tiniest of birthday cakes, we replaced them at the bar with the winemaker's wife pouring for us.

She was funny talking about the doom and gloom attitude of the birthday girl ("Come back and talk to me when you're 40, or better yet, 50, honey!" she joked) and thrilled to find out we were not only Norton fans, but knew of Norton Street named after the good doctor.

By the time we walked back up the pine needle path to the car, we'd procured three bottles to choose from to go with the rabbit stew we were planning for dinner.

The rabbit had come from a bit further afield - Culpeper's Saddle Ridge Farms, so I'd procured it in advance -  to ensure we'd have some Virginia rabbit to accompany our Virginia grape.

A 30-year old may be able to pull off an orange boa, but will she know to bring a rabbit and put on the Marvin Gaye station for dinner?

Mercy, mercy me, no.

Nortonians Do Foxy

As historical topics go, some speak to me more than others.

Today's Banner Lecture at the Virginia Historical Society practically screamed my name.

Author and friend Todd Kliman, whom I'd met last year here, was talking about his book "The Wild Vine" and a favorite couple were meeting me to hear the story of the Norton grape, followed by lunch.

Having read Todd's book last year, I knew a lot of the material covered in today's talk, but I always enjoy hearing a writer read his own words aloud.

Like me and unlike many who consider it too "foxy," Todd is a Norton lover ("I love what I perceive in it") who referred to it as the "gumbo of grapes."

But he's also enough of a traditionalist to appreciate researching history he can hold rather than just Googling everything.

"Had I not read Dr. Norton's letters at the Valentine Richmond History Museum, it would not have been the same book." he admitted. RVA's  obsession with the past has once again provided tangible links to what came before us.

Only a true history geek can savor the pleasures of putting on white gloves and holding the actual letters of a long-gone melancholic (big sigh and scent of gardenia).

Those in attendance were noticeably entranced with Todd's discussion of wine growing requirements in the Jamestown colony, Jefferson's acknowledged failure at viticulture and the English obsession with creating a wine-producing colony in the New World.

The smart ones in the audience will purchase the book and take the time to read the entire story of our native grape and the transsexual winery owner now devoted to the propagation and elevation of it in the 21st century.

Take it from me, it's a fascinating intertwining of stories and a stellar read, whether you like history, biography or just want to learn more about wine ( a "foxy" wine being comparable to a wet dog smell).

As one who lives six blocks from Norton Street and has seen Dr. Norton's gravestone at Shockoe Hill Cemetery, I would be the first to encourage locals to check out the limited legacy of the man who brought us the earthy and rustic Norton grape.

Just don't look for it on local wine lists. Todd told a story of going into Comfort when he was researching his book and asking why Norton wasn't on the list.

"They sneered," he said and yet the restaurant is within walking distance of Dr. Norton's former wine-growing farm. Norton's out there (Horton and Chrysalis, among others, make it) but hard to find.

So we knew it was hopeless to seek some out for lunch. Instead we went to Can Can, took a window table and ordered Domaine de Mirail Rose.

Norton was not forgotten, just put on the back burner. The lecture had run long and we were all starving.

I happily enjoyed grilled chicken over arugula with white asparagus, lots of radish, honey roasted peanuts and a rhubarb vinaigrette, while she savored a Salad Nicoise. He went with a manly cheeseburger and generously shared his frites with the womenfolk.

Since we'd all been Virginia winery hopping in the past week, we had to share notes about wines ( none of us had had a Norton on our outings last week, although I did have a chocolate Norton dessert sauce over cookies) and compare impressions of tasting rooms since they run the gamut from chalet-like to wedding-worthy to glorified porches.

The consensus was that it's more about what you're tasting and with whom you're tasting.

Why, yes, I am still working on that part (big sigh and scent of gardenia).

Know any Norton fans?