My recent fortnight at the beach had killed my bedside book stack, a state that brings on the shakes in an avid reader. Serendipitously, I was at the main library yesterday and noticed the used book sale. The sign said it all: Fill a Bag for $1.00, so even if I could only find a couple of books of interest, it was going to be easy on the pocketbook and at least lessen the tremors.
With no great expectation of finding much, I began going through the shelves, bypassing the fiction for the kind of offbeat stuff I like to read. Bingo! Timebends: A Life by playwright and bombshell hubby Arthur Miller promises to be full of the kind of twentieth century social history that I so enjoy reading.
Who Walk Alone first caught my eye because it was an older hardback book, so worn that I could barely read the embossed lettering of the title. Opening it, I found an explanation of what the book was about, namely the story of an American soldier who returned from the Spanish-American War in the Philippines and years later became a leper living in a leper colony. What do I know about lepers? Okay, my interest was piqued.
And then there were the women. My most recent choice (1987) was folk singer Judy Collins' autobiography, full of old black and white photographs of her friends, lovers and fellow musicians.
Slightly older (1979), but in the same pop culture vein, was Notes by Eleanor Coppola; the dutiful wife accompanied her director husband to the Philippines for the filming of "Apocalypse Now." She was supervising a documentary about the making of the film and this book is her notes taken during the process. Sounded good to me.
More fascinating women followed, including Conversations with Katherine Anne Porter, A Bess Streeter Aldrich Treasury, and Reprieve: A Memoir by dancer and choreographer Agnes DeMille; all looked promising.
There were a couple of other selections, but I won't bore anyone further with titles. And I feel safe in assuming that I would indeed bore any other human being because of the conversation I had with the library lady when I took my books to the counter to pay up.
"Thank you so much!" I enthused. "I can't believe I got all these books for $1.00!"
"No, thank YOU," she replied pointedly. "Nobody else would have taken those books off our hands. We ought to be paying you the dollar."
Wow. Literary nerdiness confirmed by a perfect stranger.
Time to take my bag of books and leave quietly.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
If Only They Were Single
Clearly I haven't been out walking in my neighborhood lately, a fact made apparent to me on my way to dinner tonight. Strolling down the street, two different neighbors asked me where my trusty companion was and it turned out they were referring to the beagle.
It's been 2 1/2 months since I had to have him put down and neither neighbor knew about it. It was bittersweet having to explain it all again and especially twice. My evening began with a couple of big sighs.
Likewise, I hadn't been to 27 since a couple of visits early in June (one involving record wine consumption, but that's another story), so I got the royal greeting on arrival tonight. The place was busy, with one full dining room and a 13-top expected any moment. Already at the bar was one of my favorite downtown servers and a wine rep, so I had immediate company. Things were shaping up nicely.
Chef Carlos teased me about my recent absence, making me feel missed and appreciated, while bartender Dave gloated over having seen me twice in the same night recently. I ordered a glass of the ubiquitous Broadbent Vino Verdhe, and began my night out with a toast to the beagle.
Considering this endless heatwave, my first course was just what the meteorologist ordered. Carlos delivered a summer soup sampler with two chilled delicacies. The avocado with roasted corn was rich and creamy (he claimed it had only a "little bit" of cream) with most of the fatty richness coming from nature's butter, the avocado. The other soup was a fresh-as-summer gazpacho, making for a lovely contrast. I went back and forth from acidic to creamy, rich to tart, enjoying how well the two complemented each other. Both tasted out-of-the-garden fresh.
Meanwhile I'd found a Pennsylvania native with whom I discussed all things Richmond. Like me, he's a transplant who has blossomed in the capital of the Confederacy. Unlike me, he's a talented pianist. He's the first person I've met who'd been to the museum as many times as I have. He was a conversational godsend and I delayed my next course enjoying all the talk.
I then tucked into the classic Caesar salad with anchovies while hearing about what's been going on in Carlos' world, both personal and professional. I shared some of my better vacation stories with him (the interested restaurant owner saga, in particular, really tickled him although he thought I should have taken it in another direction). It was satisfying to be back at my neighborhood joint.
With my next course of escargots, mushroom caps gratin and Pernod, Carlos suggested his favorite white, the gavi di gavi and it was a perfect pairing. Although not always a fan of Pernod (I think it is often too dominating a flavor), in this case it was heavenly: subtle and fragrant. For me, enough butter is the main escargot requirement and these mushroom caps sat in a pool of it.
After soup and salad, this was going to fill me up in the best possible way.
Which meant there was no room for dessert, but my evening eventually ended on a sweet note anyway. As I was preparing to leave, Carlos, the physically demonstrative one, gave me a kiss and a hug and admonished me to be back in my barstool again soon.
And Dave, the verbally demonstrative one? "Karen, you know I love you like a fat kid loves cake."
Color me satisfied on all counts.
It's been 2 1/2 months since I had to have him put down and neither neighbor knew about it. It was bittersweet having to explain it all again and especially twice. My evening began with a couple of big sighs.
Likewise, I hadn't been to 27 since a couple of visits early in June (one involving record wine consumption, but that's another story), so I got the royal greeting on arrival tonight. The place was busy, with one full dining room and a 13-top expected any moment. Already at the bar was one of my favorite downtown servers and a wine rep, so I had immediate company. Things were shaping up nicely.
Chef Carlos teased me about my recent absence, making me feel missed and appreciated, while bartender Dave gloated over having seen me twice in the same night recently. I ordered a glass of the ubiquitous Broadbent Vino Verdhe, and began my night out with a toast to the beagle.
Considering this endless heatwave, my first course was just what the meteorologist ordered. Carlos delivered a summer soup sampler with two chilled delicacies. The avocado with roasted corn was rich and creamy (he claimed it had only a "little bit" of cream) with most of the fatty richness coming from nature's butter, the avocado. The other soup was a fresh-as-summer gazpacho, making for a lovely contrast. I went back and forth from acidic to creamy, rich to tart, enjoying how well the two complemented each other. Both tasted out-of-the-garden fresh.
Meanwhile I'd found a Pennsylvania native with whom I discussed all things Richmond. Like me, he's a transplant who has blossomed in the capital of the Confederacy. Unlike me, he's a talented pianist. He's the first person I've met who'd been to the museum as many times as I have. He was a conversational godsend and I delayed my next course enjoying all the talk.
I then tucked into the classic Caesar salad with anchovies while hearing about what's been going on in Carlos' world, both personal and professional. I shared some of my better vacation stories with him (the interested restaurant owner saga, in particular, really tickled him although he thought I should have taken it in another direction). It was satisfying to be back at my neighborhood joint.
With my next course of escargots, mushroom caps gratin and Pernod, Carlos suggested his favorite white, the gavi di gavi and it was a perfect pairing. Although not always a fan of Pernod (I think it is often too dominating a flavor), in this case it was heavenly: subtle and fragrant. For me, enough butter is the main escargot requirement and these mushroom caps sat in a pool of it.
After soup and salad, this was going to fill me up in the best possible way.
Which meant there was no room for dessert, but my evening eventually ended on a sweet note anyway. As I was preparing to leave, Carlos, the physically demonstrative one, gave me a kiss and a hug and admonished me to be back in my barstool again soon.
And Dave, the verbally demonstrative one? "Karen, you know I love you like a fat kid loves cake."
Color me satisfied on all counts.
In Less Than a Hot Minute
I went to the airport to pick up a friend and naturally the flight had been delayed. I'd wisely brought a book and read for a while, then strolled around, alternating frigid terminal walking with the heat of the great outdoors.
During one of my very warm walks, I came upon a guy getting out of a cab who almost fell into me as he exited the vehicle. Glancing around, he asked me, "Are you lost?"
"Not lost, just looking for someone," I explained, smiling at his assumption.
"Too bad it isn't me," he responded smiling back suggestively.
Total time from cab stopping to hitting on a stranger: less than ten seconds. Welcome to RIC, sir.
During one of my very warm walks, I came upon a guy getting out of a cab who almost fell into me as he exited the vehicle. Glancing around, he asked me, "Are you lost?"
"Not lost, just looking for someone," I explained, smiling at his assumption.
"Too bad it isn't me," he responded smiling back suggestively.
Total time from cab stopping to hitting on a stranger: less than ten seconds. Welcome to RIC, sir.
Flip-Flops and Folded Tongues
Thing 2 showed up at Lemaire in flip-flops, but as the bartender pointed out, the new Lemaire is fine with footwear of any kind (a far cry from the old days indeed).
It was our first get-together post-beach and Thing 2 wanted all the details of the subsequent Things (and meals), apparently finding my blog posts insufficient for all but the broadest details.
Besides $2 beers, Lemaire's special tonight was white or red sangria for $5, but it seems they have great specials practically every night and that should definitely be a draw.
For nibbling, we ordered a cheese plate with Humboldt Fog and Midnight Moon, fruit, crackers and bread.
At only $3 per cheese, it's a steal of a deal.
Because of the mix of hotel guests and locals, the crowd can be a variable one, but we had so much to discus that we never got around to chatting up other bar sitters, although we still managed a fair amount of people watching and discussion.
Thing 2 appropriated the check when it came, eager to prove a point to a certain Anonymous commenter. I just laughed; point taken.
Tonight's music adventure was very much something completely different.
A friend and I went to the Camel to hear live music played to accompany Tom and Jerry cartoons.
Honestly, I'd forgotten what a violence-fest T &a J cartoons were - so much pain, so many broken teeth, knots on heads, burnt fur and swallowed explosives.
In the pre-politically correct era, clearly anything went as long as it was animated.
The audience (okay, me anyway) enjoyed many laugh-out-loud moments during the classic Hanna-Barbera cartoons and the score, complete with Reggie Pace's trombone sound effects, was a treat.
A few of Brian Jones' crashing drum beats actually caused me to jump out of my seat, surely a satisfying audience effect for him.
When we'd arrived at the Camel, Brian had been outside cooling down after the first family-friendly show at 7.
He said the kids in that audience had been raucous, delighting in both the cartoons and the music.
His own daughter, he said, had even ended up sitting on his drum, not the most desirable effect.
There was no telling how an audience with the benefit of alcohol might react.
After a handful of cartoons and an intermission, the band improvised music to some of the short films of Stan Brakhage.
Since his work has no narrative and for the most part is experimental, the music followed suit.
At times driving and super-charged and at others, languid and unfolding, I admired the musicians for being able to watch and create simultaneously.
Brakhage's work did not have the most compelling visual elements, so the music was key.
Between sets, we talked with several musicians and learned all kinds of interesting musical facts, in particular, "You have to keep your tongue in shape."
Childish as it was, my friend and I laughed at the implications of that statement and imagined the conversations that could be inferred from it.
To demonstrate our silliness, or perhaps ignorance, not one but two horn players showed us tongue workouts; one even accordion-pleated his tongue.
It was truly an amazing thing to see.
And that was the free entertainment part of the evening.
The paid part was even more impressive.
It was our first get-together post-beach and Thing 2 wanted all the details of the subsequent Things (and meals), apparently finding my blog posts insufficient for all but the broadest details.
Besides $2 beers, Lemaire's special tonight was white or red sangria for $5, but it seems they have great specials practically every night and that should definitely be a draw.
For nibbling, we ordered a cheese plate with Humboldt Fog and Midnight Moon, fruit, crackers and bread.
At only $3 per cheese, it's a steal of a deal.
Because of the mix of hotel guests and locals, the crowd can be a variable one, but we had so much to discus that we never got around to chatting up other bar sitters, although we still managed a fair amount of people watching and discussion.
Thing 2 appropriated the check when it came, eager to prove a point to a certain Anonymous commenter. I just laughed; point taken.
Tonight's music adventure was very much something completely different.
A friend and I went to the Camel to hear live music played to accompany Tom and Jerry cartoons.
Honestly, I'd forgotten what a violence-fest T &a J cartoons were - so much pain, so many broken teeth, knots on heads, burnt fur and swallowed explosives.
In the pre-politically correct era, clearly anything went as long as it was animated.
The audience (okay, me anyway) enjoyed many laugh-out-loud moments during the classic Hanna-Barbera cartoons and the score, complete with Reggie Pace's trombone sound effects, was a treat.
A few of Brian Jones' crashing drum beats actually caused me to jump out of my seat, surely a satisfying audience effect for him.
When we'd arrived at the Camel, Brian had been outside cooling down after the first family-friendly show at 7.
He said the kids in that audience had been raucous, delighting in both the cartoons and the music.
His own daughter, he said, had even ended up sitting on his drum, not the most desirable effect.
There was no telling how an audience with the benefit of alcohol might react.
After a handful of cartoons and an intermission, the band improvised music to some of the short films of Stan Brakhage.
Since his work has no narrative and for the most part is experimental, the music followed suit.
At times driving and super-charged and at others, languid and unfolding, I admired the musicians for being able to watch and create simultaneously.
Brakhage's work did not have the most compelling visual elements, so the music was key.
Between sets, we talked with several musicians and learned all kinds of interesting musical facts, in particular, "You have to keep your tongue in shape."
Childish as it was, my friend and I laughed at the implications of that statement and imagined the conversations that could be inferred from it.
To demonstrate our silliness, or perhaps ignorance, not one but two horn players showed us tongue workouts; one even accordion-pleated his tongue.
It was truly an amazing thing to see.
And that was the free entertainment part of the evening.
The paid part was even more impressive.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Romance on the High Seas
Just because I'm not yet ready to date doesn't mean I'm not fascinated with braver friends who are.
Tonight I met up with a girlfriend at Olio for dinner and to hear about her impending romantic dating adventures on the left coast. The food was great but her man plans were even better.
After having consumed copious amounts of barbecue yesterday, I was in need of a green dinner and found it in the form of a turkey, avocado and apple salad with a side of corn/chickpea/green bean/tomato salad.
My friend, trying to eat healthier (a stage I am well past) or perhaps concerned with upcoming body revelations, opted for one of the specials, a walleye and mahi mahi burrito with mango chutney in a spinach tortilla, when what she actually wanted was the prime rib sandwich special.
Never settle, friend.
I'd tell you about the bottle of wine we had, but it disappeared so quickly I never even noticed what it was (kidding...a pinot gris, but whose I couldn't tell you).
Dessert was a shared molten chocolate lava cake for the sake of a diversion during the sharing part of the evening (or perhaps I'm sublimating my feelings in food).
I have to admit I was enthralled by the details she was sharing.
My friend is shortly leaving for California to rendezvous with a man she met while on a business trip there a few weeks ago.
They randomly met one night and talked non-stop until 4:30 a.m., always a good sign (would that I had someone I wanted to talk to until 4:30 in the morning).
The next day, she barely made it to the airport before calling him and suggesting that she return for more conversation in a few weeks.
He was impressed that she'd offered. She was impressed with his bravado ("I'm not scared of you," he told her, clearly indicating that he was).
They have developed a plan whereby she's going to fly 3,000 miles to have a 2 1/2 day date aboard his rather large sailboat.
For propriety's sake the boat has two staterooms, both of which, he informed her, now have clean sheets.
The plan is to spend the days teaching her to sail and when the appeal of lessons wears thin, he wants to cook for her.
Thoughtfully, he's laid in a case and a half of her favorite wine and cheeses for their happy hour pleasure.
They even like the same music, no small matter in my humble opinion.
I knew my friend was excited about the potential of this tryst when she told me about all the new clothing she'd bought for it.
She is only a year out of a six-year relationship that ended unexpectedly and this is her first foray into throwing caution to the wind and just letting whatever happens happen.
I am in awe of her nerve and only wish she could share it with me.
Over a final glass of wine across the street at Bacchus, she told me how excited she is about the great unknown potential of this adventure.
She's afraid to be optimistic and end up disappointed, despite all indicators being positive.
I was trying to be a cheerleader, encouraging her to finally open up and let someone in, especially someone who'd already asked if he could kiss her (she said no).
Not that I have any right to tell anyone what to do in the romance department, but I felt like she needed the bolstering.
Even if I can't put myself out there yet, I want to know someone who can.
And then maybe she can tell me what the secret is. At the very least, it's like sneaking a peek at a romance novel, something I would never do otherwise.
Even at this stage, the appeal of happily ever after is still incredibly strong.
My friends haven't teased me about being hopelessly romantic all these years without reason.
It could happen...couldn't it?
Tonight I met up with a girlfriend at Olio for dinner and to hear about her impending romantic dating adventures on the left coast. The food was great but her man plans were even better.
After having consumed copious amounts of barbecue yesterday, I was in need of a green dinner and found it in the form of a turkey, avocado and apple salad with a side of corn/chickpea/green bean/tomato salad.
My friend, trying to eat healthier (a stage I am well past) or perhaps concerned with upcoming body revelations, opted for one of the specials, a walleye and mahi mahi burrito with mango chutney in a spinach tortilla, when what she actually wanted was the prime rib sandwich special.
Never settle, friend.
I'd tell you about the bottle of wine we had, but it disappeared so quickly I never even noticed what it was (kidding...a pinot gris, but whose I couldn't tell you).
Dessert was a shared molten chocolate lava cake for the sake of a diversion during the sharing part of the evening (or perhaps I'm sublimating my feelings in food).
I have to admit I was enthralled by the details she was sharing.
My friend is shortly leaving for California to rendezvous with a man she met while on a business trip there a few weeks ago.
They randomly met one night and talked non-stop until 4:30 a.m., always a good sign (would that I had someone I wanted to talk to until 4:30 in the morning).
The next day, she barely made it to the airport before calling him and suggesting that she return for more conversation in a few weeks.
He was impressed that she'd offered. She was impressed with his bravado ("I'm not scared of you," he told her, clearly indicating that he was).
They have developed a plan whereby she's going to fly 3,000 miles to have a 2 1/2 day date aboard his rather large sailboat.
For propriety's sake the boat has two staterooms, both of which, he informed her, now have clean sheets.
The plan is to spend the days teaching her to sail and when the appeal of lessons wears thin, he wants to cook for her.
Thoughtfully, he's laid in a case and a half of her favorite wine and cheeses for their happy hour pleasure.
They even like the same music, no small matter in my humble opinion.
I knew my friend was excited about the potential of this tryst when she told me about all the new clothing she'd bought for it.
She is only a year out of a six-year relationship that ended unexpectedly and this is her first foray into throwing caution to the wind and just letting whatever happens happen.
I am in awe of her nerve and only wish she could share it with me.
Over a final glass of wine across the street at Bacchus, she told me how excited she is about the great unknown potential of this adventure.
She's afraid to be optimistic and end up disappointed, despite all indicators being positive.
I was trying to be a cheerleader, encouraging her to finally open up and let someone in, especially someone who'd already asked if he could kiss her (she said no).
Not that I have any right to tell anyone what to do in the romance department, but I felt like she needed the bolstering.
Even if I can't put myself out there yet, I want to know someone who can.
And then maybe she can tell me what the secret is. At the very least, it's like sneaking a peek at a romance novel, something I would never do otherwise.
Even at this stage, the appeal of happily ever after is still incredibly strong.
My friends haven't teased me about being hopelessly romantic all these years without reason.
It could happen...couldn't it?
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Like the Painting, Only with Fewer Clothes
When I threw my bag in the car and hit the road at 8 a.m., it was a beautiful 75 degrees.
I was headed to the Northern Neck for a "Sunday in the Park with George" idyll at Belle Isle State Park.
I'd been invited by a recent acquaintance, the only one I would know at the all-day bucolic gathering.
It sounded like it had all kinds of potential and the only thing I'd been asked to bring were mix CDs. It looked to be a day of meeting new people and who knew what else, definitely my kind of day.
An hour into my trip, rolling down Route 360 listening to the Joy Formidable, I had a flat tire.
I pulled off to the shoulder, perched on the guardrail and waited for assistance.
It shortly arrived in the form of Bud and his able young assistant Sonny, introducing themselves and asking how they could help.
The first thing Bud requested was that I back up my car and angle it further off the road.
"Last time I stopped to help someone, a car ran off the road and hit me...sent me 75 feet in the air and I didn't walk for three years."
Immediate guilt and awe. This man was truly a good Samaritan to have even stopped to help me.
They made quick work of the change, told me my flat tire looked fine and that it was probably just a nail and I was back on the road in no time.
In little more than half an hour I was pulling into Belle Isle State Park, a place I'd never been, looking for a group of people I did not know.
My host had invited an eclectic group of people from DC to RVA; the food included BBQ, grilled corn and crabs (for a change I went more in the BBQ direction than my usual crab obsession)and there were endless things to do: swimming and boating on the Rappahannock, yard games (I'd forgotten how much fun badminton can be, but bocce ball: fail), even dancing...everywhere from atop picnic tables to the little beach.
I'd brought a variety of mix CDs since I knew nothing about the crowd who would be listening to them.
I went as far back as a sentimental favorite, Beach Mix 2003 and as recent as Still Naive 2010, but also brought Amazingness mix, Car mix #2, Philly mix 2007 and Vacay mix 2008 among others, trying to cover every possible base.
I was unsure about the reaction I'd get to The Ghosts that Haunt Me mix, but, played late in the afternoon, it totally worked.
In a brilliant stroke, our host had asked a photographer friend to set up his camera on a tripod, framing river, sky and trees.
As guests moved across the camera's frame throughout the day, he took endless shots of us, mimicking the composition of Seraut's A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of the Grand Jatte.
None of us had parasols or top hats, but the random groupings of people captured in his lens were no less picaresque for it.
Luckily, I'd brought my newest and most fetching hat (thanks, N).
Early in the evening, 6ish probably, it was clear that storms were rolling down the river and we relocated to the large screened pavilion to watch the lightening show and stay somewhat dry (none of us having a parasol, after all).
The rain poured for quite a while cooling things down nicely after an incredibly hot afternoon and when it finally let up, we began to pack up and say our goodbyes.
To George I expressed my sheer pleasure in having been included in the day's revelry.
Driving out of the park, the road was literally steaming and out of the mist hopped several little rabbits.
Near the equestrienne parking area (!), I saw a cautious deer peering out of a burnt and brown cornfield.
As I drove back toward Richmond on my doughnut tire, I had a constant display of jagged lightening bolts ahead, but the air coming in my car windows was cool and refreshing.
Passing through Aylett around 8 p.m., a sign said that it was a beautiful 76 degrees.
In twelve hours, the temperature had come full circle.
But I'd be the first to admit that the scorching heat in between hadn't dampened our pleasure in the least.
We had wisely been more scantily clad than the original Sunday in the Park with George attendees (not a single bustle noted).
And, if I do say so myself, we undoubtedly had a far superior soundtrack.
I was headed to the Northern Neck for a "Sunday in the Park with George" idyll at Belle Isle State Park.
I'd been invited by a recent acquaintance, the only one I would know at the all-day bucolic gathering.
It sounded like it had all kinds of potential and the only thing I'd been asked to bring were mix CDs. It looked to be a day of meeting new people and who knew what else, definitely my kind of day.
An hour into my trip, rolling down Route 360 listening to the Joy Formidable, I had a flat tire.
I pulled off to the shoulder, perched on the guardrail and waited for assistance.
It shortly arrived in the form of Bud and his able young assistant Sonny, introducing themselves and asking how they could help.
The first thing Bud requested was that I back up my car and angle it further off the road.
"Last time I stopped to help someone, a car ran off the road and hit me...sent me 75 feet in the air and I didn't walk for three years."
Immediate guilt and awe. This man was truly a good Samaritan to have even stopped to help me.
They made quick work of the change, told me my flat tire looked fine and that it was probably just a nail and I was back on the road in no time.
In little more than half an hour I was pulling into Belle Isle State Park, a place I'd never been, looking for a group of people I did not know.
My host had invited an eclectic group of people from DC to RVA; the food included BBQ, grilled corn and crabs (for a change I went more in the BBQ direction than my usual crab obsession)and there were endless things to do: swimming and boating on the Rappahannock, yard games (I'd forgotten how much fun badminton can be, but bocce ball: fail), even dancing...everywhere from atop picnic tables to the little beach.
I'd brought a variety of mix CDs since I knew nothing about the crowd who would be listening to them.
I went as far back as a sentimental favorite, Beach Mix 2003 and as recent as Still Naive 2010, but also brought Amazingness mix, Car mix #2, Philly mix 2007 and Vacay mix 2008 among others, trying to cover every possible base.
I was unsure about the reaction I'd get to The Ghosts that Haunt Me mix, but, played late in the afternoon, it totally worked.
In a brilliant stroke, our host had asked a photographer friend to set up his camera on a tripod, framing river, sky and trees.
As guests moved across the camera's frame throughout the day, he took endless shots of us, mimicking the composition of Seraut's A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of the Grand Jatte.
None of us had parasols or top hats, but the random groupings of people captured in his lens were no less picaresque for it.
Luckily, I'd brought my newest and most fetching hat (thanks, N).
Early in the evening, 6ish probably, it was clear that storms were rolling down the river and we relocated to the large screened pavilion to watch the lightening show and stay somewhat dry (none of us having a parasol, after all).
The rain poured for quite a while cooling things down nicely after an incredibly hot afternoon and when it finally let up, we began to pack up and say our goodbyes.
To George I expressed my sheer pleasure in having been included in the day's revelry.
Driving out of the park, the road was literally steaming and out of the mist hopped several little rabbits.
Near the equestrienne parking area (!), I saw a cautious deer peering out of a burnt and brown cornfield.
As I drove back toward Richmond on my doughnut tire, I had a constant display of jagged lightening bolts ahead, but the air coming in my car windows was cool and refreshing.
Passing through Aylett around 8 p.m., a sign said that it was a beautiful 76 degrees.
In twelve hours, the temperature had come full circle.
But I'd be the first to admit that the scorching heat in between hadn't dampened our pleasure in the least.
We had wisely been more scantily clad than the original Sunday in the Park with George attendees (not a single bustle noted).
And, if I do say so myself, we undoubtedly had a far superior soundtrack.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Some Enchanted Evening
Tonight was one of those nights where the company was so good that we could have been anywhere and had a rollicking good time.
It was the inaugural outing for my bialy-pushing friend Gregg, the girlfriend I would marry if she were a man and Mac the Magnificent, one of my absolute favorite chefs in RVA.
We were a foursome to be reckoned with.
For reasons I won't go into, we decided to meet at Bellytimber.
We ordered a lot of food: romaine salad, sweet potato tots, torta (this one was my choice: Logan's hot chorizo, queso blanca, black beans, avocado, pico de gallo and lettuce on a house made roll), red curry shrimp pizza with cilantro and mint, duck confit pizza with red onions, cheddar, cilantro and hoison sauce and one of tonight's specials, chicken tamales with corn salsa.
Everyone tasted everything just to have an opinion for discussion's sake.
We were a bit limited in our drinking because they were out of good tequila (to my amazement and disappointment) and the white wine list consisted of two chardonnays, a sauvignon blanc and a pinot grigio.
Sadly, the music was so low as to be inaudible.
But the company was outstanding, with talk of a recent wine outing (look at me! I'm bottling wine!), an out-of-this world meal at the Ashby Inn in Paris, VA (the hot and cold cucumber shot alone was worth hearing about twice) and more food talk than most people would consider normal...or care to subject themselves to.
'
From there we walked the two blocks to Six Burner where we were enthusiastically greeted and all was made right with the world.
We were immediately treated to two enormous bowls of chocolate mousse to make up for the recent past and happily found that the featured white wine was a Portuguese Vino Verdhe.
Martinis were bruised, Meyer's Rum made drinks brown (ah, youth, mine at least) and the Portuguese ruled.
Life was good again.
We got into a foodie discussion with a nearby couple because the woman said she ate absolutely everything...except beets.
The men in our party did their best to make serving suggestions, but she wasn't budging on her beet hate.
As her mate said, "In all these years, I've never seen a beet cross her lips."
Clearly our cooking-savvy men were not going to change her mind about beets tasting like gasoline. End of beet discussion.
When we finally broke camp, it was only because we were the only non-staff members in the bar.
This get-together had been months in the making but once in progress, we all agreed that it must become a regular event.
Our senses of humor mesh beautifully and our interest in food/restaurant talk could not be tolerated by most others, so we ended up being the perfect quartet.
And not to be underestimated are the pleasures of a boy, girl, boy girl evening.
No matter which way I turned, there was always someone offering me great conversation or a witty bon mot.
Even the insincere compliments, and there were many, were worth hearing. My blue dress and I can take what you dish out.
I think I may have just joined my first mutual admiration society.
It was the inaugural outing for my bialy-pushing friend Gregg, the girlfriend I would marry if she were a man and Mac the Magnificent, one of my absolute favorite chefs in RVA.
We were a foursome to be reckoned with.
For reasons I won't go into, we decided to meet at Bellytimber.
We ordered a lot of food: romaine salad, sweet potato tots, torta (this one was my choice: Logan's hot chorizo, queso blanca, black beans, avocado, pico de gallo and lettuce on a house made roll), red curry shrimp pizza with cilantro and mint, duck confit pizza with red onions, cheddar, cilantro and hoison sauce and one of tonight's specials, chicken tamales with corn salsa.
Everyone tasted everything just to have an opinion for discussion's sake.
We were a bit limited in our drinking because they were out of good tequila (to my amazement and disappointment) and the white wine list consisted of two chardonnays, a sauvignon blanc and a pinot grigio.
Sadly, the music was so low as to be inaudible.
But the company was outstanding, with talk of a recent wine outing (look at me! I'm bottling wine!), an out-of-this world meal at the Ashby Inn in Paris, VA (the hot and cold cucumber shot alone was worth hearing about twice) and more food talk than most people would consider normal...or care to subject themselves to.
'
From there we walked the two blocks to Six Burner where we were enthusiastically greeted and all was made right with the world.
We were immediately treated to two enormous bowls of chocolate mousse to make up for the recent past and happily found that the featured white wine was a Portuguese Vino Verdhe.
Martinis were bruised, Meyer's Rum made drinks brown (ah, youth, mine at least) and the Portuguese ruled.
Life was good again.
We got into a foodie discussion with a nearby couple because the woman said she ate absolutely everything...except beets.
The men in our party did their best to make serving suggestions, but she wasn't budging on her beet hate.
As her mate said, "In all these years, I've never seen a beet cross her lips."
Clearly our cooking-savvy men were not going to change her mind about beets tasting like gasoline. End of beet discussion.
When we finally broke camp, it was only because we were the only non-staff members in the bar.
This get-together had been months in the making but once in progress, we all agreed that it must become a regular event.
Our senses of humor mesh beautifully and our interest in food/restaurant talk could not be tolerated by most others, so we ended up being the perfect quartet.
And not to be underestimated are the pleasures of a boy, girl, boy girl evening.
No matter which way I turned, there was always someone offering me great conversation or a witty bon mot.
Even the insincere compliments, and there were many, were worth hearing. My blue dress and I can take what you dish out.
I think I may have just joined my first mutual admiration society.
A Sunny Saturday in Two Parts
Part One, in which I was told, "Our delivery guy thought you had great legs."
A friend and I had made plans to meet for breakfast at Ettamae's Cafe followed by a walk to the VMFA to see two new exhibits.
A simple plan, really.
Except that upon meeting up in J-Ward, my friend realized he'd left his wallet at home.
And last night he'd left his sunglasses at the restaurant where he works.
So we began our Saturday morning with a walk to his new digs, which worked out well because I hadn't seen the new apartment yet, followed by sunglasses retrieval.
Only then did we go to breakfast.
Thankfully I'd had a banana before leaving the house is all I'm saying.
Having so enjoyed lunch at Ettamae's the other day, I was just as pleased with breakfast today.
I had a couple of eggs perfectly cooked (as Holmes says, "Not everyone has a way with eggs.") with three strips of bacon, buttered toast and homemade strawberry jam.
My friend had one of the specials, French toast stuffed with bananas and blueberries with a raspberry and blueberry sauce.
We agreed that a couple of the other specials, namely the meatloaf eggs Benedict and the kielbasa, onions and pepper eggs Benedict had a lot of hearty appeal, too.
Having already criss-crossed the Ward several times before sitting down to breakfast, we practically inhaled our food, or at least it seemed that way to us.
Our server even made a crack about my friend all but having licked his plate clean.
I think I left two scraps of crust on my plate and only because I'd run out of that wonderful jam.
As I told my friend, this is the first year in well over a decade that I didn't go strawberry picking and make jam with the spoils, so I was especially appreciative of someone else's efforts to give me fresh strawberry jam, something I didn't expect to enjoy because of my own laziness.
My breakfast was a mere five bucks, so I can foresee Ettamae's becoming a frequent breakfast spot for this neighbor.
I've already decided who my next breakfast companion will be because I can see his hearty appetite being quite satisfied there.
And musically? Green Day to REM, so no complaints from me...on any score.
I like you, Ettamae.
Part Two, in which I was told, "You're like a drug with no bad side effects."
Afterwards we walked to the museum to see "Chuck Close: People Who Matter to Me" and experience the recent installation of Jun Kaneko's colossal ceramics in the sculpture garden.
We were thrilled to see how busy the museum was at 11:30 in the morning, positively buzzing.
This renovation has been like a spark to the city and I get excited anew every time I walk into it.
Part of the reason for my enthusiasm is what the renovation has dropped at my doorstep.
The Corcoran Gallery of Art has just opened an exhibit "Chuck Close Prints: Process and Collaboration," a show I would surely have driven up the soul-sucking 95 to see pre-renovation.
Instead, a sunny walk puts me in front of two dozen Close works spanning 1974 to the present.
And the Corcoran show would have cost me $10 plus gas and parking.
I can't speak to that show, but the exhibit at VMFA is stellar, with Close works in every medium from tapestry (absolutely amazing and I defy you to recognize it as tapestry on first glance) to large-format Polaroids, even daguerreotypes and pulp collages.
Because Close is a portrait artist, we see images of many of his artistic friends and patrons, always with a photograph having been the starting point.
The variety of processes used is mind-boggling, as is his habit of working up close and not standing back to view a piece in total until the end of the process.
The man may be 70 but his ability to capture the essence of a person is timeless.
After so much up close art, we headed outside to inspect the new sculpture garden, which is on its way to being the talk of the town.
The monumental blue three-ton head by Jun Kaneko is a stunner.
You can't help but touch its ceramic finish and I couldn't help but wish I'd seen it lowered into place.
It invites a walk around.
Nearby are eight totem-like forms, each about 9' tall and with a different overall design.
They are referred to as dangos (meaning dumplings, which, for some reason, delights me) and there is such a variety in how they have been painted that each one feels like a completely new experience, despite the identical forms.
I was fascinated to learn of the industrial kilns they were fired in and for weeks (!) at a time.
It's ceramics on a scale I could not have imagined but which invite lingering as I made my way around the garden.
Toto, I don't think we're in Richmond anymore.
But of course we are and therein lies our great good fortune.
Every time I've gone to the VMFA since the reopening, and this was my fifth time, I completely forget that I'm not in a big city museum.
No, I'm in a big town museum, the state museum of Virginia, and it's the gift of a lifetime to RVA.
Art geek that I am, I intend to slowly unwrap it every chance I get.
A friend and I had made plans to meet for breakfast at Ettamae's Cafe followed by a walk to the VMFA to see two new exhibits.
A simple plan, really.
Except that upon meeting up in J-Ward, my friend realized he'd left his wallet at home.
And last night he'd left his sunglasses at the restaurant where he works.
So we began our Saturday morning with a walk to his new digs, which worked out well because I hadn't seen the new apartment yet, followed by sunglasses retrieval.
Only then did we go to breakfast.
Thankfully I'd had a banana before leaving the house is all I'm saying.
Having so enjoyed lunch at Ettamae's the other day, I was just as pleased with breakfast today.
I had a couple of eggs perfectly cooked (as Holmes says, "Not everyone has a way with eggs.") with three strips of bacon, buttered toast and homemade strawberry jam.
My friend had one of the specials, French toast stuffed with bananas and blueberries with a raspberry and blueberry sauce.
We agreed that a couple of the other specials, namely the meatloaf eggs Benedict and the kielbasa, onions and pepper eggs Benedict had a lot of hearty appeal, too.
Having already criss-crossed the Ward several times before sitting down to breakfast, we practically inhaled our food, or at least it seemed that way to us.
Our server even made a crack about my friend all but having licked his plate clean.
I think I left two scraps of crust on my plate and only because I'd run out of that wonderful jam.
As I told my friend, this is the first year in well over a decade that I didn't go strawberry picking and make jam with the spoils, so I was especially appreciative of someone else's efforts to give me fresh strawberry jam, something I didn't expect to enjoy because of my own laziness.
My breakfast was a mere five bucks, so I can foresee Ettamae's becoming a frequent breakfast spot for this neighbor.
I've already decided who my next breakfast companion will be because I can see his hearty appetite being quite satisfied there.
And musically? Green Day to REM, so no complaints from me...on any score.
I like you, Ettamae.
Part Two, in which I was told, "You're like a drug with no bad side effects."
Afterwards we walked to the museum to see "Chuck Close: People Who Matter to Me" and experience the recent installation of Jun Kaneko's colossal ceramics in the sculpture garden.
We were thrilled to see how busy the museum was at 11:30 in the morning, positively buzzing.
This renovation has been like a spark to the city and I get excited anew every time I walk into it.
Part of the reason for my enthusiasm is what the renovation has dropped at my doorstep.
The Corcoran Gallery of Art has just opened an exhibit "Chuck Close Prints: Process and Collaboration," a show I would surely have driven up the soul-sucking 95 to see pre-renovation.
Instead, a sunny walk puts me in front of two dozen Close works spanning 1974 to the present.
And the Corcoran show would have cost me $10 plus gas and parking.
I can't speak to that show, but the exhibit at VMFA is stellar, with Close works in every medium from tapestry (absolutely amazing and I defy you to recognize it as tapestry on first glance) to large-format Polaroids, even daguerreotypes and pulp collages.
Because Close is a portrait artist, we see images of many of his artistic friends and patrons, always with a photograph having been the starting point.
The variety of processes used is mind-boggling, as is his habit of working up close and not standing back to view a piece in total until the end of the process.
The man may be 70 but his ability to capture the essence of a person is timeless.
After so much up close art, we headed outside to inspect the new sculpture garden, which is on its way to being the talk of the town.
The monumental blue three-ton head by Jun Kaneko is a stunner.
You can't help but touch its ceramic finish and I couldn't help but wish I'd seen it lowered into place.
It invites a walk around.
Nearby are eight totem-like forms, each about 9' tall and with a different overall design.
They are referred to as dangos (meaning dumplings, which, for some reason, delights me) and there is such a variety in how they have been painted that each one feels like a completely new experience, despite the identical forms.
I was fascinated to learn of the industrial kilns they were fired in and for weeks (!) at a time.
It's ceramics on a scale I could not have imagined but which invite lingering as I made my way around the garden.
Toto, I don't think we're in Richmond anymore.
But of course we are and therein lies our great good fortune.
Every time I've gone to the VMFA since the reopening, and this was my fifth time, I completely forget that I'm not in a big city museum.
No, I'm in a big town museum, the state museum of Virginia, and it's the gift of a lifetime to RVA.
Art geek that I am, I intend to slowly unwrap it every chance I get.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Road Tripping to Eat Lee's Skate
I've made no secret of my devotion to Chef Lee Gregory (formerly of Six Burner), both to his cooking and his low-key personality.
I was truly bummed when he left RVA for western pastures, here.
So it was an easy decision to drive to Charlottesville to meet a friend there and have dinner at his kitchen-of-the-moment, Blue Light Grill tonight.
It was also Restaurant Week (also known as Amateur Week; call it what you will), but I didn't let that deter me.
As it turned out, despite the downtown mall being mobbed like I've never seen it, BLG was actually quite civilized during the dinner hours we were there.
I began my evening by catching up with Lee as he worked in the restaurant's open kitchen.
What I wanted to know, of course, was when he'd be coming back to RVA and he told me what's happening on that front.
And of course we talked about food, glorious food.
I have to give C-ville credit; if all the restaurant menus for Restaurant Week are as creative and extensive as BLG's, they've got us beat hands down in that department.
Four appetizer choices, six entrees and three desserts, with a price tag of $26.
Pairings were available with each course; a flight was $20.
And Lee's imprint was all over the menu (pork belly, BBQ, bleu cheese/red cabbage slaw) so that made me happy to see.
Friend got the three Virginia oysters on the half shell with cuke mignonette and I started with the crab hushpuppies with red pepper honey butter.
The hushpuppies were full of crab and when smeared with that sweet butter, a truly indulgent first course.
I'd considered getting the beet and goat cheese terrine with apple puree and pistachio brittle, except a few questions to our server revealed that it wasn't a true terrine.
Drat the luck.
The entree choices ranged from veggie crepes to BBQ beef short ribs (oh, I was sorely tempted), but I couldn't resist the pan seared skate with green beans, fingerling potato salad and almond brown butter.
It's so rare that I find skate on the menu that I have to have it when I do.
Friend got the grilled mahi mahi over white bean, pork belly and mussel ragout and as good as it was, my skate was the star of the evening with its slivered almond crust and to-die-for potato salad.
For dessert my friend, not a dessert person, ordered the trifle with buttermilk pound cake, fresh local peaches and lime mascarpone.
I skipped over the chocolate panna cotta with bourbon/caramel sauce for the butterscotch goat cheese custard with apple puree and was complimented by our server for having chosen the dessert Lee considers his best.
He'll get no argument from me on that. It was heavenly.
So here's a thought: why not take a page from C-ville's book and move RVA's Restaurant Week to summertime, too?
It seems like a far better time to stimulate independent restaurant business than October when patrons already seem more plentiful.
Who knows, it could even become an anticipated component of the staycation, at least until this interminable recession lets up.
When I went to leave, Lee asked me what I was going to do next.
Music was a possibility, I told him, or perhaps a drink.
I started raving about the food I'd eaten, but he shrugged it off, thanking me again and again for coming in to see him.
"I'll be back, " I told him, taking my leave.
He knows I mean it; his answer was a big smile from under the red baseball cap.
My devotion is still firmly in place.
I was truly bummed when he left RVA for western pastures, here.
So it was an easy decision to drive to Charlottesville to meet a friend there and have dinner at his kitchen-of-the-moment, Blue Light Grill tonight.
It was also Restaurant Week (also known as Amateur Week; call it what you will), but I didn't let that deter me.
As it turned out, despite the downtown mall being mobbed like I've never seen it, BLG was actually quite civilized during the dinner hours we were there.
I began my evening by catching up with Lee as he worked in the restaurant's open kitchen.
What I wanted to know, of course, was when he'd be coming back to RVA and he told me what's happening on that front.
And of course we talked about food, glorious food.
I have to give C-ville credit; if all the restaurant menus for Restaurant Week are as creative and extensive as BLG's, they've got us beat hands down in that department.
Four appetizer choices, six entrees and three desserts, with a price tag of $26.
Pairings were available with each course; a flight was $20.
And Lee's imprint was all over the menu (pork belly, BBQ, bleu cheese/red cabbage slaw) so that made me happy to see.
Friend got the three Virginia oysters on the half shell with cuke mignonette and I started with the crab hushpuppies with red pepper honey butter.
The hushpuppies were full of crab and when smeared with that sweet butter, a truly indulgent first course.
I'd considered getting the beet and goat cheese terrine with apple puree and pistachio brittle, except a few questions to our server revealed that it wasn't a true terrine.
Drat the luck.
The entree choices ranged from veggie crepes to BBQ beef short ribs (oh, I was sorely tempted), but I couldn't resist the pan seared skate with green beans, fingerling potato salad and almond brown butter.
It's so rare that I find skate on the menu that I have to have it when I do.
Friend got the grilled mahi mahi over white bean, pork belly and mussel ragout and as good as it was, my skate was the star of the evening with its slivered almond crust and to-die-for potato salad.
For dessert my friend, not a dessert person, ordered the trifle with buttermilk pound cake, fresh local peaches and lime mascarpone.
I skipped over the chocolate panna cotta with bourbon/caramel sauce for the butterscotch goat cheese custard with apple puree and was complimented by our server for having chosen the dessert Lee considers his best.
He'll get no argument from me on that. It was heavenly.
So here's a thought: why not take a page from C-ville's book and move RVA's Restaurant Week to summertime, too?
It seems like a far better time to stimulate independent restaurant business than October when patrons already seem more plentiful.
Who knows, it could even become an anticipated component of the staycation, at least until this interminable recession lets up.
When I went to leave, Lee asked me what I was going to do next.
Music was a possibility, I told him, or perhaps a drink.
I started raving about the food I'd eaten, but he shrugged it off, thanking me again and again for coming in to see him.
"I'll be back, " I told him, taking my leave.
He knows I mean it; his answer was a big smile from under the red baseball cap.
My devotion is still firmly in place.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
The Music Wasn't Live, But It Was Mine
News flash: I did not go hear live music tonight for the first time since I got home from vacation. Instead I listened to a mix of music which I had created while I ate, drank and talked the night away (imagine!). I'm guessing that Richmond's live music scene went on without me tonight and if not, I'm hoping someone will notify me otherwise.
I decided to spend the evening at Secco but after my last frenzied visit, had the sense to arrive early enough to score a bar stool. It wasn't my favorite stool, but it beat standing all evening and dodging servers. Naturally the first thing I noticed when I sat down was that the music was too low, but before I could even say anything, I saw Julia go to the stereo, put on the Karen mix and up the volume. I took that to mean, " let the evening begin."
I glanced down the bar and noted four glasses of pink to my right, a sight I rarely see at a local bar. Accordingly, I asked Farouk for the 2009 Cuilleron Syrah Rose "Sybel" VDP de Collines Rhodaniennes, if only to add a fifth pink to the bar landscape. With it I ordered the panzanella, a personal favorite during tomato season; it's such an ideal use of ripe tomatoes and old bread.
All at once I noticed that the music had disappeared, or at least the volume had dropped noticeably and asked Farouk where the music was. Dramatically clutching my hand on the bar, he said earnestly, "You are my music." I rolled my eyes and he went over and re-upped the volume, abandoning the high drama.
I was ready for a cheese course by this point and took Julia's recommendation to try the quadrello di bufala, a rustic, semi-soft Italian water buffalo cheese and with it a 2009 Chateaux Prodeaux Ban de Rose. 100% mouvedre, it was promised to be intense and ageable, two things I personally aspire to. It was indeed a lovely combination and I can't remember the last time I had water buffalo anything.
There was a girls' night out group next to me and a buxom late arrival, when handed the wine list, immediately handed it back without so much as a glance at it and said, "Got any Sauvignon Blanc?" prompting a look of disbelief on Farouk's face, but he nodded. "Gimme one of those," she requested. Somehow I think the wine bar experience was being wasted on her.
As usual, the place was hopping before long, hosting everyone from the musical Prabir and friend to a couple of nuns. Julia and I talked about the beauty of reading vacations, her new found love for liver and why dresses are cooler than pants on sweltering days, even for tomboys, and those are just the topics I can mention.
For my last course, I had a glass of the Crivelli Ruche di Castagnole Montferrato to accompany the fried squash blossoms stuffed with burrato over pecan wood-smoked tomato sauce that an earlier bar sitter had recommended. The light-bodied red put a nice period to my string of pink without taking my palate too far afield. It was a happy ending to an extended and satisfying meal.
I'm not sure that anyone else appreciated the Karen mix quite as much as I did tonight, but perhaps music isn't as central to their enjoyment as it is to mine. It's a fine thing when you have your chosen music waiting for you on arrival at your local wine bar.
Even better when the food and wine are as well done as the soundtrack. Go team.
I decided to spend the evening at Secco but after my last frenzied visit, had the sense to arrive early enough to score a bar stool. It wasn't my favorite stool, but it beat standing all evening and dodging servers. Naturally the first thing I noticed when I sat down was that the music was too low, but before I could even say anything, I saw Julia go to the stereo, put on the Karen mix and up the volume. I took that to mean, " let the evening begin."
I glanced down the bar and noted four glasses of pink to my right, a sight I rarely see at a local bar. Accordingly, I asked Farouk for the 2009 Cuilleron Syrah Rose "Sybel" VDP de Collines Rhodaniennes, if only to add a fifth pink to the bar landscape. With it I ordered the panzanella, a personal favorite during tomato season; it's such an ideal use of ripe tomatoes and old bread.
All at once I noticed that the music had disappeared, or at least the volume had dropped noticeably and asked Farouk where the music was. Dramatically clutching my hand on the bar, he said earnestly, "You are my music." I rolled my eyes and he went over and re-upped the volume, abandoning the high drama.
I was ready for a cheese course by this point and took Julia's recommendation to try the quadrello di bufala, a rustic, semi-soft Italian water buffalo cheese and with it a 2009 Chateaux Prodeaux Ban de Rose. 100% mouvedre, it was promised to be intense and ageable, two things I personally aspire to. It was indeed a lovely combination and I can't remember the last time I had water buffalo anything.
There was a girls' night out group next to me and a buxom late arrival, when handed the wine list, immediately handed it back without so much as a glance at it and said, "Got any Sauvignon Blanc?" prompting a look of disbelief on Farouk's face, but he nodded. "Gimme one of those," she requested. Somehow I think the wine bar experience was being wasted on her.
As usual, the place was hopping before long, hosting everyone from the musical Prabir and friend to a couple of nuns. Julia and I talked about the beauty of reading vacations, her new found love for liver and why dresses are cooler than pants on sweltering days, even for tomboys, and those are just the topics I can mention.
For my last course, I had a glass of the Crivelli Ruche di Castagnole Montferrato to accompany the fried squash blossoms stuffed with burrato over pecan wood-smoked tomato sauce that an earlier bar sitter had recommended. The light-bodied red put a nice period to my string of pink without taking my palate too far afield. It was a happy ending to an extended and satisfying meal.
I'm not sure that anyone else appreciated the Karen mix quite as much as I did tonight, but perhaps music isn't as central to their enjoyment as it is to mine. It's a fine thing when you have your chosen music waiting for you on arrival at your local wine bar.
Even better when the food and wine are as well done as the soundtrack. Go team.
Getting Fresh at Sprout Market & Cafe
I may have just eaten the most locally-sourced meal of my life and it was doubly delicious for knowing that almost all of its ingredients came from Virginia. Yes, I had returned to Sprout Market & Cafe after being tempted by their menu while attending a music show there the other night. I brought along a hungry friend, a food lover who wanted to hear all about what I'd read on vacation, and I was set.
I was hugely flattered when the owners recognized me and welcomed me back. How do they remember one person out of the many who visit their restaurant? Do you have to have a good memory for faces to even be in the restaurant biz? I will say it made for a lovely way to be greeted on arrival.
Friend and I perused the chalkboard menu (I teased them about their Ipanema-style menu) before doing a walkabout to check out the renovation. Jamie told us that the building was originally a police precinct station (the holding cell is in the kitchen) and we admired the magnificent doors, windows and woodwork in the place.
The front dining room had several tables occupied, so we opted for the "VIP lounge" as Jamie referred to the back room. The tables, booths and the wall between the room and the kitchen were fashioned from pallets, making for a space both green and economical (or "free," as Jamie pointed out). Full of light, the room had a great vibe and we enjoyed being its sole occupants.
Neither of us had been able to resist the sauteed beef with salsa fresca sandwich made with cow from Avery's Branch Farms in nearby Amelia County. We differed only in our choice of sides; he went with the local melon salad (local 'lope and sugar baby watermelon), but I was completely taken with the corn, okra and tomato salad and had to have it.
Our sandwiches were made incredibly flavorful with Sprout's own salsa fresca (available in the case for sale) and the perfectly-cooked tender local beef on a crisped and herbed ciabatta roll. I'm sorry an Amelia cow had to die for my sandwich, but it certainly was worth it from where I sat.
And the local white corn, okra ad tomato salad tasted like the ingredients were picked this morning. I insisted my friend taste it so that we could talk about how amazing it was. When Jamie asked how I liked it, I raved and he began telling me which farm produced each vegetable, naming towns I've never heard of, but clearly owe a debt of gratitude to.
After qualifying for the clean plate club, we were asked if we wanted any chocolate c- and before the poor guy could get the word cake out, we nodded enthusiastically. If the local sandwich and sides were this good, we needed to know about dessert. Besides, this is a friend with whom I always share dessert and he knows it.
When the chocolate cake arrived, adorned with local peach slices, it looked like your typical chocolate cake, a thick slice with generous amounts of chocolate icing. But this was Virginia cake, made with local butter, milk, eggs and, yes, even local flour. And it was very good chocolate cake, dense, dark and, best of all, local. The peach slices were perfectly ripe and even given my peach allergy, I couldn't resist eating half of them. So my mouth will itch for the rest of the afternoon; it was well worth it.
In a matter of a mere two days, Sprout has impressed me with a free music show and a stellar lunch. Pus, they're making it very easy to eat locally and that's no small thing either.
And I can tell you from experience, it only take two visits for them to recognize you. Friendly. local, fresh, what's not to like?
I was hugely flattered when the owners recognized me and welcomed me back. How do they remember one person out of the many who visit their restaurant? Do you have to have a good memory for faces to even be in the restaurant biz? I will say it made for a lovely way to be greeted on arrival.
Friend and I perused the chalkboard menu (I teased them about their Ipanema-style menu) before doing a walkabout to check out the renovation. Jamie told us that the building was originally a police precinct station (the holding cell is in the kitchen) and we admired the magnificent doors, windows and woodwork in the place.
The front dining room had several tables occupied, so we opted for the "VIP lounge" as Jamie referred to the back room. The tables, booths and the wall between the room and the kitchen were fashioned from pallets, making for a space both green and economical (or "free," as Jamie pointed out). Full of light, the room had a great vibe and we enjoyed being its sole occupants.
Neither of us had been able to resist the sauteed beef with salsa fresca sandwich made with cow from Avery's Branch Farms in nearby Amelia County. We differed only in our choice of sides; he went with the local melon salad (local 'lope and sugar baby watermelon), but I was completely taken with the corn, okra and tomato salad and had to have it.
Our sandwiches were made incredibly flavorful with Sprout's own salsa fresca (available in the case for sale) and the perfectly-cooked tender local beef on a crisped and herbed ciabatta roll. I'm sorry an Amelia cow had to die for my sandwich, but it certainly was worth it from where I sat.
And the local white corn, okra ad tomato salad tasted like the ingredients were picked this morning. I insisted my friend taste it so that we could talk about how amazing it was. When Jamie asked how I liked it, I raved and he began telling me which farm produced each vegetable, naming towns I've never heard of, but clearly owe a debt of gratitude to.
After qualifying for the clean plate club, we were asked if we wanted any chocolate c- and before the poor guy could get the word cake out, we nodded enthusiastically. If the local sandwich and sides were this good, we needed to know about dessert. Besides, this is a friend with whom I always share dessert and he knows it.
When the chocolate cake arrived, adorned with local peach slices, it looked like your typical chocolate cake, a thick slice with generous amounts of chocolate icing. But this was Virginia cake, made with local butter, milk, eggs and, yes, even local flour. And it was very good chocolate cake, dense, dark and, best of all, local. The peach slices were perfectly ripe and even given my peach allergy, I couldn't resist eating half of them. So my mouth will itch for the rest of the afternoon; it was well worth it.
In a matter of a mere two days, Sprout has impressed me with a free music show and a stellar lunch. Pus, they're making it very easy to eat locally and that's no small thing either.
And I can tell you from experience, it only take two visits for them to recognize you. Friendly. local, fresh, what's not to like?
Bastille Day at Bouchon
I really had no intention of celebrating Bastille Day but how could I resist a party invitation from a Frenchman? Francis and Wendy at Bouchon were throwing a soiree as a thank you for those they referred to as loyal supporters, as well as to celebrate French independence. All of a sudden I was on the Bastille Day bandwagon.
When I arrived, it was business as usual up front in the restaurant but the bar area in the back was jam-packed with other loyals in full party swing. The charming Olivier was pouring as fast as two French hands can pour and both Francis and Wendy were passing trays of delectables (tiny pea-stuffed tomatoes, pork rillete crostini, tuna-stuffed mushrooms, fish mousse on bread crisps) to the noisy crowd.
I found my spot at the end of the bar, tucked against the wall, the perfect vantage point for both crowd observation and servicing by Olivier. At one point, he brought over a tray of goodies, saying that Francis had told him to bring them to me. "He's trying to fatten me up," I told Olivier, taking two. "We like our women with curves," Olivier said, leaning on the bar and speaking for Frenchmen everywhere.
I had plenty of visitors to my corner, many of them lawyers due to Bouchon's popularity as the legal lunchtime hot spot. I met a French Canadian, a New Yorker and a Puerto Rican, all of them enthusiastic transplants with nothing but good things to say about their adopted city. And when asked for recommendations both cultural and dining, I volunteered my humble opinion. Transplants love to get the skinny from another transplant, or so it would seem.
Following so much French fun, I met a friend and we walked over to Balliceaux to hear Ombak play. I'd only heard them once before and that was at Lance Koehler's Minimum Wage Studio in Oregon Hill when they were recording their CD, so the experience had been a bit disjointed. I was looking forward to hearing them in total.
Tonight I was able to sit back and enjoy their intriguing sound, which takes its cues from just about everything: jazz, folk music, math rock and much of the musical landscape in between. The combination of acoustic bass, guitar, drums and trombone soars because of the sheer musical talent of the band: Cameron Ralston. Trey Pollard, Brian Jones and Brian Hooten, all major players on the local jazz scene.
If I'd thought of it, I could have recommended to the lawyer set that they stop by Balliceaux for music after the party, like I did. As it was, one couple had invited me to go to dinner with them after the party, but I'd declined because of my musical plans (although they took my card, and I feel certain I'll hear from them again).
Even on Bastille Day, music trumps all else. Well, that and Francis had fed me enough food for three curvy Frenchwomen. Who needed dinner?
When I arrived, it was business as usual up front in the restaurant but the bar area in the back was jam-packed with other loyals in full party swing. The charming Olivier was pouring as fast as two French hands can pour and both Francis and Wendy were passing trays of delectables (tiny pea-stuffed tomatoes, pork rillete crostini, tuna-stuffed mushrooms, fish mousse on bread crisps) to the noisy crowd.
I found my spot at the end of the bar, tucked against the wall, the perfect vantage point for both crowd observation and servicing by Olivier. At one point, he brought over a tray of goodies, saying that Francis had told him to bring them to me. "He's trying to fatten me up," I told Olivier, taking two. "We like our women with curves," Olivier said, leaning on the bar and speaking for Frenchmen everywhere.
I had plenty of visitors to my corner, many of them lawyers due to Bouchon's popularity as the legal lunchtime hot spot. I met a French Canadian, a New Yorker and a Puerto Rican, all of them enthusiastic transplants with nothing but good things to say about their adopted city. And when asked for recommendations both cultural and dining, I volunteered my humble opinion. Transplants love to get the skinny from another transplant, or so it would seem.
Following so much French fun, I met a friend and we walked over to Balliceaux to hear Ombak play. I'd only heard them once before and that was at Lance Koehler's Minimum Wage Studio in Oregon Hill when they were recording their CD, so the experience had been a bit disjointed. I was looking forward to hearing them in total.
Tonight I was able to sit back and enjoy their intriguing sound, which takes its cues from just about everything: jazz, folk music, math rock and much of the musical landscape in between. The combination of acoustic bass, guitar, drums and trombone soars because of the sheer musical talent of the band: Cameron Ralston. Trey Pollard, Brian Jones and Brian Hooten, all major players on the local jazz scene.
If I'd thought of it, I could have recommended to the lawyer set that they stop by Balliceaux for music after the party, like I did. As it was, one couple had invited me to go to dinner with them after the party, but I'd declined because of my musical plans (although they took my card, and I feel certain I'll hear from them again).
Even on Bastille Day, music trumps all else. Well, that and Francis had fed me enough food for three curvy Frenchwomen. Who needed dinner?
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Lunch in the Hood: Ettamae's Cafe
Wouldn't you just know that I go out of town for a couple of weeks and that's the moment that a new restaurant chooses to open in Jackson Ward? By mid-day yesterday, not even home for 48 hours yet, two different people had told me I needed to check out Ettamae's Cafe over on Second Street and a mere five blocks from my apartment. I'm on it, guys.
The building is small and charming and, at the moment, next to a major building renovation right next door. The construction fence extends well into Second Street, all but blocking the little cafe that could from view as you walk toward Leigh Street. Soldier on, kids; it's just beyond that fence.
I'd enlisted my J-Ward buddy for company because I knew he'd be just as eager to learn of a new neighborhood joint doing breakfast and lunch as I was. The upstairs salmon-colored dining room is classic J-Ward architecture, except for the opening in the floor that looks down over the kitchen. Through a two-part door (almost a Dutch door, but not quite) there's a sweet little patio with tables and umbrellas overlooking the street scape. Choices, choices.
Sandwiches come three clever ways: Lonely (sandwich only), Two-Street (sandwich and one side) and Three-Sweet (sandwich, side and dessert). My friend was very pleased to see that they serve locally roasted Blanchard's coffee; it's so good, he said, that it needs very little enhancement (translation: he didn't need to add some noxious chemical to the coffee to sweeten it). He had three cups, so I have to believe he knew what he was talking about. Score one.
There was no way for me to resist their oven-braised corned beef and I went the Two-Street route with the tomato basil salad. The corned beef was heavenly and clearly done in house, fatty bits still attached, as they should be. The salad was a pretty collection of halved, multi-colored grape tomatoes and onions in a balsamic dressing; it had the perfect tartness to offset the richness of the corned beef. Score two.
After being told what Manchego was, my friend ordered the Cumin Pork, Manchego, onion and pepper sandwich with a side of Mom's potato salad. I asked him if it was like his own Mom's and he said no because his Mom used mustard and this was a white potato salad, which he actually prefers. We'll just call it Better than Mom's Potato Salad. His pig sandwich was divine, with the cumin not overpowering the pork, but providing a healthy dose of flavor with bits of red and green pepper mixed in with the onion. Score three.
Our large cow and pig orders had precluded ordering dessert, but on the way out we admired a nearby diner scarfing the chocolate bread pudding, which looked mighty appealing. I'd say maybe next time, except that we'd already agreed that next time will be for breakfast and even I don't need dessert with my morning meal.
Because you know I noticed, I'll tell you that the music was just the right volume and ranged from the Carpenters to They Might Be Giants. Like Jackson Ward itself, it was an eclectic mix.
And rather than telling you about the hard hat special, better you drop by Ettamae's and find out for yourself. Just maneuver around the construction fence and follow the J-Ward types to the colorful little cafe. It's undoubtedly the only place in the 'hood where you'll find Russian tea cakes.
How's that for eclectic?
The building is small and charming and, at the moment, next to a major building renovation right next door. The construction fence extends well into Second Street, all but blocking the little cafe that could from view as you walk toward Leigh Street. Soldier on, kids; it's just beyond that fence.
I'd enlisted my J-Ward buddy for company because I knew he'd be just as eager to learn of a new neighborhood joint doing breakfast and lunch as I was. The upstairs salmon-colored dining room is classic J-Ward architecture, except for the opening in the floor that looks down over the kitchen. Through a two-part door (almost a Dutch door, but not quite) there's a sweet little patio with tables and umbrellas overlooking the street scape. Choices, choices.
Sandwiches come three clever ways: Lonely (sandwich only), Two-Street (sandwich and one side) and Three-Sweet (sandwich, side and dessert). My friend was very pleased to see that they serve locally roasted Blanchard's coffee; it's so good, he said, that it needs very little enhancement (translation: he didn't need to add some noxious chemical to the coffee to sweeten it). He had three cups, so I have to believe he knew what he was talking about. Score one.
There was no way for me to resist their oven-braised corned beef and I went the Two-Street route with the tomato basil salad. The corned beef was heavenly and clearly done in house, fatty bits still attached, as they should be. The salad was a pretty collection of halved, multi-colored grape tomatoes and onions in a balsamic dressing; it had the perfect tartness to offset the richness of the corned beef. Score two.
After being told what Manchego was, my friend ordered the Cumin Pork, Manchego, onion and pepper sandwich with a side of Mom's potato salad. I asked him if it was like his own Mom's and he said no because his Mom used mustard and this was a white potato salad, which he actually prefers. We'll just call it Better than Mom's Potato Salad. His pig sandwich was divine, with the cumin not overpowering the pork, but providing a healthy dose of flavor with bits of red and green pepper mixed in with the onion. Score three.
Our large cow and pig orders had precluded ordering dessert, but on the way out we admired a nearby diner scarfing the chocolate bread pudding, which looked mighty appealing. I'd say maybe next time, except that we'd already agreed that next time will be for breakfast and even I don't need dessert with my morning meal.
Because you know I noticed, I'll tell you that the music was just the right volume and ranged from the Carpenters to They Might Be Giants. Like Jackson Ward itself, it was an eclectic mix.
And rather than telling you about the hard hat special, better you drop by Ettamae's and find out for yourself. Just maneuver around the construction fence and follow the J-Ward types to the colorful little cafe. It's undoubtedly the only place in the 'hood where you'll find Russian tea cakes.
How's that for eclectic?
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
No Let-Up Anytime Soon
First I'd like to thank ADA Gallery for saving the opening of their new show until tonight since I was out of town for July's First Friday Artwalk. But I'd be remiss if I didn't also thank all my musician friends for conveniently scheduling so many great shows for the week of my return from vacation. It's certainly made it easy to hit the ground running, as one astute commenter noted earlier.
"Indigenous Territory," the new exhibit at ADA by Kristin Beal-Degrandmont included a video installation piece of two adjacent screens with contrasting images shot mostly from a moving car. Watching the simultaneous screens, I was reminded of the VMFA's "Outer and Inner Space: A Video Exhibition in Three Parts," back in 2002, which was essentially a survey of the history of video art. Looking at Beal-Degrandmont's installation was a reminder of how solidly video has been established as an art form.
The only other piece in the show was a combination sculpture/light/imagery piece depicting roadside poles, signs and animals beneath an undulating "road" complete with tiny, functional street lights and mounted to the wall. I heard one woman ask the artist if it was sculpture; I had to presume that it was challenging the viewer's perception of what that term means. I found it quite visually satisfying for its evocation of a lonely stretch of country road, regardless of what label is put on it.
My second stop was the new Sprout Cafe and Market for what was billed as A Summer Acoustic Show featuring Dorthia and with headliners Lobo Marino. I liked the place; the selection of Virginia-grown vegetables looked appealing, I saw handcrafted merch from several local artisans I know and the chalkboard menu had some interesting choices.
Had I not just eaten a generous Cobb salad from Garnett's, I could have easily ordered the chicken, bacon and peach chutney sandwich with greens aioli, but wait, it was already crossed off due to popularity. Noticeably popular tonight, too, were the PBR tallboys for $3, but they also had a small but good wine selection (and, note to self, a happy hour). I will be back soon to explore the menu further.
The place had a good-sized crowd when I arrived and people continued to trickle in throughout the show. I wasn't familiar with Dorthia, a bluesy, down-tempo sort of a singer, with a throaty voice and a low-key style, but she clearly has talent and I enjoyed her performance.
When I'd walked in, the owners had asked me which band I was there to see and I'd not hesitated to say Lobo Marino. Two of the members, Jameson and Laney, are good friends (I'd seen them as recently at least night's show at the log cabin), close enough that they helped me celebrate my birthday at Ipanema back in May, but I hadn't yet seen them play in this new configuration.
They'd traveled and woofed through South America last year and written a lot of music together while doing so, incorporating Latin influences into their indie folk sound (both were previously in other bands). For Lobo Marino's new CD and current tour, they've added a third member, Nathaniel, meaning that the audience gets a full range of instruments as well as a third voice: drum, guitar, trumpet, accordion, bells, xylophone and even rhythmic hand clapping and stomping.
The songs sounded like they were created by people soaking up the local sounds and enjoying every minute of it. I made sure to leave with their new CD, which I'm already listening to as a reminder of their too brief set. I think the audience would have stayed indefinitely to hear more.
Driving home, I was waiting at the light at Franklin and Harrison when I recognized Nathaniel crossing the street in front of me with his instrument. "Hey," I shouted out the window, "didn't I just hear you play?
"Yea, and now I'm going to play at Strange Matter," he shouted back.
"It's a great life, isn't it?" I asked, needing no confirmation.
"You know it," he grinned. I do.
"Indigenous Territory," the new exhibit at ADA by Kristin Beal-Degrandmont included a video installation piece of two adjacent screens with contrasting images shot mostly from a moving car. Watching the simultaneous screens, I was reminded of the VMFA's "Outer and Inner Space: A Video Exhibition in Three Parts," back in 2002, which was essentially a survey of the history of video art. Looking at Beal-Degrandmont's installation was a reminder of how solidly video has been established as an art form.
The only other piece in the show was a combination sculpture/light/imagery piece depicting roadside poles, signs and animals beneath an undulating "road" complete with tiny, functional street lights and mounted to the wall. I heard one woman ask the artist if it was sculpture; I had to presume that it was challenging the viewer's perception of what that term means. I found it quite visually satisfying for its evocation of a lonely stretch of country road, regardless of what label is put on it.
My second stop was the new Sprout Cafe and Market for what was billed as A Summer Acoustic Show featuring Dorthia and with headliners Lobo Marino. I liked the place; the selection of Virginia-grown vegetables looked appealing, I saw handcrafted merch from several local artisans I know and the chalkboard menu had some interesting choices.
Had I not just eaten a generous Cobb salad from Garnett's, I could have easily ordered the chicken, bacon and peach chutney sandwich with greens aioli, but wait, it was already crossed off due to popularity. Noticeably popular tonight, too, were the PBR tallboys for $3, but they also had a small but good wine selection (and, note to self, a happy hour). I will be back soon to explore the menu further.
The place had a good-sized crowd when I arrived and people continued to trickle in throughout the show. I wasn't familiar with Dorthia, a bluesy, down-tempo sort of a singer, with a throaty voice and a low-key style, but she clearly has talent and I enjoyed her performance.
When I'd walked in, the owners had asked me which band I was there to see and I'd not hesitated to say Lobo Marino. Two of the members, Jameson and Laney, are good friends (I'd seen them as recently at least night's show at the log cabin), close enough that they helped me celebrate my birthday at Ipanema back in May, but I hadn't yet seen them play in this new configuration.
They'd traveled and woofed through South America last year and written a lot of music together while doing so, incorporating Latin influences into their indie folk sound (both were previously in other bands). For Lobo Marino's new CD and current tour, they've added a third member, Nathaniel, meaning that the audience gets a full range of instruments as well as a third voice: drum, guitar, trumpet, accordion, bells, xylophone and even rhythmic hand clapping and stomping.
The songs sounded like they were created by people soaking up the local sounds and enjoying every minute of it. I made sure to leave with their new CD, which I'm already listening to as a reminder of their too brief set. I think the audience would have stayed indefinitely to hear more.
Driving home, I was waiting at the light at Franklin and Harrison when I recognized Nathaniel crossing the street in front of me with his instrument. "Hey," I shouted out the window, "didn't I just hear you play?
"Yea, and now I'm going to play at Strange Matter," he shouted back.
"It's a great life, isn't it?" I asked, needing no confirmation.
"You know it," he grinned. I do.
Irish Girl Needs Jewish Guy to Eat Polish Rolls
A month ago I didn't even know what a bialy was and today, thanks to my friend Gregg, I had one of these delicious crusty-bottomed rolls with the trademark onion flakes for the first time, thoroughly enjoying its bready and oniony goodness.
Gregg has been teasing me with tales of the elusive bialy for a good while, all the time making sure that I understood that they are not available in these parts. But to my great good fortune, he just got back from a trip to Long Island and didn't forget his bialy virgin buddy (namely me). When we met up this morning, I was presented with two of these gems.
Being the amazing cook that he is, Gregg was very specific about the proper procedure for proceeding with my induction into the bialy world. I was to put it in the oven to warm and soften it, but not allow it to reach the crusty stage. Unlike a bagel, a bialy isn't boiled before baking, so Gregg promised all the bagel goodness without the trademark chewiness. Not that I have anything against a good chewy bagel, but I was ready to go Polish. With a schmear, of course.
I may be late to the bialy bandwagon, but thank goodness I have a friend looking to bring me up to speed, ethnically speaking. Our friendship began because we both eat just about anything and wanted the pleasure of eating out together. I don't think he knew he'd be schooling me along the way.
Whatever the reason, this bialy virgin has been deflowered. Lucky for me, I have a supplier.
Gregg has been teasing me with tales of the elusive bialy for a good while, all the time making sure that I understood that they are not available in these parts. But to my great good fortune, he just got back from a trip to Long Island and didn't forget his bialy virgin buddy (namely me). When we met up this morning, I was presented with two of these gems.
Being the amazing cook that he is, Gregg was very specific about the proper procedure for proceeding with my induction into the bialy world. I was to put it in the oven to warm and soften it, but not allow it to reach the crusty stage. Unlike a bagel, a bialy isn't boiled before baking, so Gregg promised all the bagel goodness without the trademark chewiness. Not that I have anything against a good chewy bagel, but I was ready to go Polish. With a schmear, of course.
I may be late to the bialy bandwagon, but thank goodness I have a friend looking to bring me up to speed, ethnically speaking. Our friendship began because we both eat just about anything and wanted the pleasure of eating out together. I don't think he knew he'd be schooling me along the way.
Whatever the reason, this bialy virgin has been deflowered. Lucky for me, I have a supplier.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Play for Me by Candlelight
The setting was a log cabin with chickens, an owl and a bamboo forest out back.
The occasion was a house show on the front screened-in porch, lit only by seven tiny white lights and about as many bucket candles.
The catalyst for the show was Sons of an Illustrious Father, a NY band passing through RVA (but unable to find a venue in which to play) from Charm City to NC.
The good fortune was all of ours.
The invited audience of 35 or so was divided evenly between the porch and the front yard.
When asked when the music was going to start, our host Jonathan had given us a heads-up that he'd created a back row of wicker-comfy seating for "the cool kids."
The power couple and I immediately anointed ourselves cool and took those seats for a magical evening of music.
The party had started at 6:30 but it was dusk when the music began and fireflies were everywhere. Josh Small, newly shorn and looking quite handsome, played first.
As usual, he made tuning jokes during his tuning bursts, but, as always, his banjo and guitar-based songs impressed.
Sons of an Illustrious Father was a five-piece (drums, bass, guitar, mandolin and accordion) and on certain songs, every member sang, a truly impressive thing.
Their folky Americana sound made beautiful use of the range of voices and I learned later from member Jake that they all write for the band and purposely trade off lead vocals.
After the first song, drummer Ezra said, "That was devastatingly depressing."
In words, perhaps, but not in sound.
After an inattentive audience in Baltimore last night, the band was thrilled with both our silence and our enthusiasm after each song; they were obviously enjoying themselves as much as we were.
A joke was made about the bass player Josh having no chance of getting laid on this tour; another crack was about Lila not knowing how to play the mandolin (Sofia: "Yes, that's a chord.").
Favorite lyric: "My heart is not made of glass or stone."
Ain't it the truth?
Last up was out host Jonathan, who played a lot of his early material to the delight of the Jonathan groupies in the audience.
It was fitting how the show ended.
Originally the music was to have been performed on the back porch, like it was last summer.
But with an 80% chance of rain, our host had moved it to the sheltered front porch.
And of course, it didn't rain a drop during any of the music.
But when Jonathan finished his last song, the audience shouted for one more.
As if in answer, the skies opened up and the rain came pouring down through the trees surrounding the log cabin.
The outside audience quickly made their way onto the screened-in porch, effectively ending the evening, but in the best possible way.
Tomorrow the brightly-painted school bus that brought Sons of an Illustrious Father to RVA will depart for Wilson, NC.
It would be tough for their memories of Richmond to be any more impressive than ours of them.
Here's hoping that next time they come through our fair city, there's a venue savvy enough to book them here.
Don't get me wrong, I certainly don't mind mind being one of the select few to experience them at an intimate house show, but honestly, more people deserve to hear them, even without the owl and the bamboo.
And just maybe by then the bass player will have gotten lucky.
Who knows what effect that could have on the entire rythm section?
The occasion was a house show on the front screened-in porch, lit only by seven tiny white lights and about as many bucket candles.
The catalyst for the show was Sons of an Illustrious Father, a NY band passing through RVA (but unable to find a venue in which to play) from Charm City to NC.
The good fortune was all of ours.
The invited audience of 35 or so was divided evenly between the porch and the front yard.
When asked when the music was going to start, our host Jonathan had given us a heads-up that he'd created a back row of wicker-comfy seating for "the cool kids."
The power couple and I immediately anointed ourselves cool and took those seats for a magical evening of music.
The party had started at 6:30 but it was dusk when the music began and fireflies were everywhere. Josh Small, newly shorn and looking quite handsome, played first.
As usual, he made tuning jokes during his tuning bursts, but, as always, his banjo and guitar-based songs impressed.
Sons of an Illustrious Father was a five-piece (drums, bass, guitar, mandolin and accordion) and on certain songs, every member sang, a truly impressive thing.
Their folky Americana sound made beautiful use of the range of voices and I learned later from member Jake that they all write for the band and purposely trade off lead vocals.
After the first song, drummer Ezra said, "That was devastatingly depressing."
In words, perhaps, but not in sound.
After an inattentive audience in Baltimore last night, the band was thrilled with both our silence and our enthusiasm after each song; they were obviously enjoying themselves as much as we were.
A joke was made about the bass player Josh having no chance of getting laid on this tour; another crack was about Lila not knowing how to play the mandolin (Sofia: "Yes, that's a chord.").
Favorite lyric: "My heart is not made of glass or stone."
Ain't it the truth?
Last up was out host Jonathan, who played a lot of his early material to the delight of the Jonathan groupies in the audience.
It was fitting how the show ended.
Originally the music was to have been performed on the back porch, like it was last summer.
But with an 80% chance of rain, our host had moved it to the sheltered front porch.
And of course, it didn't rain a drop during any of the music.
But when Jonathan finished his last song, the audience shouted for one more.
As if in answer, the skies opened up and the rain came pouring down through the trees surrounding the log cabin.
The outside audience quickly made their way onto the screened-in porch, effectively ending the evening, but in the best possible way.
Tomorrow the brightly-painted school bus that brought Sons of an Illustrious Father to RVA will depart for Wilson, NC.
It would be tough for their memories of Richmond to be any more impressive than ours of them.
Here's hoping that next time they come through our fair city, there's a venue savvy enough to book them here.
Don't get me wrong, I certainly don't mind mind being one of the select few to experience them at an intimate house show, but honestly, more people deserve to hear them, even without the owl and the bamboo.
And just maybe by then the bass player will have gotten lucky.
Who knows what effect that could have on the entire rythm section?
Yes, We Could Definitely Ride
Owing to the past two weeks being a cultural wasteland for me (for the most part anyway), I couldn't resist getting out for some art viewing this afternoon. I called up a J-Ward friend and asked if he wanted to accompany me without even telling him what it was I wanted to see. He's game like that, though, and said he'd be over in an hour.
We were going to Quirk Gallery to see Couldn't We Ride: The Art and Craft of Bicycles, a show which will surely fascinate a good part of this city's pedaling population. With no real idea of what to expect, I was struck by the array of bicycle-related things gathered for the show.
The exhibit started with an array of R.E.Load bags, those unique handmade messenger bags that are as artful as they are utilitarian. As someone who's been to the R.E.Load shop in Philly, I can attest to both the passion and enthusiasm of the makers (as well as purchasers) of these bags. The ones at Quirk were a well-thought out representation of the variety of artistic styles that make it on to R.E.Load bags. If you're going to wear a big old bag, it may as well make an artistic statement.
One of the hand-painted bike frames was as exquisite as a piece of ceramic, with a creamy ivory background and colorful, delicate flowers and other imagery painted all over it. It was such a beautiful frame that you'd almost hate to see mud splattered on it, an inevitability if it were actually ridden.
On the other hand, the Assless Bike was born out of passion, a creation of a biking enthusiast diagnosed with colorectal cancer and told by his doctor that he was no longer allowed to ride a bike. With an "I'll show him!" attitude, he created a bike that has no seat, thus allowing him to pedal and still follow doctor's orders. It was truly an inspiring thing to witness hanging from the ceiling.
The show is varied, with hand-hammered fittings reminiscent of a fine suit of armour, photographs and paintings of bikes and cyclists and some of the most beautiful etched saddles imaginable. As the artist said, she'd prefer to see her saddles used and become worn rather than treated as works of art, which these clearly were and would remain, even if worn down by use.
There were beautifully cut metal chain guards, including one that resembled a forest, although at first glance the cut-out looked rather abstract. Closer inspection showed open spaces between trunks and towering tree tops. But what a way to protect a chain!
I only ride my bike once or twice a week and I was completely enamored of this show. Regular riders will undoubtedly salivate in appreciation of their fellow riders and artists who have transformed the people's transportation into artistic things of beauty.
And, yes, I immediately came home and took my very basic bike out for a ride. After two weeks at the beach, I was missing riding anyway and if ever I was inspired to appreciate my bike, it was walking out of Quirk Gallery today.
As one of my favorite street art posters proclaims: Crank your city. Ride daily. Live happy.
We were going to Quirk Gallery to see Couldn't We Ride: The Art and Craft of Bicycles, a show which will surely fascinate a good part of this city's pedaling population. With no real idea of what to expect, I was struck by the array of bicycle-related things gathered for the show.
The exhibit started with an array of R.E.Load bags, those unique handmade messenger bags that are as artful as they are utilitarian. As someone who's been to the R.E.Load shop in Philly, I can attest to both the passion and enthusiasm of the makers (as well as purchasers) of these bags. The ones at Quirk were a well-thought out representation of the variety of artistic styles that make it on to R.E.Load bags. If you're going to wear a big old bag, it may as well make an artistic statement.
One of the hand-painted bike frames was as exquisite as a piece of ceramic, with a creamy ivory background and colorful, delicate flowers and other imagery painted all over it. It was such a beautiful frame that you'd almost hate to see mud splattered on it, an inevitability if it were actually ridden.
On the other hand, the Assless Bike was born out of passion, a creation of a biking enthusiast diagnosed with colorectal cancer and told by his doctor that he was no longer allowed to ride a bike. With an "I'll show him!" attitude, he created a bike that has no seat, thus allowing him to pedal and still follow doctor's orders. It was truly an inspiring thing to witness hanging from the ceiling.
The show is varied, with hand-hammered fittings reminiscent of a fine suit of armour, photographs and paintings of bikes and cyclists and some of the most beautiful etched saddles imaginable. As the artist said, she'd prefer to see her saddles used and become worn rather than treated as works of art, which these clearly were and would remain, even if worn down by use.
There were beautifully cut metal chain guards, including one that resembled a forest, although at first glance the cut-out looked rather abstract. Closer inspection showed open spaces between trunks and towering tree tops. But what a way to protect a chain!
I only ride my bike once or twice a week and I was completely enamored of this show. Regular riders will undoubtedly salivate in appreciation of their fellow riders and artists who have transformed the people's transportation into artistic things of beauty.
And, yes, I immediately came home and took my very basic bike out for a ride. After two weeks at the beach, I was missing riding anyway and if ever I was inspired to appreciate my bike, it was walking out of Quirk Gallery today.
As one of my favorite street art posters proclaims: Crank your city. Ride daily. Live happy.
Show Me the Music
Driving back from the beach today, I had the distinct pleasure of knowing that once home (or, at least, once the beach laundry was done, the luggage unpacked, the plants watered and the apartment tidied), it would only be a matter of hours before it was time for dinner and live music. Alright, there may have been a wee nap in there too, but after two weeks of at-will napping, that may be a tough habit to break right away.
I was headed to Ipanema to meet a friend for dinner and catch up on two weeks worth of goings-on, both hers and mine. As she's fond of saying, "How does so much happen in between seeing each other?" Hell if I know but fortunately we had hours to share it all.
There were new things on Ipanema's menu and I was all about trying them. After the house salad with carrot/ginger vinaigrette, I had to try the Thai corn cakes with mango/pineapple chutney. As a showcase for summer's current star, sweet corn, the cakes were knockouts, full of kernels and fresh flavor; the chutney was sweet perfection on each bite. We shared these tonight, but next time they're all mine.
For dinner I had to try their take on mussels, steamed in a white wine and tomato broth with the creamiest garlic risotto and, wait for it, focaccia croutons. The risotto was an unexpected addition to a mussel dish and, in a way, did the work of the usual bread sopping. The croutons were there for the required bread taste (and, oh, what a wonderful taste!). All in all, a unique take on a classic dish.
Ipanema has a new baker which means I have a whole new variety of desserts to taste and tonight's was banana cake with chocolate icing. The large piece of cake had a moist, dense crumb with a rich banana taste enhanced by all that chocolate frosting. So far, I'd have to give the new baker a gold star.
The signs posted on the door had warned the incoming crowd that the show was being recorded and to refrain from talking and, by god they did. Homemade Knives had chosen to do an all-Springsteen set by some sort of divine intervention and it was truly a thing of beauty.
It was probably three songs in, when they launched into "Dancing in the dark" with an arrangement so unlike the original as to be a completely different song, that the audience realized what an amazing set they were hearing. I said as much to my friend, who commented, "I know, right? I didn't once think of Courtney Cox." She gave me bonus points for getting the reference, but come on.
"I'm on fire" was just as striking for a version even more haunting than the original. Preparing to do their one original song for a closer, Will said, "Thank you guys for being so quiet. I know we're in a bar, but it doesn't feel like it."
I'd have to agree that it was probably the most respectful audience ever at a Live at Ipanema show, but I also know that a good portion of the audience was there specifically to hear Homemade Knives and for many, it was their first time hearing them since the band's recent reunion. I'd been fortunate enough to hear them at the Listening Room not long ago, so I knew to expect wonderful things and they delivered.
You can come back from vacation and wish you were still gone or you can come back and dive right back into everything you love about home. It's good to be back.
I was headed to Ipanema to meet a friend for dinner and catch up on two weeks worth of goings-on, both hers and mine. As she's fond of saying, "How does so much happen in between seeing each other?" Hell if I know but fortunately we had hours to share it all.
There were new things on Ipanema's menu and I was all about trying them. After the house salad with carrot/ginger vinaigrette, I had to try the Thai corn cakes with mango/pineapple chutney. As a showcase for summer's current star, sweet corn, the cakes were knockouts, full of kernels and fresh flavor; the chutney was sweet perfection on each bite. We shared these tonight, but next time they're all mine.
For dinner I had to try their take on mussels, steamed in a white wine and tomato broth with the creamiest garlic risotto and, wait for it, focaccia croutons. The risotto was an unexpected addition to a mussel dish and, in a way, did the work of the usual bread sopping. The croutons were there for the required bread taste (and, oh, what a wonderful taste!). All in all, a unique take on a classic dish.
Ipanema has a new baker which means I have a whole new variety of desserts to taste and tonight's was banana cake with chocolate icing. The large piece of cake had a moist, dense crumb with a rich banana taste enhanced by all that chocolate frosting. So far, I'd have to give the new baker a gold star.
The signs posted on the door had warned the incoming crowd that the show was being recorded and to refrain from talking and, by god they did. Homemade Knives had chosen to do an all-Springsteen set by some sort of divine intervention and it was truly a thing of beauty.
It was probably three songs in, when they launched into "Dancing in the dark" with an arrangement so unlike the original as to be a completely different song, that the audience realized what an amazing set they were hearing. I said as much to my friend, who commented, "I know, right? I didn't once think of Courtney Cox." She gave me bonus points for getting the reference, but come on.
"I'm on fire" was just as striking for a version even more haunting than the original. Preparing to do their one original song for a closer, Will said, "Thank you guys for being so quiet. I know we're in a bar, but it doesn't feel like it."
I'd have to agree that it was probably the most respectful audience ever at a Live at Ipanema show, but I also know that a good portion of the audience was there specifically to hear Homemade Knives and for many, it was their first time hearing them since the band's recent reunion. I'd been fortunate enough to hear them at the Listening Room not long ago, so I knew to expect wonderful things and they delivered.
You can come back from vacation and wish you were still gone or you can come back and dive right back into everything you love about home. It's good to be back.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Greater Than the Sum of Its Parts
For the mathematically inclined (a group that would not include me), a quick tally of how I spent my summer vacation, numerically speaking anyway:
Number of guests to visit me: 7
Number of dogs that visited: 2
Number of outdoor showers taken: 14
Number of outdoor showers taken in the pouring rain: 2
Number of books read: 8
Number of live bands heard: 3
Number of meals eaten out: 10
Number of full-on lightening storms witnessed from the comfort of the porch: 2
Number of days the ocean was just too cold to go in: 2
Number of ocean views visible from my bed: 3 (2 eastern, one southern)
Number of piers visible from the back porch: 2
Number of middle of the nights spent on the porch swing staring at a black ocean and getting a little teary about life: 2
Number of times I felt happy just to wake up to the sound of the ocean: 14
But then, who's counting? It's only vacation.
Number of guests to visit me: 7
Number of dogs that visited: 2
Number of outdoor showers taken: 14
Number of outdoor showers taken in the pouring rain: 2
Number of books read: 8
Number of live bands heard: 3
Number of meals eaten out: 10
Number of full-on lightening storms witnessed from the comfort of the porch: 2
Number of days the ocean was just too cold to go in: 2
Number of ocean views visible from my bed: 3 (2 eastern, one southern)
Number of piers visible from the back porch: 2
Number of middle of the nights spent on the porch swing staring at a black ocean and getting a little teary about life: 2
Number of times I felt happy just to wake up to the sound of the ocean: 14
But then, who's counting? It's only vacation.
Yes, I'm Coming Back
Ocean temperature: 79 degrees
Beach read: An Invisible Spectator: A Biography of Paul Bowles
Best song heard randomly on the radio: What's the Matter Here?, 10,000 Maniacs
I've heard from no less than three different friends in the past couple of days, all checking to see when I'll be back to my real life. What if I decided not to come back, to just use vacation as a jumping off point to start anew somewhere else? I met a guy tonight who did just that and highly recommended it nearly twenty years after the fact. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
With no one to entertain tonight, I walked down the beach to Ocean Boulevard for dinner, figuring I'd find someone to talk to; I was so sure of myself that I didn't even bring my book. The bar, as usual, was full of locals, most of whom seemed to know each other. The restaurant owner I'd met last week was there ("You were supposed to call me!" he pouted) and came over to talk. I met yet another restaurant owner, this one from Avon, who told me I'd stumbled onto the "secret" hangout of the local restaurant set. Wouldn't you just know that'd be my luck?
Their choice of location undoubtedly stems from the interesting wine list and menu at OB, the reason, along with proximity, I was back for the fourth time in less than two weeks myself. I decided that the Fess Parker Viognier was calling my name and followed with the watermelon gazpacho with grilled shrimp and spicy relish. Despite having had watermelon almost daily since coming to the beach, I enjoyed it immensely; best put, it tasted like summer in a bowl.
As I was enjoying it, a guy changed his bar stool to the one next to mine and introduced himself. It seems that Restaurant owner #1 had suggested that he see if he could fare any better with me than he had. A former South Carolinian, this was the guy who had visited the beach here while in college and upon arriving back home had decided that he couldn't live without the sound of the ocean outside his door for the rest of his life. As a result, he'd moved here without a job, determined to find a way to stay. Fast forward twenty years and here he still was and still happy about it.
He regaled me with stories about life in a beach town, including his recent vacation...to, of all places, Ocracoke. He'd chosen to vacation so nearby for the sake of taking a week long intensive storytelling workshop from Don Davis, a nationally renowned storyteller.
As someone who likes to share a story myself, I was kind of fascinated as he told me about what he'd gleaned from the classes (five hours worth a day) and about the differences in how men and women tell stories. Let's just say I didn't fit neatly into my sex's camp when it comes to storytelling but I'm used to not often fitting the female mold, so I wasn't much surprised.
Meanwhile, I was enjoying the OB Skillet, consisting of housemade rosemary Mozzarella, NC sausage, roasted garlic, olive salad and black pepper tomato jam with crostini. I've had it before and I'll undoubtedly have it again because it's such a wonderful combination of flavors (that sausage!).
My storytelling friend was bummed to hear that my fortnight at the beach was winding down. He seemed to already be imagining that we could tell beautiful stories together. I had to admit that I'd have loved to have seen the 1950s beach bungalow he'd refurbished near the oceanfront. And I was enjoying his stories of the local scene back in the late 80s and early 90s when it was so very different. As I was leaving, he slipped me his number, suggesting I call him next time I'm down so we could go to dinner and tell more stories.
Which was nice, except that if I'm still not into the whole dating thing in RVA, I'm definitely not into the out-of-town dating thing. And as it turns out, nor am I ready to shuck my real life and stay at the beach. Frankly, the music scene here just isn't good enough for my taste.
As enjoyable as my vacation has been, I haven't had a really great music conversation since I've been here (Thing chats don't count).
And we all know J-Ward girl can't live without those.
Beach read: An Invisible Spectator: A Biography of Paul Bowles
Best song heard randomly on the radio: What's the Matter Here?, 10,000 Maniacs
I've heard from no less than three different friends in the past couple of days, all checking to see when I'll be back to my real life. What if I decided not to come back, to just use vacation as a jumping off point to start anew somewhere else? I met a guy tonight who did just that and highly recommended it nearly twenty years after the fact. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
With no one to entertain tonight, I walked down the beach to Ocean Boulevard for dinner, figuring I'd find someone to talk to; I was so sure of myself that I didn't even bring my book. The bar, as usual, was full of locals, most of whom seemed to know each other. The restaurant owner I'd met last week was there ("You were supposed to call me!" he pouted) and came over to talk. I met yet another restaurant owner, this one from Avon, who told me I'd stumbled onto the "secret" hangout of the local restaurant set. Wouldn't you just know that'd be my luck?
Their choice of location undoubtedly stems from the interesting wine list and menu at OB, the reason, along with proximity, I was back for the fourth time in less than two weeks myself. I decided that the Fess Parker Viognier was calling my name and followed with the watermelon gazpacho with grilled shrimp and spicy relish. Despite having had watermelon almost daily since coming to the beach, I enjoyed it immensely; best put, it tasted like summer in a bowl.
As I was enjoying it, a guy changed his bar stool to the one next to mine and introduced himself. It seems that Restaurant owner #1 had suggested that he see if he could fare any better with me than he had. A former South Carolinian, this was the guy who had visited the beach here while in college and upon arriving back home had decided that he couldn't live without the sound of the ocean outside his door for the rest of his life. As a result, he'd moved here without a job, determined to find a way to stay. Fast forward twenty years and here he still was and still happy about it.
He regaled me with stories about life in a beach town, including his recent vacation...to, of all places, Ocracoke. He'd chosen to vacation so nearby for the sake of taking a week long intensive storytelling workshop from Don Davis, a nationally renowned storyteller.
As someone who likes to share a story myself, I was kind of fascinated as he told me about what he'd gleaned from the classes (five hours worth a day) and about the differences in how men and women tell stories. Let's just say I didn't fit neatly into my sex's camp when it comes to storytelling but I'm used to not often fitting the female mold, so I wasn't much surprised.
Meanwhile, I was enjoying the OB Skillet, consisting of housemade rosemary Mozzarella, NC sausage, roasted garlic, olive salad and black pepper tomato jam with crostini. I've had it before and I'll undoubtedly have it again because it's such a wonderful combination of flavors (that sausage!).
My storytelling friend was bummed to hear that my fortnight at the beach was winding down. He seemed to already be imagining that we could tell beautiful stories together. I had to admit that I'd have loved to have seen the 1950s beach bungalow he'd refurbished near the oceanfront. And I was enjoying his stories of the local scene back in the late 80s and early 90s when it was so very different. As I was leaving, he slipped me his number, suggesting I call him next time I'm down so we could go to dinner and tell more stories.
Which was nice, except that if I'm still not into the whole dating thing in RVA, I'm definitely not into the out-of-town dating thing. And as it turns out, nor am I ready to shuck my real life and stay at the beach. Frankly, the music scene here just isn't good enough for my taste.
As enjoyable as my vacation has been, I haven't had a really great music conversation since I've been here (Thing chats don't count).
And we all know J-Ward girl can't live without those.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Thank God for Beach Naps
I don't need to actually do anything while I'm at the beach, but sometimes I have a guest who is more ambitious and when that occurs, we go join the hordes at someplace other than a bar or restaurant. Of course I'm not going to go shopping, but I can do the nature or history thing without too much effort.
So it was that we ended up at the Nature Conservancy's preserve in Nags Head Woods, a good-sized maritime forest tucked behind an innocuous housing development. We rolled into the parking lot blaring "Friday I'm in love," almost certainly scaring off any nearby wildlife with the volume, but, let's face it, that's a song that needs to be heard loudly.
Being ambitious sorts, and knowing that the rest of the evening would be spent in a bar, we decided to tackle the Sweet Gum Swamp Trail, a 2 1/2-mile moderately strenuous loop that promised to go through the deepest part of the maritime forest. It was very cool to come to a clearing in the woods only to be on the top of a sand dune with a narrow path with loblolly pines on either side. Strenuous may be a stretch, but it was definitely a steep descent followed by a vertical climb. If we'd had a skull and crossbones flag to plant, we might have done so.
The funniest part of the hike (and we were not expecting anything amusing) was when we came upon a sign on the path warning us of a nearby firing range. Stay on Path! the sign ominously said, assuring us we would not be in any danger if we did. Did we hear any firing? No. Did we step off the path? Uh, no. We had barsitting to do, after all.
Despite an overly late night at first Tortuga's Lie and ultimately on the back porch, I had agreed to a morning field trip to the Currituck Lighthouse, way the hell up almost at the Virginia State line. While the suggestion to do this was not mine (see Thing 7), I am an unabashed fan of lighthouse climbs, so it was a fairly easy sell at the time.
At only 214 steps, I've climbed taller lighthouses, but after a short night, 214 was enough. The view from the top is superb and depressing, offering both ocean and sound views and, unfortunately, a look at the massive development in that area. It's a sea of ticky-tacky McMansion rooves and more than a little sad. No wonder the wild horses had to be penned.
Like the last time I was atop this lighthouse, there was a person with vertical issues up there. This guy plastered himself against the building and refused to move while his family cajoled him, taking pictures and shooting video of his fear.
Finally he began a slow circle, hugging the wall with his back, all the while looking perfectly terrified. Why would you even go up a lighthouse if it's only going to make you miserable? I remember at a lighthouse in Bermuda, there was a sign at the base warning people not to force those who were afraid to make the climb. I thought it was stating the obvious, but perhaps not.
Admittedly, they do give you a sticker proclaiming your successful climb when you come down, but surely a grown man doesn't need sticker satisfaction. And if he does, he's got bigger fish to fry than acrophobia.
Hell, if they're going to give out stickers, I'll take one for hiking, imbibing and then climbing on five hours sleep (really 3 a.m.? Already?). Better yet, give me two and I'll stick one over each eye while I catch a few zz's on the beach this afternoon.
So it was that we ended up at the Nature Conservancy's preserve in Nags Head Woods, a good-sized maritime forest tucked behind an innocuous housing development. We rolled into the parking lot blaring "Friday I'm in love," almost certainly scaring off any nearby wildlife with the volume, but, let's face it, that's a song that needs to be heard loudly.
Being ambitious sorts, and knowing that the rest of the evening would be spent in a bar, we decided to tackle the Sweet Gum Swamp Trail, a 2 1/2-mile moderately strenuous loop that promised to go through the deepest part of the maritime forest. It was very cool to come to a clearing in the woods only to be on the top of a sand dune with a narrow path with loblolly pines on either side. Strenuous may be a stretch, but it was definitely a steep descent followed by a vertical climb. If we'd had a skull and crossbones flag to plant, we might have done so.
The funniest part of the hike (and we were not expecting anything amusing) was when we came upon a sign on the path warning us of a nearby firing range. Stay on Path! the sign ominously said, assuring us we would not be in any danger if we did. Did we hear any firing? No. Did we step off the path? Uh, no. We had barsitting to do, after all.
Despite an overly late night at first Tortuga's Lie and ultimately on the back porch, I had agreed to a morning field trip to the Currituck Lighthouse, way the hell up almost at the Virginia State line. While the suggestion to do this was not mine (see Thing 7), I am an unabashed fan of lighthouse climbs, so it was a fairly easy sell at the time.
At only 214 steps, I've climbed taller lighthouses, but after a short night, 214 was enough. The view from the top is superb and depressing, offering both ocean and sound views and, unfortunately, a look at the massive development in that area. It's a sea of ticky-tacky McMansion rooves and more than a little sad. No wonder the wild horses had to be penned.
Like the last time I was atop this lighthouse, there was a person with vertical issues up there. This guy plastered himself against the building and refused to move while his family cajoled him, taking pictures and shooting video of his fear.
Finally he began a slow circle, hugging the wall with his back, all the while looking perfectly terrified. Why would you even go up a lighthouse if it's only going to make you miserable? I remember at a lighthouse in Bermuda, there was a sign at the base warning people not to force those who were afraid to make the climb. I thought it was stating the obvious, but perhaps not.
Admittedly, they do give you a sticker proclaiming your successful climb when you come down, but surely a grown man doesn't need sticker satisfaction. And if he does, he's got bigger fish to fry than acrophobia.
Hell, if they're going to give out stickers, I'll take one for hiking, imbibing and then climbing on five hours sleep (really 3 a.m.? Already?). Better yet, give me two and I'll stick one over each eye while I catch a few zz's on the beach this afternoon.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Tequila Makes You Do Strange Things
Ocean temperature: Nice (when I asked the lifeguard what 'nice' meant, he said, "68, 72, whatever you want it to be." That's beach science for you).
Beach read: When Everything Changed: The Amazing Journey of American Women from 1960 to the Present
Best song randomly heard on the radio: First Train Home, Imogene Heap
There's a little general store down here called Wink's and it's been around since my family first started vacationing here when I was a little kid.
My parents relied on it for two things mainly: a daily Washington Post and a gallon of milk when we were running low.
These days, you can still buy a 25-cent postcard or an 8-cent Tootsie Roll in a place that looks virtually unchanged.
As you check out, there is always a box of locally-grown tomatoes for sale next to the register, both then and now.
It was for those tomatoes that I went to Wink's this afternoon when a craving for a tomato sandwich hit (alright, it was going to be a bacon and tomato sandwich, but I had plenty of bacon).
Standing at the register, I noticed two old photographs on the wall.
One I'd seen dozens of times before; it's an old image of Wink's taken from the air back before the area was much developed and it's striking for how simple the landscape was.
But the other photo was new to me.
It looked like a blown-up Polaroid picture with its weird shades of blue. I leaned in closer to make sure I was seeing it right.
An employee was nearby sweeping up the floor of sand, surely an endless job.
I noticed him noticing me looking at the picture of what appeared to be a donkey in front of Wink's.
"Is that...?" I started to ask.
"Found it in an old Pepsi box in the back and had it enlarged, " he said matter-of-factly. "It's a burro and a cart. Belonged to Miss Alice, you know, Miss Alice what owned the Sea Ranch."
I did know of the old Sea Ranch motel, so I nodded.
"But what the...?" I wondered out loud.
"One year she went on vacation to Mexico and a few weeks after she got back, she got a call from Elizabeth City, telling her to come pick up her burro. Boy, was she surprised!"
Me, incredulously, "She didn't remember buying a burro?"
"Nope," he chuckled, "but you know how Miss Alice was. She got herself that cart and she used to have that burro pull her up the beach road to shop here."
At this point, my amazement is apparent. The photograph does indeed show a charming little two-seater cart attached to a burro clearly in front of the store, with the Wink's sign in plain view.
My only disappointment is that Miss Alice herself is not pictured.
"You know," he continues, "You look a little like her when she was young."
This old-timer with the push broom has just completed the mental picture for me.
I am imagining myself in that cart, my little brown bag of tomatoes next to me on the seat, heading the half mile back home behind a slow-moving burro.
Let the impatient drivers stack up behind me.
Unlike Miss Alice, I don't think I'd forget buying a burro, although if she was the tequila fan that I am, perhaps the lapse in memory is understandable given her location at the time.
But very much like Miss Alice, I can totally appreciate making the best of an impetuous decision.
With any luck, I can only hope that the same sort of comments would be made of me.
"Well, you know how Miss Karen was..."
Beach read: When Everything Changed: The Amazing Journey of American Women from 1960 to the Present
Best song randomly heard on the radio: First Train Home, Imogene Heap
There's a little general store down here called Wink's and it's been around since my family first started vacationing here when I was a little kid.
My parents relied on it for two things mainly: a daily Washington Post and a gallon of milk when we were running low.
These days, you can still buy a 25-cent postcard or an 8-cent Tootsie Roll in a place that looks virtually unchanged.
As you check out, there is always a box of locally-grown tomatoes for sale next to the register, both then and now.
It was for those tomatoes that I went to Wink's this afternoon when a craving for a tomato sandwich hit (alright, it was going to be a bacon and tomato sandwich, but I had plenty of bacon).
Standing at the register, I noticed two old photographs on the wall.
One I'd seen dozens of times before; it's an old image of Wink's taken from the air back before the area was much developed and it's striking for how simple the landscape was.
But the other photo was new to me.
It looked like a blown-up Polaroid picture with its weird shades of blue. I leaned in closer to make sure I was seeing it right.
An employee was nearby sweeping up the floor of sand, surely an endless job.
I noticed him noticing me looking at the picture of what appeared to be a donkey in front of Wink's.
"Is that...?" I started to ask.
"Found it in an old Pepsi box in the back and had it enlarged, " he said matter-of-factly. "It's a burro and a cart. Belonged to Miss Alice, you know, Miss Alice what owned the Sea Ranch."
I did know of the old Sea Ranch motel, so I nodded.
"But what the...?" I wondered out loud.
"One year she went on vacation to Mexico and a few weeks after she got back, she got a call from Elizabeth City, telling her to come pick up her burro. Boy, was she surprised!"
Me, incredulously, "She didn't remember buying a burro?"
"Nope," he chuckled, "but you know how Miss Alice was. She got herself that cart and she used to have that burro pull her up the beach road to shop here."
At this point, my amazement is apparent. The photograph does indeed show a charming little two-seater cart attached to a burro clearly in front of the store, with the Wink's sign in plain view.
My only disappointment is that Miss Alice herself is not pictured.
"You know," he continues, "You look a little like her when she was young."
This old-timer with the push broom has just completed the mental picture for me.
I am imagining myself in that cart, my little brown bag of tomatoes next to me on the seat, heading the half mile back home behind a slow-moving burro.
Let the impatient drivers stack up behind me.
Unlike Miss Alice, I don't think I'd forget buying a burro, although if she was the tequila fan that I am, perhaps the lapse in memory is understandable given her location at the time.
But very much like Miss Alice, I can totally appreciate making the best of an impetuous decision.
With any luck, I can only hope that the same sort of comments would be made of me.
"Well, you know how Miss Karen was..."
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
I Couldn't Not Do Fried Yard Bird
Ocean temperature: a brisk 60 degrees (to quote the lifeguard's sign)
Beach read: The Late Mr. Shakespeare
Best song heard randomly on the radio: Anchor, Alejandro Escovedo
For the woefully uninformed, today was National Fried Chicken Day and lest you think I have nothing better to do than keep track of such things, please know that I only found out by accident. But once I knew, there was no not celebrating it (I had an ex once who told me I was the queen of the double negatives and there I go proving him right again). The question was how?
The perfect scenario presented itself when Thing 7 spotted a free performance of "You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown" outdoors on Roanoke Island. Over the years, I've attended more than a few of their performance series, although in the past, it's always been Shakespeare that was being staged. While this was about as far from Shakespeare as possible, it somehow seemed like perfectly appropriate entertainment for a fried chicken feast.
We decided to do it up right, so rather than the standard blanket meal, we brought chairs, a small table and even the Andre Brunel bottle candleholder for a little soundside ambiance. Besides the star of the meal, we had pasta salad, local watermelon, black bean and corn salad and vino. And lots and lots of napkins because we were planning on eating as much fried chicken as possible.
We got several compliments from other attendees about our "elegant" set-up (it was the rickety table and the improvised candleholder that seemed to impress), but our meal was about as down-home as you could get. In honor of my favorite grandmother, I ate both wings first; she always said that the wings had the best-tasting meat and whether that's true or not, it's no concession at all to start small when you're talking about yard bird.
The play was, well, about as Charlie Brown as it gets. The highlight was the Snoopy character, played by a guy who danced and sang like one of the Triangle Players' best showmen and I mean that as a sincere compliment. He made the show for us, providing the best voice, the most sinuous movement and also superb comic timing. The fact that he was playing a beagle may have endeared him to me a tad, but it was mostly his spot-on characterization. Honestly, of all the Peanuts characters, Snoopy is the most fun and definitely the least neurotic anyway.
If National Fried Chicken Day slipped right by you without any acknowledgement, fret not. There's always next year, although there's no guarantee you won't wind up eating your greasy feast in front of even more lackluster entertainment, so be mindful of how best to celebrate.
And don't hesitate to use a double negative to express your positives. I know I don't.
Beach read: The Late Mr. Shakespeare
Best song heard randomly on the radio: Anchor, Alejandro Escovedo
For the woefully uninformed, today was National Fried Chicken Day and lest you think I have nothing better to do than keep track of such things, please know that I only found out by accident. But once I knew, there was no not celebrating it (I had an ex once who told me I was the queen of the double negatives and there I go proving him right again). The question was how?
The perfect scenario presented itself when Thing 7 spotted a free performance of "You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown" outdoors on Roanoke Island. Over the years, I've attended more than a few of their performance series, although in the past, it's always been Shakespeare that was being staged. While this was about as far from Shakespeare as possible, it somehow seemed like perfectly appropriate entertainment for a fried chicken feast.
We decided to do it up right, so rather than the standard blanket meal, we brought chairs, a small table and even the Andre Brunel bottle candleholder for a little soundside ambiance. Besides the star of the meal, we had pasta salad, local watermelon, black bean and corn salad and vino. And lots and lots of napkins because we were planning on eating as much fried chicken as possible.
We got several compliments from other attendees about our "elegant" set-up (it was the rickety table and the improvised candleholder that seemed to impress), but our meal was about as down-home as you could get. In honor of my favorite grandmother, I ate both wings first; she always said that the wings had the best-tasting meat and whether that's true or not, it's no concession at all to start small when you're talking about yard bird.
The play was, well, about as Charlie Brown as it gets. The highlight was the Snoopy character, played by a guy who danced and sang like one of the Triangle Players' best showmen and I mean that as a sincere compliment. He made the show for us, providing the best voice, the most sinuous movement and also superb comic timing. The fact that he was playing a beagle may have endeared him to me a tad, but it was mostly his spot-on characterization. Honestly, of all the Peanuts characters, Snoopy is the most fun and definitely the least neurotic anyway.
If National Fried Chicken Day slipped right by you without any acknowledgement, fret not. There's always next year, although there's no guarantee you won't wind up eating your greasy feast in front of even more lackluster entertainment, so be mindful of how best to celebrate.
And don't hesitate to use a double negative to express your positives. I know I don't.
Monday, July 5, 2010
A Man and His Wire
Ocean temperature: 63 degrees
Beach read: The Sun and the Moon: The Remarkable True Account of Hoaxers, Showmen, Dueling Journalists, and Lunar Man-Bats in 19th Century New York
Best song heard randomly on the radio: Fisherman's Blues, Waterboys
Best laugh-out-loud moment today, not courtesy of Thing 4, 5 or 6, but of a stranger: As I'm walking down the beach mid-afternoon, I am jolted out of my reverie by a perfect conch shell adorning the sand. Unusual as it is to see such a thing down here, the fact is I don't want the shell, but I can't resist nudging it with my toe. The moment I do, it is yanked back by a length of nearly invisible fishing wire by a guy sitting in his beach chair, grinning madly at me.
"You made my day!" I tell him, still laughing. "And you made mine," he says.
You gotta admire beach humor. Or maybe you don't, but I do.
Beach read: The Sun and the Moon: The Remarkable True Account of Hoaxers, Showmen, Dueling Journalists, and Lunar Man-Bats in 19th Century New York
Best song heard randomly on the radio: Fisherman's Blues, Waterboys
Best laugh-out-loud moment today, not courtesy of Thing 4, 5 or 6, but of a stranger: As I'm walking down the beach mid-afternoon, I am jolted out of my reverie by a perfect conch shell adorning the sand. Unusual as it is to see such a thing down here, the fact is I don't want the shell, but I can't resist nudging it with my toe. The moment I do, it is yanked back by a length of nearly invisible fishing wire by a guy sitting in his beach chair, grinning madly at me.
"You made my day!" I tell him, still laughing. "And you made mine," he says.
You gotta admire beach humor. Or maybe you don't, but I do.
Patriotic Partying
One of the perks of being here for the Fourth of July celebration is that no effort whatsoever is involved, always a good thing on vacation. I had brought multiple bottles of 2006 Cardinal Point Cabernet Franc Reserve because it would be constitutionally wrong to drink anything but Virginia wine to celebrate this holiday (Philly wine? I don't think so). Thing 3 had gifted me with boxes and boxes of sparklers with which to relive childhood memories on the beach, so we were pretty much set.
And our position on the beach makes it all so easy. A little before 9:00, we took our chairs, a small table, the three bottles of wine and assorted munchies and set up our party zone smack in between the house and the ocean. This afforded us a view of the fireworks at the northern beaches as well as those in Kill Devil Hills and Nags Head.
And naturally, there were dozens of people setting off their own up and down the beach, some almost as grand as the official displays. The most challenging part of the whole evening was constantly turning our heads from side to side; it must be how it feels to watch a tennis match. Stoics that we are, we managed somehow.
Things 4, 5 and 6 couldn't remember the last time they'd seen fireworks on the beach, so they were especially thrilled with it all. No doubt all that patriotic Virginia wine that accompanied the show helped get them a tad fired up, too. Let's just say there was some sparkler dancing going on for a while, although yours truly only played the role of appreciative audience.
It was well after 11:00 when the last of the diehards finally ran out of fireworks. Only then did we break camp and head up to the house, satisfied with a well-spent evening. As my Scottish friend would say, Happy Birthday, Yanks!
And our position on the beach makes it all so easy. A little before 9:00, we took our chairs, a small table, the three bottles of wine and assorted munchies and set up our party zone smack in between the house and the ocean. This afforded us a view of the fireworks at the northern beaches as well as those in Kill Devil Hills and Nags Head.
And naturally, there were dozens of people setting off their own up and down the beach, some almost as grand as the official displays. The most challenging part of the whole evening was constantly turning our heads from side to side; it must be how it feels to watch a tennis match. Stoics that we are, we managed somehow.
Things 4, 5 and 6 couldn't remember the last time they'd seen fireworks on the beach, so they were especially thrilled with it all. No doubt all that patriotic Virginia wine that accompanied the show helped get them a tad fired up, too. Let's just say there was some sparkler dancing going on for a while, although yours truly only played the role of appreciative audience.
It was well after 11:00 when the last of the diehards finally ran out of fireworks. Only then did we break camp and head up to the house, satisfied with a well-spent evening. As my Scottish friend would say, Happy Birthday, Yanks!
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Wish You Were Here
Ocean temperature: 73 degrees
Beach read: The Bell Jar
Best song randomly heard on the radio: Swim Until You Can't See Land, Frightened Rabbit
The little house on the oceanfront reached critical mass yesterday with the arrival of Things 4, 5 and eventually 6, but making for an instant party with the reigning Thing 3 already present.
Wisely anticipating the hordes of holiday visitors, we established our presence on the beach early (first beer was opened at 9:58 a.m. owing to Thing 3's axiom "2 by 10 and 10 by 2"), the better to discourage interlopers from crowding us.
We needn't have worried; we seemed to operate within a force field that left us plenty of room in which to enjoy ourselves without tripping over others.
With the water so warm, though, the problem was how crowded the ocean was. I don't think I've ever seen so many people in the water at the same time; more than once one of our group was nearly taken out by a bodysurfer or errant skimboarder.
No complaints, though, because between the temperature and the surf level, it was ocean perfection.
By the time we made it back up to the house late in the day (okay, technically early in the evening), it was time for Thing 3 to pack up and head home.
We drew out our goodbyes as long as we could and as Thing 3 faded in the distance, we quickly showered and headed out for some Saturday night fun.
Once again the democratic system was used and the Outer Banks Brewing Station (the first wind-powered brew pub! or so they claim) won easily.
The place was mobbed but there were four bar stools with our names on them sitting empty when we arrived, so we claimed them and began our extended evening of eating, drinking and chatting up everyone around us.
One thing I do like about the OBBS is that they offer growlers (are you listening Julie and Dave?) and, as it happened, the local enjoying a cold beverage next to me was having his growler refilled while he was there, sparking a discussion of the benefits of the growler system (and an offer to come share his), not that I needed convincing.
One of our bartenders was a charming smart-ass (my favorite kind) and added much to our enjoyment. I think that once he realized that we were there for the duration, he figured he might as well insinuate himself into the conversation for his own amusement.
The longer we stayed, the more we saw the crowd shift until eventually it seemed to be a lot of people like us: non-family types who weren't thinking of going anywhere anytime soon. Independence eve celebrants, if you will.
Once we got home, we had the brilliant idea to walk up to the Tsunami Bar (because it's so close we rationalized) for a nightcap.
Sprawled on the deck overlooking the ocean, sipping our drinks, all three Things lamented their not being able to stay past the Monday holiday.
I reminded them that they still had two full days of surf and sand ahead of them, but they were already quite sure that it wouldn't be enough.
I promised to think of them once they're gone.
As the picture postcards might say: Weather is here, wish you were beautiful.
Some more than others.
Beach read: The Bell Jar
Best song randomly heard on the radio: Swim Until You Can't See Land, Frightened Rabbit
The little house on the oceanfront reached critical mass yesterday with the arrival of Things 4, 5 and eventually 6, but making for an instant party with the reigning Thing 3 already present.
Wisely anticipating the hordes of holiday visitors, we established our presence on the beach early (first beer was opened at 9:58 a.m. owing to Thing 3's axiom "2 by 10 and 10 by 2"), the better to discourage interlopers from crowding us.
We needn't have worried; we seemed to operate within a force field that left us plenty of room in which to enjoy ourselves without tripping over others.
With the water so warm, though, the problem was how crowded the ocean was. I don't think I've ever seen so many people in the water at the same time; more than once one of our group was nearly taken out by a bodysurfer or errant skimboarder.
No complaints, though, because between the temperature and the surf level, it was ocean perfection.
By the time we made it back up to the house late in the day (okay, technically early in the evening), it was time for Thing 3 to pack up and head home.
We drew out our goodbyes as long as we could and as Thing 3 faded in the distance, we quickly showered and headed out for some Saturday night fun.
Once again the democratic system was used and the Outer Banks Brewing Station (the first wind-powered brew pub! or so they claim) won easily.
The place was mobbed but there were four bar stools with our names on them sitting empty when we arrived, so we claimed them and began our extended evening of eating, drinking and chatting up everyone around us.
One thing I do like about the OBBS is that they offer growlers (are you listening Julie and Dave?) and, as it happened, the local enjoying a cold beverage next to me was having his growler refilled while he was there, sparking a discussion of the benefits of the growler system (and an offer to come share his), not that I needed convincing.
One of our bartenders was a charming smart-ass (my favorite kind) and added much to our enjoyment. I think that once he realized that we were there for the duration, he figured he might as well insinuate himself into the conversation for his own amusement.
The longer we stayed, the more we saw the crowd shift until eventually it seemed to be a lot of people like us: non-family types who weren't thinking of going anywhere anytime soon. Independence eve celebrants, if you will.
Once we got home, we had the brilliant idea to walk up to the Tsunami Bar (because it's so close we rationalized) for a nightcap.
Sprawled on the deck overlooking the ocean, sipping our drinks, all three Things lamented their not being able to stay past the Monday holiday.
I reminded them that they still had two full days of surf and sand ahead of them, but they were already quite sure that it wouldn't be enough.
I promised to think of them once they're gone.
As the picture postcards might say: Weather is here, wish you were beautiful.
Some more than others.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Daring to Do Duck
Ocean temperature: 74 degrees
Beach read: Jazz Cleopatra, Josephine Baker in Her Time
Best song heard randomly on the radio: Bad Reputation, Freedy Johnston
Thing 3 and I were trying to choose some live music for our evening's entertainment last night, having greatly enjoyed the Cracker show just nights before. It was perhaps a mistake to attempt such a thing during happy hour because we misguidedly decided to choose based on band name, which is probably akin to betting on a race horse based solely on its name and with no regard to the odds.
We narrowed the choices down to three we found amusing: Monkey Booty, The Morons and Rubber Pants. You'll have to cut us some slack, as we were well into a bottle of K Vintner Viognier, a personal favorite (thanks, B) and as close a sensation to "drinking pretty" as I know of offhand. But I digress. After much deliberation, Thing 3 gave the final vote to the Morons and our fate was sealed.
They were playing at Aqua S Deck in Duck, an area I avoid for all the SUVs, shopping meccas and traffic. But we figured we were up to the challenge and for a change headed north to the land of flattops (those vintage Southern Shores houses) and McMansions (the bane of the beaches, imho). Thing 3 liked all the vegetation around the houses, but I just felt like I was in suburbia and the ocean was but a distant memory.
To sum it up, the band consisted of two middle-aged guys and one of them was wearing tennis shoes with velcro closures. I know we shouldn't have even noticed such a minor detail (I blame Thing 3), but it cracked us up nonetheless. We may even have laughed out loud.
In their defense, however, they said that they only had one Buffet song in their repertoire because there were so many middle-aged beach bands whose entire schtick was Buffet, so they left that niche to others. Instead, they played everything from Jack Johnson to Todd Rundgren, basically covering the entire musical period since before there were velcro closure shoes. Really.
Music and velcro aside, though, we were on a good-sized deck facing the Sound and the sunset was magnificent, long-lasting and colorful. We watched a duo para-sailing and they remained in the sky for over half an hour, which seemed to us an extraordinarily long time to be hovering up there, legs dangling and silhouetted against the orange sun. We decided, Thing 3 and I, that we were better suited to less adventurous pursuits, like drinking on a deck while people-watching.
As the sign on the lifeguard station has said the past few days about the strong surf: Know Your Limits! Thing 3 and I are well aware of our limits; luckily we know how to have a whole lot of fun within those parameters. But if you ever see either of us in a pair of velcro-closure shoes, just go ahead and take us out.
It's what we'd want. Really.
Beach read: Jazz Cleopatra, Josephine Baker in Her Time
Best song heard randomly on the radio: Bad Reputation, Freedy Johnston
Thing 3 and I were trying to choose some live music for our evening's entertainment last night, having greatly enjoyed the Cracker show just nights before. It was perhaps a mistake to attempt such a thing during happy hour because we misguidedly decided to choose based on band name, which is probably akin to betting on a race horse based solely on its name and with no regard to the odds.
We narrowed the choices down to three we found amusing: Monkey Booty, The Morons and Rubber Pants. You'll have to cut us some slack, as we were well into a bottle of K Vintner Viognier, a personal favorite (thanks, B) and as close a sensation to "drinking pretty" as I know of offhand. But I digress. After much deliberation, Thing 3 gave the final vote to the Morons and our fate was sealed.
They were playing at Aqua S Deck in Duck, an area I avoid for all the SUVs, shopping meccas and traffic. But we figured we were up to the challenge and for a change headed north to the land of flattops (those vintage Southern Shores houses) and McMansions (the bane of the beaches, imho). Thing 3 liked all the vegetation around the houses, but I just felt like I was in suburbia and the ocean was but a distant memory.
To sum it up, the band consisted of two middle-aged guys and one of them was wearing tennis shoes with velcro closures. I know we shouldn't have even noticed such a minor detail (I blame Thing 3), but it cracked us up nonetheless. We may even have laughed out loud.
In their defense, however, they said that they only had one Buffet song in their repertoire because there were so many middle-aged beach bands whose entire schtick was Buffet, so they left that niche to others. Instead, they played everything from Jack Johnson to Todd Rundgren, basically covering the entire musical period since before there were velcro closure shoes. Really.
Music and velcro aside, though, we were on a good-sized deck facing the Sound and the sunset was magnificent, long-lasting and colorful. We watched a duo para-sailing and they remained in the sky for over half an hour, which seemed to us an extraordinarily long time to be hovering up there, legs dangling and silhouetted against the orange sun. We decided, Thing 3 and I, that we were better suited to less adventurous pursuits, like drinking on a deck while people-watching.
As the sign on the lifeguard station has said the past few days about the strong surf: Know Your Limits! Thing 3 and I are well aware of our limits; luckily we know how to have a whole lot of fun within those parameters. But if you ever see either of us in a pair of velcro-closure shoes, just go ahead and take us out.
It's what we'd want. Really.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Poets, Yankees and Restaurant Owners
Ocean Temperature: 76 degrees (quite a change!)
Beach Read: Yankee Women: Gender Battles in the Civil War
Best song randomly heard on the radio: Poets, Tragically Hip
The beach gods smiled on Thing 3 and me today, lowering the air temperature to barely 80, raising the water temperature almost 20 degrees from 24 hours earlier and replacing yesterday's rolling beach fog with sunshine. Life indeed felt like a beach today, but then Thing 3 also knows how to have a good time anywhere.
Now that I've been here a few days, a couple of the locals have started recognizing me and one of the dog-walkers came over today to introduce himself and his dog while Thing 3 was on a beer run. Honestly, to a fly on the wall, our conversation could have happened at a bar instead of the beach, as he danced around finding out if I was single or not. The best thing about being hit on sitting in a beach chair is that at least the interested party knows what you look like scantily clad from the start...or is that a good thing?
For our evening's entertainment, we decided to do a beach pub crawl, figuring that lots of people would be out and about given the glorious weather. We were correct and found plenty of willing talkers everywhere we went.
The Kill Devil Grill (the former Millie's project) got us started and, despite Thing 3 having fixed us a superb meal before leaving, we indulged in the Philly Cheese steak eggrolls because, well because who ever heard of such a thing? As we sat at the bar, I couldn't help but notice that the guy next to me was reading Bon Appetit, which led to an interesting talk about how some men choose to attract women. I give him credit; he had a great sense of humor and a desire to spoil a girl in the kitchen, no minor qualities either one.
The Lucky 12 was loud and local and we had loads of fun taking a grilling about ourselves, the nature of our relationship and from whence we came from some of the more forward regulars, both male and female. Before long, though, Thing 3 looked at me in all seriousness and declared, "Drink up little guppy. It's time to hit the next place" and off we went.
Heading back up the beach, we made Ocean Boulevard our final stop because at barely half a mile from home, it offers the convenience of a leisurely beach walk home if necessary. Thing 3 and I got separated on entering the crowded bar and ended up at opposite ends for a while, giving us both a chance to meet people as if alone.
I was immediately addressed by a local who informed me that I was in his regular bar stool. Given its location, I told him that if we were in RVA, it would almost certainly be MY stool, given its position at the bar. He graciously agreed to let me stay in it if I'd give him my attention for a while.
As luck would have it, he's a local restaurant owner who moved here and found the beach vibe too appealing to go back, even after years of living all over the country in major cities and loving urban life. His restaurant here is over ten years old, although I wasn't familiar with it, being on one of the northern beaches which I don't frequent. His business card describes him as "Head Asshole," a title sure to elicit a smile from many a restaurant worker.
He came on strong, inviting me to his restaurant for dinner tomorrow (sans Thing 3, natch) and even suggesting he send the restaurant "car" for me so that I could indulge without having to drive home. Obviously beach restaurant owners have additional enticements in their bag of tricks should they meet someone they want to impress.
I teased the guy about meeting him in a restaurant other than his own, but he assured me that OB is his favorite beach bar precisely because it gets him out of his own business. That I could understand. Besides, would a restaurant owner really want to hit on his own customer? Check that; I know personally from a recent experience at home that it does happen.
Yankee women of yore might have had their gender battles, but in my humble experience, gender skirmishes continue, if of a different sort. Luckily, the playing field is so much more level today for us Yankee types.
Beach Read: Yankee Women: Gender Battles in the Civil War
Best song randomly heard on the radio: Poets, Tragically Hip
The beach gods smiled on Thing 3 and me today, lowering the air temperature to barely 80, raising the water temperature almost 20 degrees from 24 hours earlier and replacing yesterday's rolling beach fog with sunshine. Life indeed felt like a beach today, but then Thing 3 also knows how to have a good time anywhere.
Now that I've been here a few days, a couple of the locals have started recognizing me and one of the dog-walkers came over today to introduce himself and his dog while Thing 3 was on a beer run. Honestly, to a fly on the wall, our conversation could have happened at a bar instead of the beach, as he danced around finding out if I was single or not. The best thing about being hit on sitting in a beach chair is that at least the interested party knows what you look like scantily clad from the start...or is that a good thing?
For our evening's entertainment, we decided to do a beach pub crawl, figuring that lots of people would be out and about given the glorious weather. We were correct and found plenty of willing talkers everywhere we went.
The Kill Devil Grill (the former Millie's project) got us started and, despite Thing 3 having fixed us a superb meal before leaving, we indulged in the Philly Cheese steak eggrolls because, well because who ever heard of such a thing? As we sat at the bar, I couldn't help but notice that the guy next to me was reading Bon Appetit, which led to an interesting talk about how some men choose to attract women. I give him credit; he had a great sense of humor and a desire to spoil a girl in the kitchen, no minor qualities either one.
The Lucky 12 was loud and local and we had loads of fun taking a grilling about ourselves, the nature of our relationship and from whence we came from some of the more forward regulars, both male and female. Before long, though, Thing 3 looked at me in all seriousness and declared, "Drink up little guppy. It's time to hit the next place" and off we went.
Heading back up the beach, we made Ocean Boulevard our final stop because at barely half a mile from home, it offers the convenience of a leisurely beach walk home if necessary. Thing 3 and I got separated on entering the crowded bar and ended up at opposite ends for a while, giving us both a chance to meet people as if alone.
I was immediately addressed by a local who informed me that I was in his regular bar stool. Given its location, I told him that if we were in RVA, it would almost certainly be MY stool, given its position at the bar. He graciously agreed to let me stay in it if I'd give him my attention for a while.
As luck would have it, he's a local restaurant owner who moved here and found the beach vibe too appealing to go back, even after years of living all over the country in major cities and loving urban life. His restaurant here is over ten years old, although I wasn't familiar with it, being on one of the northern beaches which I don't frequent. His business card describes him as "Head Asshole," a title sure to elicit a smile from many a restaurant worker.
He came on strong, inviting me to his restaurant for dinner tomorrow (sans Thing 3, natch) and even suggesting he send the restaurant "car" for me so that I could indulge without having to drive home. Obviously beach restaurant owners have additional enticements in their bag of tricks should they meet someone they want to impress.
I teased the guy about meeting him in a restaurant other than his own, but he assured me that OB is his favorite beach bar precisely because it gets him out of his own business. That I could understand. Besides, would a restaurant owner really want to hit on his own customer? Check that; I know personally from a recent experience at home that it does happen.
Yankee women of yore might have had their gender battles, but in my humble experience, gender skirmishes continue, if of a different sort. Luckily, the playing field is so much more level today for us Yankee types.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Looking for A Place to Get Surly
Ocean temperature : 58 (but it rose to 74 degrees by 5 p.m.)
Best song heard randomly on the radio: Stay (new!) Bo Deans
Another locals' haunt sucked me in tonight, but this time it was for the sake of music. I'd seen that Cracker was playing at Kelly's Tavern and the draw of live music was too strong to ignore, even though I'd heard dire tales of the Kelly's crowd. I wasn't scared by any stretch; I think I've pretty much seen it all when it comes to live music crowds anyway.
It had been five years since I'd last seen Cracker live and 17 years since I saw them the first time. My first time was memorable because it was at the Flood Zone in the Bottom and, at the time, beer was all they carried and even then I didn't drink beer. But it was one of my earlier shows alone and although I was meeting a guy there later, I decided to fortify with a golden beverage, despite my distaste for same. It was also my last attempt at beer drinking, if that tells you anything.
Luckily Kelly's served more than beer, so imbibing was not a challenge for me (eating, on the other hand...although a girl is always safe with a Hebrew National hot dog, at least this girl is) this Cracker go-round. I'm not sure what it says about the place, but there were a lot of shooters in what looked like urine specimen cups being served at Kelly's during the show. Am I drawing you a mental picture here?
Cracker took the stage like the pros that they are. They were perfectly mic'd and the sound was exactly right for the room. This was a drinking/talking crowd, so the band had to play over them, but they seemed to know that in advance and those of us who were there to hear the music were treated to excellent sound throughout.
Early in their set, they kicked into "Teen Angst" and David Lowery cocked an eyebrow at the crowd as if daring them to pretend like they didn't know the song. Eventually even the loudest talkers were singing or worse, dancing along, proving Lowery's point. I cracked up when, motioning toward the dance floor, Thing 3 observed, "Whole lotta probably shouldn't going on over there."
Bottom line: Cracker played an excellent show with superior sound while Thing 3 and I observed a crowd unlike any we'd ever seen, or really, need to see again. But crowds don't matter, music does and it was great to get my music itch scratched at the beach.
And, yes, we stuck out like the non-locals that we were. But given the seemingly un-musically inclined crowd in this case, I was just fine with that.
Best song heard randomly on the radio: Stay (new!) Bo Deans
Another locals' haunt sucked me in tonight, but this time it was for the sake of music. I'd seen that Cracker was playing at Kelly's Tavern and the draw of live music was too strong to ignore, even though I'd heard dire tales of the Kelly's crowd. I wasn't scared by any stretch; I think I've pretty much seen it all when it comes to live music crowds anyway.
It had been five years since I'd last seen Cracker live and 17 years since I saw them the first time. My first time was memorable because it was at the Flood Zone in the Bottom and, at the time, beer was all they carried and even then I didn't drink beer. But it was one of my earlier shows alone and although I was meeting a guy there later, I decided to fortify with a golden beverage, despite my distaste for same. It was also my last attempt at beer drinking, if that tells you anything.
Luckily Kelly's served more than beer, so imbibing was not a challenge for me (eating, on the other hand...although a girl is always safe with a Hebrew National hot dog, at least this girl is) this Cracker go-round. I'm not sure what it says about the place, but there were a lot of shooters in what looked like urine specimen cups being served at Kelly's during the show. Am I drawing you a mental picture here?
Cracker took the stage like the pros that they are. They were perfectly mic'd and the sound was exactly right for the room. This was a drinking/talking crowd, so the band had to play over them, but they seemed to know that in advance and those of us who were there to hear the music were treated to excellent sound throughout.
Early in their set, they kicked into "Teen Angst" and David Lowery cocked an eyebrow at the crowd as if daring them to pretend like they didn't know the song. Eventually even the loudest talkers were singing or worse, dancing along, proving Lowery's point. I cracked up when, motioning toward the dance floor, Thing 3 observed, "Whole lotta probably shouldn't going on over there."
Bottom line: Cracker played an excellent show with superior sound while Thing 3 and I observed a crowd unlike any we'd ever seen, or really, need to see again. But crowds don't matter, music does and it was great to get my music itch scratched at the beach.
And, yes, we stuck out like the non-locals that we were. But given the seemingly un-musically inclined crowd in this case, I was just fine with that.
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