When the working day is done, girls just want to hear about Japanese landscapes and listen to Postmodern Jukebox.
Oh, Daddy, dear, you're still number one, but some nights just get away from you.
It began earnestly enough at the VMFA for the Kendall Brown lecture, "Kawase Hasui: The Importance of Water and Shadow," a tie-in to the new exhibition of Hasui's prints.
Brown was doing his third lecture in 48 hours, but was confident enough to wing it without notes ("Hold that thought, we'll come back to that"), hardly surprising for one of the country's pre-eminent scholars on Asian art.
First thing I learned was about the earthquake and great fire of 1923 in Japan and the subsequent mission of artists like Hasui to keep alive the places of the past destroyed in the fire. His serene landscapes were considered an antidote to the modern life of industrialization, not fully traditional and not avant garde.
Beginning as a graphic designer - considered low culture because it spoke to the masses - Hasui moved on to watercolors and painting of screens and scrolls, all the while creating prints that were successfully sold in Japan and here.
Brown shared his semi-random thematic categories of Hasui's prints, explaining that they were conceived of after a few drinks. I was liking the guy.
Moving through a series of Hasui's prints from the new exhibit, he explained that research had shown that there was a universal preference for landscapes in blue and green with water, trees and some kind of human presence. Hasui included all of them.
By the time the lecture ended, I was very much anticipating seeing the show upstairs. As it turns out, so were three quarters of the people in the lecture hall.
Rather than see Hasui's prints with the masses, I instead took myself to Amuse, planning to return to see the print show I was now so curious about.
There was only one man at the bar, so I had no problem finding a stool and ordering a glass of Renegade Rose to get the evening started. As I took my first sip, a woman joined him and it didn't take long to see his true colors.
Everything she did was wrong. She didn't speak loud enough when he asked her a question. Her food was slow in coming when he was anxious to eat with her and his had already arrived. It didn't matter if she wanted dessert and coffee because he was ready to go.
I don't know how (or why) she put up with him.
Trying to ignore his rudeness, I ordered the General Tso's sweetbreads with tempura broccolini on the staff's recommendation and chatted with them rather than be a party to all the unpleasantness beside me. Let's just say I was glad when they left but sorry for her for putting up with such a boor.
The bartender asked what my next destination was and all I knew was that I might end up at Ballcieaux for music. It was enough for her and I said goodnight.
Staying in the neighborhood, I decided on Amour, where I found a lively contingent at the bar. Settling in with a glass of the big, rich La Tour Chambert Cahors 2011, I found myself in the company of an anthropologist, a Yankee and a guy born on the southside and determined since his teen years to escape it. They were great fun.
They'd been there for a while so two of the trio were already moving on to whiskey (or is it whisky?), discussing the appeal of Scotch, his love of peat monsters and why blends are to be shunned.
But the best discussion centered around mindfulness, living in the present and about how few people are capable of that anymore. What's the attraction of filming or shooting something you don't actually experience first hand?
We digressed into the perils and successes of gentrification and how so many people abandon city living once they have children. About how southerners can't walk down the street without making eye contact and acknowledging strangers.
The male in our group gave me major props when I included myself in that southern category given that I was born south of the Mason-Dixon line. "I'm glad you realize that," he said, surprised. Duh.
Things really got fun when the music went from gypsy jazz to the fabulous Postmodern Jukebox and from solely audio to audio and video.
Even without being familiar with the source material, I found their cover versions of pop songs done in jazz, swing and ragtime stellar. It was "All About the Bass" that sucked me in - wholly and enthusiastically - with Kate Davis' languid voice and ace bass playing, but I'm not ashamed to say even the songs I knew captivated me (yes, that included T. Swift's "Shake It Off" - don't judge).
I have to admit, even the 2012 mash-up they did in the Cosmo offices was killer and I only recognized "Roar" and "Royals" out of the half a dozen songs they did with a host of different lead singers.
When a vintage '30s rendition of Wham's "Careless Whisper" came on, one of the (young) servers, observed, "I don't know this song." Were you alive in the '80s, I asked politely. Nope.
She did recognize "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun," but you'd have to be brain dead at this point in pop culture not to know that one.
It's not just the rotating cast of alluring lead singers (some even male) that make it all so compelling. The keyboard player Scott Bradlee, who arranges all these songs into vintage-sounding classics, assembles a crack band of musicians and back-up singers to get the effect he wants. It's so well done.
By the time I got home, I found a message asking if I was going to make it to Balliceaux for music.
Only problem was, I'd already had a superb music fix. Some nights it is all about the bass.
Saturday, November 15, 2014
Friday, November 14, 2014
Chilly with a Chance of the Past
Scenes from a morning walk...
Coming down the hill toward Brown's Island, I see that 5th Street is blocked to vehicular traffic and tents are already set up on the island. People are scurrying about industriously and PortaPotties abound. Is this more Marathon madness?
Winding my way down the sandy/rocky path to the pipeline walkway, I manage to ram my shoulder into a branch for an instant bruise and admire an enormous gaggle of geese on the flatwater at the same time.
Further ahead on the pipeline, I spot a father and toddler girl avidly watching something. It turns out to be three guys in tiny kayaks repeatedly throwing themselves into a rapid, flipping over a couple of times and coming back out. One isn't even wearing gloves despite temperatures in the '40s.
As I stand there marveling at their choice of morning activity, one spots me, waves and does another flip in the falls, sending me on my way so they won't continue on my account.
Suddenly I'm smelling something delicious and then I spot a couple huddled over a campfire making what must be breakfast by the edge of the river. They're very near the rock where I usually sit to take off my shoes when I'm going wading, but today the little beach is all theirs.
Heading back up the hill, I detour to the University of Richmond Downtown campus to see Caryl Burtner's "Missing Richmond" exhibit. I've only been in Richmond since 1986, so there's a lot of history I missed.
It's a compelling show with a gallery of large photographs showing buildings that now sit on what once were slave trade-related buildings - auctions, offices of slave traders, that sort of despicable thing.
But it was the second gallery that I really enjoyed, filled with small boxes holding photographs of buildings then and now. many of the pictures were taken long before I arrived and many of the businesses were long gone by the time I got here.
Places such as Lum's, Murphy's, the Lee Street Theater, a Hot Shoppes, even the house that sat where theMosque Landmark Altria Theater now sits. My favorites were any that showed students from the '70s and '80s, a glimpse into a world I missed.
Each box held four photographs old and new of the same place, plus fragments from the building, say a piece of masonry or tile or glass. In the bag for the Murphy Hotel was a die, an indicator of its gaming history I suppose.
On the walls are large-scale reproductions of some of the box photographs, including one from 1998 when the Times Dispatch building was imploded, an occasion for which I was out of bed at dawn so I could see it happen from a nearby corner. It was truly a marvel to witness.
I missed a lot but not everything. I'm trying to make up for it by taking in as much as possible now.
When's the last time you saw somebody cooking breakfast over a fire on the banks of the James?
Coming down the hill toward Brown's Island, I see that 5th Street is blocked to vehicular traffic and tents are already set up on the island. People are scurrying about industriously and PortaPotties abound. Is this more Marathon madness?
Winding my way down the sandy/rocky path to the pipeline walkway, I manage to ram my shoulder into a branch for an instant bruise and admire an enormous gaggle of geese on the flatwater at the same time.
Further ahead on the pipeline, I spot a father and toddler girl avidly watching something. It turns out to be three guys in tiny kayaks repeatedly throwing themselves into a rapid, flipping over a couple of times and coming back out. One isn't even wearing gloves despite temperatures in the '40s.
As I stand there marveling at their choice of morning activity, one spots me, waves and does another flip in the falls, sending me on my way so they won't continue on my account.
Suddenly I'm smelling something delicious and then I spot a couple huddled over a campfire making what must be breakfast by the edge of the river. They're very near the rock where I usually sit to take off my shoes when I'm going wading, but today the little beach is all theirs.
Heading back up the hill, I detour to the University of Richmond Downtown campus to see Caryl Burtner's "Missing Richmond" exhibit. I've only been in Richmond since 1986, so there's a lot of history I missed.
It's a compelling show with a gallery of large photographs showing buildings that now sit on what once were slave trade-related buildings - auctions, offices of slave traders, that sort of despicable thing.
But it was the second gallery that I really enjoyed, filled with small boxes holding photographs of buildings then and now. many of the pictures were taken long before I arrived and many of the businesses were long gone by the time I got here.
Places such as Lum's, Murphy's, the Lee Street Theater, a Hot Shoppes, even the house that sat where the
Each box held four photographs old and new of the same place, plus fragments from the building, say a piece of masonry or tile or glass. In the bag for the Murphy Hotel was a die, an indicator of its gaming history I suppose.
On the walls are large-scale reproductions of some of the box photographs, including one from 1998 when the Times Dispatch building was imploded, an occasion for which I was out of bed at dawn so I could see it happen from a nearby corner. It was truly a marvel to witness.
I missed a lot but not everything. I'm trying to make up for it by taking in as much as possible now.
When's the last time you saw somebody cooking breakfast over a fire on the banks of the James?
Give It a Rest
Luddites, unite! If only all musicians were so strict.
The evening began with a walk through Carver on the way to Unleashed Gourmet Hot Dogs. Barely over a block from home, the proprietor of a future corner shop stopped building things inside and came outside to say hello to the walkers.
Complaining about the city's snail-like pace in getting things done, he lamented that they'd only this morning been able to begin construction on his little store which will serve breakfast and lunch. He's optimistically hoping to be open in a month and a half. Godspeed, friend.
Walking past the frequently-shuttered Richmond Book Shop, lights were on, necessitating a visit inside. I swear this place is a both a treasure trove and cultural archive of Richmond's counterculture.
A 1960 pamphlet from a local hardware store containing "fancy barbecue recipes." A postcard that had a joke on the front ("What came first, the chicken or the egg? Think about it!") and nothing but a signature and an address on the back. Apparently sending a joke was enough.
Then there was the trashy 25 cent girlie magazine with a headline about a girl proving her virginity all over town. I tell you, the inventory here is priceless.
Walking up to Unleashed under the canopy of a construction framework, I spotted one guy inside the restaurant. That's one more than last time I'd come with my photographer friend for lunch.
Inside, the Russian owner was watching a Russian movie on TV, but he happily jumped up for the chance to talk to a real person. It soon became clear how lonely it must be in there with so much construction going on above and across the street.
The man just kept talking about all his homemade food, why brilliant yellow American mustard has nothing to do with actual mustard seeds and how he hates when people want to add something to one of his dogs because it throws off the complementary flavor balances.
After asking which dogs were made in house, my choice was the Kavkaz Shepard dog, a lamb and beef sausage with marinated onion, cilantro and homemade tomato sauce. My fellow dog-lover opted for the Siberian Husky, a wienerwurst sausage with Russian-style sauerkraut with onion and Siberian mustard, which the Russian warned us was potent.
As in, clear your sinuses strong. The guy who'd been eating when we arrived got up to leave, urging us to try the Husky and savor that killer mustard. It wasn't a hard sell. Both dogs were tasty, contrasting sweet with savory, and so as was the beet-infused Russian potato salad.
Walking back to Jackson Ward (while the sky spit intermittent cold raindrops) for wheels with which to get to Crossroads Coffee, we then crossed the river and found a full parking lot on this unexpectedly cold evening.
That was no surprise to me because the Brian Jones Trio was playing and they never disappoint. Part of the appeal was the venue; the smallest place I'd ever seen them play was in a room at the annual John Cage MusicCircus, so I was curious how they'd sound in a small, crowded coffee shop.
Fabulous, that's how. We found seats on the long bench that traverses the wall, meaning a good view of the musicians and, as a bonus, the PacMan video table for my hot chocolate to sit on. When I'd ordered it, the girl had asked if I wanted it with whipped cream.
Is that a rhetorical question? She shared that some people decline whipped cream and she wonders what's the point. Indeed.
Sipping my chocolate and waiting for the band to start, I skimmed through a 1980 book on the makings of the Vietnam war full of pictures I'd never seen before (JFK's funeral procession down Connecticut Avenue from above? LBJ overcome with emotion after hearing a tape of his son-in-law's combat experiences?) and a NYT article on a romancing your way through South Africa.
Then it was show time.
The trio had sprouted an extra member tonight so in addition to Brian on drums, there was Cameron on upright bass, J.C. on sax and Alan on guitar. Crammed into a corner of Crossroads, Brian welcomed the crowd and specified that there was to be absolutely no use of social media ("Give it a rest, willya?") during the performance.
A man after my own heart.
As they proceeded to play, improvise and play games with each other musically, I looked down the bench to see a guy sketching in a notebook and another scrolling through Facebook posts. So much for respecting the band's wishes.
The two most attentive people in the room were probably Brian's handsome parents and he called them out when he mentioned drummer Roger Humphries and asked if anyone knew of him (we didn't, they did).
From there, the four talented musicians took us all over the map, sometimes with limited instruction from Brian before they began, occasionally with music in front of them.
And they were all working hard at it, I know, because the room was comfortably warm with so many people and after each piece, Brian and Cameron would use towels to wipe sweat off their faces and necks.
We heard Brian's "Banjo for Ry Cooder" ("Who doesn't like Ry Cooder?"), Miles Davis' "Blue in Green ("The dark prince")," a song he'd written for J.C. (what do you expect when your last name is Kuhl?) and the title song to their latest album.
At one point, he said to the band, "Let's play a tune" and when no one suggested one, he instructed them to improvise one. Once we got to 10:20, they finished with an abbreviated version of their own "Catamaran."
Before the break and throughout the show, Brian didn't hesitate to remind the room that social media was off limits. Coming back after break, he asked the crowd if anyone knew who'd played piano on "Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood" and no one was certain. A guy offered to Google it (Johnny Costa) and satisfy the collective curiosity. But after that, no phones.
When the show ended, Brian made sure everyone knew that their next gig is at the VMFA's jazz cafe in December. "And no social media will be allowed there, either!" he warned.
Men who put music ahead of phone usage are a rare breed lately. After I finish swooning, I'm writing that date in my calendar.
Then maybe I'll start a Luddite fan club.
The evening began with a walk through Carver on the way to Unleashed Gourmet Hot Dogs. Barely over a block from home, the proprietor of a future corner shop stopped building things inside and came outside to say hello to the walkers.
Complaining about the city's snail-like pace in getting things done, he lamented that they'd only this morning been able to begin construction on his little store which will serve breakfast and lunch. He's optimistically hoping to be open in a month and a half. Godspeed, friend.
Walking past the frequently-shuttered Richmond Book Shop, lights were on, necessitating a visit inside. I swear this place is a both a treasure trove and cultural archive of Richmond's counterculture.
A 1960 pamphlet from a local hardware store containing "fancy barbecue recipes." A postcard that had a joke on the front ("What came first, the chicken or the egg? Think about it!") and nothing but a signature and an address on the back. Apparently sending a joke was enough.
Then there was the trashy 25 cent girlie magazine with a headline about a girl proving her virginity all over town. I tell you, the inventory here is priceless.
Walking up to Unleashed under the canopy of a construction framework, I spotted one guy inside the restaurant. That's one more than last time I'd come with my photographer friend for lunch.
Inside, the Russian owner was watching a Russian movie on TV, but he happily jumped up for the chance to talk to a real person. It soon became clear how lonely it must be in there with so much construction going on above and across the street.
The man just kept talking about all his homemade food, why brilliant yellow American mustard has nothing to do with actual mustard seeds and how he hates when people want to add something to one of his dogs because it throws off the complementary flavor balances.
After asking which dogs were made in house, my choice was the Kavkaz Shepard dog, a lamb and beef sausage with marinated onion, cilantro and homemade tomato sauce. My fellow dog-lover opted for the Siberian Husky, a wienerwurst sausage with Russian-style sauerkraut with onion and Siberian mustard, which the Russian warned us was potent.
As in, clear your sinuses strong. The guy who'd been eating when we arrived got up to leave, urging us to try the Husky and savor that killer mustard. It wasn't a hard sell. Both dogs were tasty, contrasting sweet with savory, and so as was the beet-infused Russian potato salad.
Walking back to Jackson Ward (while the sky spit intermittent cold raindrops) for wheels with which to get to Crossroads Coffee, we then crossed the river and found a full parking lot on this unexpectedly cold evening.
That was no surprise to me because the Brian Jones Trio was playing and they never disappoint. Part of the appeal was the venue; the smallest place I'd ever seen them play was in a room at the annual John Cage MusicCircus, so I was curious how they'd sound in a small, crowded coffee shop.
Fabulous, that's how. We found seats on the long bench that traverses the wall, meaning a good view of the musicians and, as a bonus, the PacMan video table for my hot chocolate to sit on. When I'd ordered it, the girl had asked if I wanted it with whipped cream.
Is that a rhetorical question? She shared that some people decline whipped cream and she wonders what's the point. Indeed.
Sipping my chocolate and waiting for the band to start, I skimmed through a 1980 book on the makings of the Vietnam war full of pictures I'd never seen before (JFK's funeral procession down Connecticut Avenue from above? LBJ overcome with emotion after hearing a tape of his son-in-law's combat experiences?) and a NYT article on a romancing your way through South Africa.
Then it was show time.
The trio had sprouted an extra member tonight so in addition to Brian on drums, there was Cameron on upright bass, J.C. on sax and Alan on guitar. Crammed into a corner of Crossroads, Brian welcomed the crowd and specified that there was to be absolutely no use of social media ("Give it a rest, willya?") during the performance.
A man after my own heart.
As they proceeded to play, improvise and play games with each other musically, I looked down the bench to see a guy sketching in a notebook and another scrolling through Facebook posts. So much for respecting the band's wishes.
The two most attentive people in the room were probably Brian's handsome parents and he called them out when he mentioned drummer Roger Humphries and asked if anyone knew of him (we didn't, they did).
From there, the four talented musicians took us all over the map, sometimes with limited instruction from Brian before they began, occasionally with music in front of them.
And they were all working hard at it, I know, because the room was comfortably warm with so many people and after each piece, Brian and Cameron would use towels to wipe sweat off their faces and necks.
We heard Brian's "Banjo for Ry Cooder" ("Who doesn't like Ry Cooder?"), Miles Davis' "Blue in Green ("The dark prince")," a song he'd written for J.C. (what do you expect when your last name is Kuhl?) and the title song to their latest album.
At one point, he said to the band, "Let's play a tune" and when no one suggested one, he instructed them to improvise one. Once we got to 10:20, they finished with an abbreviated version of their own "Catamaran."
Before the break and throughout the show, Brian didn't hesitate to remind the room that social media was off limits. Coming back after break, he asked the crowd if anyone knew who'd played piano on "Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood" and no one was certain. A guy offered to Google it (Johnny Costa) and satisfy the collective curiosity. But after that, no phones.
When the show ended, Brian made sure everyone knew that their next gig is at the VMFA's jazz cafe in December. "And no social media will be allowed there, either!" he warned.
Men who put music ahead of phone usage are a rare breed lately. After I finish swooning, I'm writing that date in my calendar.
Then maybe I'll start a Luddite fan club.
Wednesday, November 12, 2014
Super Spies and Regular Guys
I don't know that single women went out by themselves in 1945. But if they did, their evening may have gone something like mine did.
It began with dinner at a lunch counter, Garnett's to be precise, because it's the kind of wholesome place even a single gal could have gone to alone, knowing it wouldn't break the bank or put her in contact with an unsavory character. The kind of place you expect to see pie stands on the counter.
There, I sat at the counter next a table with a couple on a date, probably their first. I say this because they politely and formally shared stories of their lives with each other as they ate.
Telling her about a party he went to, he bragged that there was free booze and he got a little wild. "But I don't usually drink much," he finished in a rush as if it had just occurred to him that she might not be looking for a wild one.
Me, I was just looking for a farmer's salad piled high with bacon and apples and a chance to finish reading today's Washington Post while the Avett Brothers played in the background. They'd sold out of my favorite chocolate/coconut cake at lunch, so I went without dessert, probably a good thing after my weekend of non-stop eating with my sisters.
From there I trekked to the Cultural Arts Center at Glen Allen for tonight's production by the On the Air Radio Players, appropriately titled "Noir-vember."
Walking into the lobby, I noticed the scene had been set with old detective film posters such as a French one for "The Maltese Falcon" and another for "This Gun for Hire" starring the sultry Veronica Lake. Inside the theater, music of the early 20th century played.
Since I've been to these radio plays before, the first thing I noticed was that the sound effects table had been moved to the back of the stage from the side, a shame since it was harder for me to watch the fun as they walked shoes, knocked on doors and jingled keys. I'm sure they had a good reason.
Four microphones were set up for the ten actors and four for the sound effects team with the keyboardist off to our right. I was fourth row center with a terrific view of it all.
I noticed a guy setting up a camera and soon spotted the vertically superior Mark Holmberg with him, no doubt inspired to do a piece on OTARP after seeing the one in Style Weekly (penned by this blog's heroine). Or not.
When the actors came onstage, many were in '40s garb with women in hats and men in trench coats. The announcer encouraged us to laugh, cry and have a great time and the show began with the applause light coming on and the audience responding accordingly.
The first play was "The Saint: The High Fence," first aired on CBS in June 1945 and it was appropriately sponsored by Tan Man trench coats ("Trench coats for the super spy or the regular guy") with a trio of women singing the Tan Man jingle for us.
Nothing says man of mystery like a Tan Man raincoat.
Not that I don't enjoy a good mystery story, but a big part of the appeal of a 70-year old radio play is the language. When's the last time you used slug (not the slimy kind), pigeon (not the disgusting city bird) or throttle (the car part not the verb)? See what I'm saying?
Or when's the last time a man said to a woman, "You should caution your friend in her choice of haberdashery," like the Saint did to his girlfriend Pat? Oh, I don't know, never?
Speaking of the character Pat, every time the Saint mentioned kissing her, she'd rise up on tiptoe and lift one leg fetchingly behind her. Very cute.
No surprise, the Saint recovered the $27,650 worth of stolen diamonds and the announcer said, "The Saint solved another one!" No doubt because he wore a Tan Man raincoat, I might add.
You really have to experience a radio play to fully appreciate how actors with scripts in hand and sound technicians with a host of items that make noise can make you "see" things that aren't actually being shown.
After a round of applause, we went right into "The Adventures of Sam Spade: The Hot 100 Grand Caper" from 1948.
It had the distinction of being sponsored by Wildroot Cream Oil Hair Tonic (with lanolin!), the choice of men who put good grooming first. Do we still have those kind of men? I don't think they were referring to metro-sexuals in 1948.
The story was about a woman whose husband is being blackmailed so she engages Sam Spade to find out what's going on. You see, he's been going out a lot at night and that's not like him. "Only desperation could induce him to leave the house after dark!" Fortunately, I have no similar compunction.
It took some gambling on the wife's dime and sacrificing her car so he wouldn't get shot, but Sam managed to make everything better by the end.
How much better? Well, the plan to celebrate consisted of staying up late to raid the icebox.
Ah, the simple pleasures of the 1940s. Dinner at a lunch counter and a radio play of detective stories, complete with sound effects and music.
I've got the staying up late part nailed. Now if only my refrigerator was worth raiding...
It began with dinner at a lunch counter, Garnett's to be precise, because it's the kind of wholesome place even a single gal could have gone to alone, knowing it wouldn't break the bank or put her in contact with an unsavory character. The kind of place you expect to see pie stands on the counter.
There, I sat at the counter next a table with a couple on a date, probably their first. I say this because they politely and formally shared stories of their lives with each other as they ate.
Telling her about a party he went to, he bragged that there was free booze and he got a little wild. "But I don't usually drink much," he finished in a rush as if it had just occurred to him that she might not be looking for a wild one.
Me, I was just looking for a farmer's salad piled high with bacon and apples and a chance to finish reading today's Washington Post while the Avett Brothers played in the background. They'd sold out of my favorite chocolate/coconut cake at lunch, so I went without dessert, probably a good thing after my weekend of non-stop eating with my sisters.
From there I trekked to the Cultural Arts Center at Glen Allen for tonight's production by the On the Air Radio Players, appropriately titled "Noir-vember."
Walking into the lobby, I noticed the scene had been set with old detective film posters such as a French one for "The Maltese Falcon" and another for "This Gun for Hire" starring the sultry Veronica Lake. Inside the theater, music of the early 20th century played.
Since I've been to these radio plays before, the first thing I noticed was that the sound effects table had been moved to the back of the stage from the side, a shame since it was harder for me to watch the fun as they walked shoes, knocked on doors and jingled keys. I'm sure they had a good reason.
Four microphones were set up for the ten actors and four for the sound effects team with the keyboardist off to our right. I was fourth row center with a terrific view of it all.
I noticed a guy setting up a camera and soon spotted the vertically superior Mark Holmberg with him, no doubt inspired to do a piece on OTARP after seeing the one in Style Weekly (penned by this blog's heroine). Or not.
When the actors came onstage, many were in '40s garb with women in hats and men in trench coats. The announcer encouraged us to laugh, cry and have a great time and the show began with the applause light coming on and the audience responding accordingly.
The first play was "The Saint: The High Fence," first aired on CBS in June 1945 and it was appropriately sponsored by Tan Man trench coats ("Trench coats for the super spy or the regular guy") with a trio of women singing the Tan Man jingle for us.
Nothing says man of mystery like a Tan Man raincoat.
Not that I don't enjoy a good mystery story, but a big part of the appeal of a 70-year old radio play is the language. When's the last time you used slug (not the slimy kind), pigeon (not the disgusting city bird) or throttle (the car part not the verb)? See what I'm saying?
Or when's the last time a man said to a woman, "You should caution your friend in her choice of haberdashery," like the Saint did to his girlfriend Pat? Oh, I don't know, never?
Speaking of the character Pat, every time the Saint mentioned kissing her, she'd rise up on tiptoe and lift one leg fetchingly behind her. Very cute.
No surprise, the Saint recovered the $27,650 worth of stolen diamonds and the announcer said, "The Saint solved another one!" No doubt because he wore a Tan Man raincoat, I might add.
You really have to experience a radio play to fully appreciate how actors with scripts in hand and sound technicians with a host of items that make noise can make you "see" things that aren't actually being shown.
After a round of applause, we went right into "The Adventures of Sam Spade: The Hot 100 Grand Caper" from 1948.
It had the distinction of being sponsored by Wildroot Cream Oil Hair Tonic (with lanolin!), the choice of men who put good grooming first. Do we still have those kind of men? I don't think they were referring to metro-sexuals in 1948.
The story was about a woman whose husband is being blackmailed so she engages Sam Spade to find out what's going on. You see, he's been going out a lot at night and that's not like him. "Only desperation could induce him to leave the house after dark!" Fortunately, I have no similar compunction.
It took some gambling on the wife's dime and sacrificing her car so he wouldn't get shot, but Sam managed to make everything better by the end.
How much better? Well, the plan to celebrate consisted of staying up late to raid the icebox.
Ah, the simple pleasures of the 1940s. Dinner at a lunch counter and a radio play of detective stories, complete with sound effects and music.
I've got the staying up late part nailed. Now if only my refrigerator was worth raiding...
You Look Happy
The gods are teasing us with this weather.
I had a busy day on tap with lots of places to be but the weather was so glorious I walked to them all. The plan was to walk to see a VCU Cinemetheque film to round out my day when I got a better offer ("I miss your face!" always works). All thoughts of another walk went out the window.
Since it was Tuesday, Metzger came to mind because I knew it was dollar oyster night and that's cheaper even than eating them at Merroir, much less anywhere around here. And who doesn't want to eat oysters on a mild November evening like this?
The place was pretty low key with a familiar face among those at the bar and only a few tables occupied. We took center position at the bar, squished together between other bar sitters, most of whom had empty oyster shells in front of them.
One of my favorite things about Metzger is the reliably stellar soundtrack courtesy of Mr. Fine Wine's downtown Soulville, but before my audiophile companion could lose himself in the music, he observed that the Bose speakers were incorrectly placed, a shame given the potential for quality sound with Bose. Me, I'd have never noticed given how much I liked the music.
As if dollar oysters aren't enough of a siren song, Metzger also offers one bottle of wine at retail cost, so we added a bottle of Verdejo to our bivalve meal for a pittance. Clearly they empathize with those of a limited pocketbook and I appreciate that.
The guy shucking oysters was situated right in front of us and had been shucking pretty much non-stop since we arrived. He wasn't wearing a glove, though, and I kept fearing for a slip of the oyster knife and blood everywhere.
Tonight's oyster offerings were two and I inquired about their sources. We were told that the Holy Grails were from Maryland and that the Shooting Points were from the eastern shore near Chincoteague so they'd be saltier.
So naturally when the dozen Shooting Points arrived first, I held off so I could enjoy their brininess after the less salty variety.
Except it turned out that the Holy Grails had a bracing salinity, too. Not that I'm complaining because I'd always rather eat saltier oysters and feel like I took a gulp of the ocean, but some people do prefer a more buttery taste.
Turns out the Holy Grails are from Hooper's Island, Maryland on the Chesapeake Bay, a place I know well because it's near Fishing Creek where we used to visit my aunt's summer place in the '80s. Shooting Point Salts are from Hog Island, off of the Eastern Shore, the very area I was curious about but couldn't access on a recent trip out there.
Regardless, we slurped down both dozens with no problem, finishing with the taste of the sea in our mouths.
The cider town crier stopped by to say hello and discuss upcoming cider week dinners, saying she is determined to make Richmond and not Charlottesville Virginia's cider central. With her musician husband, we got off on a tangent about the announcement that experimental rock band Swans is coming to the Broadberry, a very big deal to certain music fans. Will we fill the venue? Hard to say, but we're hopeful.
After they left to go home to test out their new bed from Sleepy's, we moved on to trotter torchon, a dish I'd sampled at the festival of the hungry ghosts at Hardywood. The richness of the dish lent credence to the opinion of a friend who'd labeled it an orgasm in his mouth that night.
Because my date considers himself somewhat knowledgeable about European comfort food, he insisted we try the pork schnitzel with Von Hovel Riesling, a perfectly lovely balance between sweet and dry.
Meanwhile the barkeep and I discussed the fabulous dance party they'd thrown a while back with Mr. Fine Wine in the restaurant and I clamored for another, something that's apparently already in the works. Turns out Mr. Fine Wine thought it was one of the best dance parties he'd ever DJ'd and can't wait to come back. The feeling is mutual.
Walking out of Metzger, it was a delight to find the air just as warm and soft as when we'd gone in three hours earlier. I know that the sledgehammer of cold weather is about to crash down on us, but being able to have on a light, ruffled sweater for a wrap on Veteran's day is a gift to thin-blooded types like me.
Sure, it would have been a beautiful night for a walk but sometimes you just need to share your face and slurp with someone who appreciates it.
And, yes, that's a metaphor.
I had a busy day on tap with lots of places to be but the weather was so glorious I walked to them all. The plan was to walk to see a VCU Cinemetheque film to round out my day when I got a better offer ("I miss your face!" always works). All thoughts of another walk went out the window.
Since it was Tuesday, Metzger came to mind because I knew it was dollar oyster night and that's cheaper even than eating them at Merroir, much less anywhere around here. And who doesn't want to eat oysters on a mild November evening like this?
The place was pretty low key with a familiar face among those at the bar and only a few tables occupied. We took center position at the bar, squished together between other bar sitters, most of whom had empty oyster shells in front of them.
One of my favorite things about Metzger is the reliably stellar soundtrack courtesy of Mr. Fine Wine's downtown Soulville, but before my audiophile companion could lose himself in the music, he observed that the Bose speakers were incorrectly placed, a shame given the potential for quality sound with Bose. Me, I'd have never noticed given how much I liked the music.
As if dollar oysters aren't enough of a siren song, Metzger also offers one bottle of wine at retail cost, so we added a bottle of Verdejo to our bivalve meal for a pittance. Clearly they empathize with those of a limited pocketbook and I appreciate that.
The guy shucking oysters was situated right in front of us and had been shucking pretty much non-stop since we arrived. He wasn't wearing a glove, though, and I kept fearing for a slip of the oyster knife and blood everywhere.
Tonight's oyster offerings were two and I inquired about their sources. We were told that the Holy Grails were from Maryland and that the Shooting Points were from the eastern shore near Chincoteague so they'd be saltier.
So naturally when the dozen Shooting Points arrived first, I held off so I could enjoy their brininess after the less salty variety.
Except it turned out that the Holy Grails had a bracing salinity, too. Not that I'm complaining because I'd always rather eat saltier oysters and feel like I took a gulp of the ocean, but some people do prefer a more buttery taste.
Turns out the Holy Grails are from Hooper's Island, Maryland on the Chesapeake Bay, a place I know well because it's near Fishing Creek where we used to visit my aunt's summer place in the '80s. Shooting Point Salts are from Hog Island, off of the Eastern Shore, the very area I was curious about but couldn't access on a recent trip out there.
Regardless, we slurped down both dozens with no problem, finishing with the taste of the sea in our mouths.
The cider town crier stopped by to say hello and discuss upcoming cider week dinners, saying she is determined to make Richmond and not Charlottesville Virginia's cider central. With her musician husband, we got off on a tangent about the announcement that experimental rock band Swans is coming to the Broadberry, a very big deal to certain music fans. Will we fill the venue? Hard to say, but we're hopeful.
After they left to go home to test out their new bed from Sleepy's, we moved on to trotter torchon, a dish I'd sampled at the festival of the hungry ghosts at Hardywood. The richness of the dish lent credence to the opinion of a friend who'd labeled it an orgasm in his mouth that night.
Because my date considers himself somewhat knowledgeable about European comfort food, he insisted we try the pork schnitzel with Von Hovel Riesling, a perfectly lovely balance between sweet and dry.
Meanwhile the barkeep and I discussed the fabulous dance party they'd thrown a while back with Mr. Fine Wine in the restaurant and I clamored for another, something that's apparently already in the works. Turns out Mr. Fine Wine thought it was one of the best dance parties he'd ever DJ'd and can't wait to come back. The feeling is mutual.
Walking out of Metzger, it was a delight to find the air just as warm and soft as when we'd gone in three hours earlier. I know that the sledgehammer of cold weather is about to crash down on us, but being able to have on a light, ruffled sweater for a wrap on Veteran's day is a gift to thin-blooded types like me.
Sure, it would have been a beautiful night for a walk but sometimes you just need to share your face and slurp with someone who appreciates it.
And, yes, that's a metaphor.
Tuesday, November 11, 2014
Over There
I'm abnormally attracted to medical history despite no interest in actual practice.
I have an inability to watch as blood is taken from my arm. Once offered the opportunity to watch surgery live, I declined. Even in a film, if someone is shooting drugs, I look away.
Ah, but I was also that nerd who loved going to the Chimborazo Medical Museum back when they had an exhibit of photographs of injured Civil War soldiers and amputees. I've toured the former wards of the old Sheltering Arms hospital. I was even sucked in by MCV's exhibit on vintage bedpans.
So when I saw that there was a lecture for the opening of "We Made Do: Caring for the Sick and Wounded in the Great War" at Tompkins-McCaw Library this afternoon, I rearranged my schedule to make it over there.
At some point I'd seen a photograph of what was MCV's Base Hospital 45 and been fascinated to learn that Richmond's medical school had had a presence in France during WWI. But I needed to know more.
I was one of the early arrivals, taking a seat in a creaky wooden chair that probably dated back to before I was born. It was gratifying to see that I wasn't the only one who'd chosen to spend Veteran's Day looking at a military exhibit.
Archivist Jodi Koste greeted the crowd and let us know that Dr. Hunter McGuire was the older gentleman in the front section. She proceeded to use old photographs to set the scene for how MCV began the advanced training to prepare medical students to participate in the war effort.
Since it was the largest mobilization in U.S. history, the thinking was that by training medical personnel together, procedures would already be in place and the staff would be familiar with each other once they were overseas.
Recruitment for Base Hospital 45 began in 1917 with the help of the newly formed Richmond Red Cross. One of the first orders of business was assuring that the personnel who made it through training got additional screenings for venereal disease, apparently far too common among men at the time.
Koste showed a picture of dogs and horses in gas masks as part of the testing of the devices. We saw the massive French barracks that the MCV staff was tasked with turning into a functioning hospital despite no electricity, heat or elevators in the four-story building.
Naturally, given the cultural climate of the time, nurses did not immediately go overseas with the staff. First they were sent to NYC for uniform fittings and (wait for it) singing lessons. I only wish she'd known why such instruction was deemed necessary.
To entertain an injured soldier far from home? Now that's some bedside manner.
One of the women in the unit got to dance with the Prince of Wales when he came through and a dance was held. For the record, she told the papers that he wasn't a very good dancer.
After the talk ended, a cake decorated like the American flag was cut and the group began milling around. I made a bee line for the exhibit space where I saw WWI male and female uniforms which had to be paid for out of the person's own budget, not the army's.
The woman's uniforms were very different with dress blues for the field (and dances!) and grey jersey with white cuffs for on duty.
In that way that some things never change, next to a small foot locker was a sign explaining that a solider had to fit all his possessions in that one trunk. Unless he was a she because nurses were allowed to have the foot locker plus a suitcase or large satchel.
You see, as a gender, we've just always packed heavier, even in times of war.
The exhibit gave an idea of the scope of what the MCV crew had accomplished, including providing care for 17,426 sick and wounded soldiers during their time in Toul, France. After one battle, 8,000 wounded passed through Base Hospital 45 in four days. And the occasional dance with royalty.
That's an amazing story with the exhibit providing a look at a little known slice of Richmond history. Blood was conspicuously absent, the red icing on my slice of cake the closest looking thing.
My kind of medical experience.
I have an inability to watch as blood is taken from my arm. Once offered the opportunity to watch surgery live, I declined. Even in a film, if someone is shooting drugs, I look away.
Ah, but I was also that nerd who loved going to the Chimborazo Medical Museum back when they had an exhibit of photographs of injured Civil War soldiers and amputees. I've toured the former wards of the old Sheltering Arms hospital. I was even sucked in by MCV's exhibit on vintage bedpans.
So when I saw that there was a lecture for the opening of "We Made Do: Caring for the Sick and Wounded in the Great War" at Tompkins-McCaw Library this afternoon, I rearranged my schedule to make it over there.
At some point I'd seen a photograph of what was MCV's Base Hospital 45 and been fascinated to learn that Richmond's medical school had had a presence in France during WWI. But I needed to know more.
I was one of the early arrivals, taking a seat in a creaky wooden chair that probably dated back to before I was born. It was gratifying to see that I wasn't the only one who'd chosen to spend Veteran's Day looking at a military exhibit.
Archivist Jodi Koste greeted the crowd and let us know that Dr. Hunter McGuire was the older gentleman in the front section. She proceeded to use old photographs to set the scene for how MCV began the advanced training to prepare medical students to participate in the war effort.
Since it was the largest mobilization in U.S. history, the thinking was that by training medical personnel together, procedures would already be in place and the staff would be familiar with each other once they were overseas.
Recruitment for Base Hospital 45 began in 1917 with the help of the newly formed Richmond Red Cross. One of the first orders of business was assuring that the personnel who made it through training got additional screenings for venereal disease, apparently far too common among men at the time.
Koste showed a picture of dogs and horses in gas masks as part of the testing of the devices. We saw the massive French barracks that the MCV staff was tasked with turning into a functioning hospital despite no electricity, heat or elevators in the four-story building.
Naturally, given the cultural climate of the time, nurses did not immediately go overseas with the staff. First they were sent to NYC for uniform fittings and (wait for it) singing lessons. I only wish she'd known why such instruction was deemed necessary.
To entertain an injured soldier far from home? Now that's some bedside manner.
One of the women in the unit got to dance with the Prince of Wales when he came through and a dance was held. For the record, she told the papers that he wasn't a very good dancer.
After the talk ended, a cake decorated like the American flag was cut and the group began milling around. I made a bee line for the exhibit space where I saw WWI male and female uniforms which had to be paid for out of the person's own budget, not the army's.
The woman's uniforms were very different with dress blues for the field (and dances!) and grey jersey with white cuffs for on duty.
In that way that some things never change, next to a small foot locker was a sign explaining that a solider had to fit all his possessions in that one trunk. Unless he was a she because nurses were allowed to have the foot locker plus a suitcase or large satchel.
You see, as a gender, we've just always packed heavier, even in times of war.
The exhibit gave an idea of the scope of what the MCV crew had accomplished, including providing care for 17,426 sick and wounded soldiers during their time in Toul, France. After one battle, 8,000 wounded passed through Base Hospital 45 in four days. And the occasional dance with royalty.
That's an amazing story with the exhibit providing a look at a little known slice of Richmond history. Blood was conspicuously absent, the red icing on my slice of cake the closest looking thing.
My kind of medical experience.
Passion is No Ordinary Word
If you want to appreciate friends, spend a weekend with family.
What I mean to say is that I was happy when a late-afternoon invitation resulted in dinner plans with a favorite couple. I wanted to be with people who accept me as I am without comment, unlike my feminine siblings.
We met at Holmes' house for a glass of wine over discussion of where to go. Stuzzi was close but no one was craving New Jersey meatballs. Belmont Food Shop isn't much further but they'd recently been there. Ditto Zeus and Pomegranate.
Finally Holmes suggested Acacia and the vote was unanimous. He even sprang for valet parking, a luxury to which I'm unaccustomed. We found seats at a nearly empty bar, ready for an experience.
It's true. Restaurants, trendy and not so, come and go in this town and Acacia has been reliably outstanding through it all. And they're open on Monday nights, a huge plus in my book.
Holmes turned to the ladies when it came time to choose wine, always a smooth move. The Provence Rose we decided on was out of stock so we switched to the Cheateau d'Agueria Tavel Rose and never looked back.
Vividly pink, the blend of Grenache, Syrah and Cinsault was fruity, acidic and dry as a bone, in other words, immensely quaffable. Just as good was the music playing, an eclectic mix that ranged from the Supremes to Local Natives.
Since we hadn't met up in a while, they wanted to hear about my sistertrip (they've met two of the clan) and Holmes suggested he accompany me on the next one to put my sisters in their place when they get out of line with me. Good luck with that, friend.
From his beloved, I heard a comment made by a friend of theirs who'd met me when we were at Merroir a few months ago. Apparently he'd shared that if he weren't married, he'd have been "all over that," a crass way of indicating appreciation for my mind, a fact he also mentioned.
Yes, well, how about that art? None of us have seen "Forbidden City" yet at the VMFA, but we're all just as excited about the upcoming show of Japanese prints. Then there's the upcoming Degas/Cassatt lecture at VMFA that references the big Degas/Cassatt show the three of us saw over the summer.
There was never any question but that we were going to begin the meal with Mi farm oysters on the half shell with jalapeno relish. The northern neck oysters had a nice saltiness and the heat of the onion-based relish complemented it so well that I wondered how I'd never seen a jalapeno accompaniment for oysters before.
Neither of them had heard of sugar toads, but I made a strong enough case to them about the succulent little puffer fish and once it arrived, made quick converts of them. The winter bacon kimchi underneath was out of this world, deeply dark flavored and tart.
Our bartender turned out to be Scottish, from Inverness by way of Napa, and unable to stop himself from calling Holmes "sir," despite requests to knock it off. Only two years in this country, he hadn't a negative thing to say beyond that we drive differently.
When Homes inquired if he liked whisky, he replied "Yes," in a voice that conveyed, "Of course, you idiot, I'm Scottish!" That led to a discussion of brown drinks, of which I know nothing, so I put on my listening ears.
For dinner, I wanted pork jowl confit with carrots, cauliflower, chayote, mole and a black bean gordita, a seamless combination of flavors that suggested south of the border, but left some room for interpretation. The happy couple tried sauteed flounder (oh, that broccolini and ham butter sauce) and scallops swimming in Parmesan butter with gnocchi.
We traded bites (although she wouldn't go near my pork jowls) but everyone was pretty thrilled with what was in front of them. I can't say Acacia's ever let me down.
After a while, some of the large tables of men in ties got up to leave, many of them glancing over at us drinking and laughing probably too loudly, as if to suggest that Mondays are not for having fun.
Just to make sure Acacia was still on point when it comes to happy endings (someone's got to check up on these things), we ordered chocolate cranberry shortcake and brown butter panna cotta and fought each other for the last few bites of each.
Don't tell the pastry police, but I certainly wouldn't call what we had a shortcake, but it did the trick with vanilla ice cream, chocolate sauce and strawberries. For the other, it was the apricot/lemon sorbet that made the panna cotta so appealing.
Replete and unwilling to be the last people in the restaurant, we left for Holmes' house where music is always on tap, usually along with Rose or bubbles. Tonight's new selection was Ed Sheeran's "X," a musician and album that have gotten a ridiculous amount of press. For now, I'm going with "I'm a Mess" and "Tenerife Sea" as my favorites.
His golden oldie of choice tonight was Graham Parker's 1979 masterpiece "Squeezing Out Sparks," meaning I got to hear Parker's screed against his record company ("Mercury Poisoning") and a stellar cover of the Jackson 5's "I Want You Back," as good a pop song as was ever written.
As usual, Holmes had constructed a perfect night of music to accompany our Rose drinking and conversation. As is his habit, at one point he looked at me and told me my bangs are too long. He does this roughly every other time I see him. I defend my bangs and he backs off.
Now there's the difference in friends and family. When a friend insults you, you don't get your panties in a wad over it. With family, it's personal.
Besides, I don't care what friends or family are saying about my bangs. They're staying.
What I mean to say is that I was happy when a late-afternoon invitation resulted in dinner plans with a favorite couple. I wanted to be with people who accept me as I am without comment, unlike my feminine siblings.
We met at Holmes' house for a glass of wine over discussion of where to go. Stuzzi was close but no one was craving New Jersey meatballs. Belmont Food Shop isn't much further but they'd recently been there. Ditto Zeus and Pomegranate.
Finally Holmes suggested Acacia and the vote was unanimous. He even sprang for valet parking, a luxury to which I'm unaccustomed. We found seats at a nearly empty bar, ready for an experience.
It's true. Restaurants, trendy and not so, come and go in this town and Acacia has been reliably outstanding through it all. And they're open on Monday nights, a huge plus in my book.
Holmes turned to the ladies when it came time to choose wine, always a smooth move. The Provence Rose we decided on was out of stock so we switched to the Cheateau d'Agueria Tavel Rose and never looked back.
Vividly pink, the blend of Grenache, Syrah and Cinsault was fruity, acidic and dry as a bone, in other words, immensely quaffable. Just as good was the music playing, an eclectic mix that ranged from the Supremes to Local Natives.
Since we hadn't met up in a while, they wanted to hear about my sistertrip (they've met two of the clan) and Holmes suggested he accompany me on the next one to put my sisters in their place when they get out of line with me. Good luck with that, friend.
From his beloved, I heard a comment made by a friend of theirs who'd met me when we were at Merroir a few months ago. Apparently he'd shared that if he weren't married, he'd have been "all over that," a crass way of indicating appreciation for my mind, a fact he also mentioned.
Yes, well, how about that art? None of us have seen "Forbidden City" yet at the VMFA, but we're all just as excited about the upcoming show of Japanese prints. Then there's the upcoming Degas/Cassatt lecture at VMFA that references the big Degas/Cassatt show the three of us saw over the summer.
There was never any question but that we were going to begin the meal with Mi farm oysters on the half shell with jalapeno relish. The northern neck oysters had a nice saltiness and the heat of the onion-based relish complemented it so well that I wondered how I'd never seen a jalapeno accompaniment for oysters before.
Neither of them had heard of sugar toads, but I made a strong enough case to them about the succulent little puffer fish and once it arrived, made quick converts of them. The winter bacon kimchi underneath was out of this world, deeply dark flavored and tart.
Our bartender turned out to be Scottish, from Inverness by way of Napa, and unable to stop himself from calling Holmes "sir," despite requests to knock it off. Only two years in this country, he hadn't a negative thing to say beyond that we drive differently.
When Homes inquired if he liked whisky, he replied "Yes," in a voice that conveyed, "Of course, you idiot, I'm Scottish!" That led to a discussion of brown drinks, of which I know nothing, so I put on my listening ears.
For dinner, I wanted pork jowl confit with carrots, cauliflower, chayote, mole and a black bean gordita, a seamless combination of flavors that suggested south of the border, but left some room for interpretation. The happy couple tried sauteed flounder (oh, that broccolini and ham butter sauce) and scallops swimming in Parmesan butter with gnocchi.
We traded bites (although she wouldn't go near my pork jowls) but everyone was pretty thrilled with what was in front of them. I can't say Acacia's ever let me down.
After a while, some of the large tables of men in ties got up to leave, many of them glancing over at us drinking and laughing probably too loudly, as if to suggest that Mondays are not for having fun.
Just to make sure Acacia was still on point when it comes to happy endings (someone's got to check up on these things), we ordered chocolate cranberry shortcake and brown butter panna cotta and fought each other for the last few bites of each.
Don't tell the pastry police, but I certainly wouldn't call what we had a shortcake, but it did the trick with vanilla ice cream, chocolate sauce and strawberries. For the other, it was the apricot/lemon sorbet that made the panna cotta so appealing.
Replete and unwilling to be the last people in the restaurant, we left for Holmes' house where music is always on tap, usually along with Rose or bubbles. Tonight's new selection was Ed Sheeran's "X," a musician and album that have gotten a ridiculous amount of press. For now, I'm going with "I'm a Mess" and "Tenerife Sea" as my favorites.
His golden oldie of choice tonight was Graham Parker's 1979 masterpiece "Squeezing Out Sparks," meaning I got to hear Parker's screed against his record company ("Mercury Poisoning") and a stellar cover of the Jackson 5's "I Want You Back," as good a pop song as was ever written.
As usual, Holmes had constructed a perfect night of music to accompany our Rose drinking and conversation. As is his habit, at one point he looked at me and told me my bangs are too long. He does this roughly every other time I see him. I defend my bangs and he backs off.
Now there's the difference in friends and family. When a friend insults you, you don't get your panties in a wad over it. With family, it's personal.
Besides, I don't care what friends or family are saying about my bangs. They're staying.
Monday, November 10, 2014
And Now, the Romance
I didn't need a whole lot tonight versus embracing the random. All good.
You see, the last two nights in Delaplane with my sisters had taken their toll. Friday night I'd gotten about six hours' sleep and last night no more than five. Fact is, I'm a nine hour a night myself type. So while I wanted to go out, it wasn't going to take much to satisfy me.
The Silent Music Revival at Gallery 5 was ideal: a four-block walk, it lasts less than an hour, I never tire of the combination of a silent film with live, improvised music.
While tonight's crowd was nowhere near as large as the Halloween show had been, the Sunday crowd held plenty of friends. The globe-trotting couple who just put a contract on a farm. The tireless musician whom I hadn't seen in ages and his lovely date. The former co-worker on a rare night out. The Hat in his leather jacket.
Tonight's band was the Richmanian Ramblers, an apt choice as we began with a Lithuanian/Romanian silent short film, "Lullabye." It was even more intricate than that because host Jameson explained that there's a good chance Charlie Chaplin was of Romanian descent, born at a gypsy camp and taken under by English parents who saw his potential as a member of their traveling circus.
Boy, it sure is harder to exploit your children these days than it was 100 years ago.
The 1919 film "Sunnyside" had all the usual Charlie Chaplin tropes: plenty of slapstick, just enough pathos, a down and out character. Charlie's character herded cows (of course losing them), was tickled awake by a quartet of nymphs with daisy chains (an early dream sequence), got kicked in the butt almost constantly and climbed in and out of windows as if they were doors.
He also fell in love (the title card read, "And now, the romance"), tried unsuccessfully to woo and eventually got the girl. As a bonus, I could geek out on language since one of the title cards used the word forenoon - "the whole forenoon nearly gone" - which you never see anymore. What more could I want out of a 29-minute film?
The Ramblers did an ace job of pairing their Romanian gypsy songs with appropriate scenes (during one scene with goats, the song had sheep bleating sounds) to enhance the experience of watching. Accordion music flowed freely.
Afterwards, a friend suggested getting a drink at Saison because she still had a babysitter's services, so with the Man About Town in tow, we walked over. The bar stools were occupied, so we made do with a table to support their cleverly named cocktails: the Nimble Kitten Parade.
Our trio made an interesting group since never before in the history of mankind had the three of us done anything together. You could chalk it up to silent movies making for strange bedfellows or you could say three smart people who'd just seen a tasty film/music performance wanted to keep talking.
And topics? Everything was fair game: seeing the mayor drunk and acting like a fat cat, "gentle" gentrification, rebuilding the Diamond and memories of Gaston and Isabelle. After so much dealing with sisters this weekend, it was just great to have conversation with non-family.
Before long, a friend came over to the table to say hello, bringing with her tales of her latest art work (nude snowflakes and dollar bill portraits) and what her three-year plan is. I admire a woman with a plan.
After a couple of hours, the friend with the babysitter had her Cinderella moment, suddenly realizing she needed to be home shortly. We three walked a block together before going our separate ways, me home to bed after a long weekend.
One way to look at my evening is that I ended up with way more than I needed tonight. Another would be that there wasn't a single thing I didn't want. Random wins every time.
You see, the last two nights in Delaplane with my sisters had taken their toll. Friday night I'd gotten about six hours' sleep and last night no more than five. Fact is, I'm a nine hour a night myself type. So while I wanted to go out, it wasn't going to take much to satisfy me.
The Silent Music Revival at Gallery 5 was ideal: a four-block walk, it lasts less than an hour, I never tire of the combination of a silent film with live, improvised music.
While tonight's crowd was nowhere near as large as the Halloween show had been, the Sunday crowd held plenty of friends. The globe-trotting couple who just put a contract on a farm. The tireless musician whom I hadn't seen in ages and his lovely date. The former co-worker on a rare night out. The Hat in his leather jacket.
Tonight's band was the Richmanian Ramblers, an apt choice as we began with a Lithuanian/Romanian silent short film, "Lullabye." It was even more intricate than that because host Jameson explained that there's a good chance Charlie Chaplin was of Romanian descent, born at a gypsy camp and taken under by English parents who saw his potential as a member of their traveling circus.
Boy, it sure is harder to exploit your children these days than it was 100 years ago.
The 1919 film "Sunnyside" had all the usual Charlie Chaplin tropes: plenty of slapstick, just enough pathos, a down and out character. Charlie's character herded cows (of course losing them), was tickled awake by a quartet of nymphs with daisy chains (an early dream sequence), got kicked in the butt almost constantly and climbed in and out of windows as if they were doors.
He also fell in love (the title card read, "And now, the romance"), tried unsuccessfully to woo and eventually got the girl. As a bonus, I could geek out on language since one of the title cards used the word forenoon - "the whole forenoon nearly gone" - which you never see anymore. What more could I want out of a 29-minute film?
The Ramblers did an ace job of pairing their Romanian gypsy songs with appropriate scenes (during one scene with goats, the song had sheep bleating sounds) to enhance the experience of watching. Accordion music flowed freely.
Afterwards, a friend suggested getting a drink at Saison because she still had a babysitter's services, so with the Man About Town in tow, we walked over. The bar stools were occupied, so we made do with a table to support their cleverly named cocktails: the Nimble Kitten Parade.
Our trio made an interesting group since never before in the history of mankind had the three of us done anything together. You could chalk it up to silent movies making for strange bedfellows or you could say three smart people who'd just seen a tasty film/music performance wanted to keep talking.
And topics? Everything was fair game: seeing the mayor drunk and acting like a fat cat, "gentle" gentrification, rebuilding the Diamond and memories of Gaston and Isabelle. After so much dealing with sisters this weekend, it was just great to have conversation with non-family.
Before long, a friend came over to the table to say hello, bringing with her tales of her latest art work (nude snowflakes and dollar bill portraits) and what her three-year plan is. I admire a woman with a plan.
After a couple of hours, the friend with the babysitter had her Cinderella moment, suddenly realizing she needed to be home shortly. We three walked a block together before going our separate ways, me home to bed after a long weekend.
One way to look at my evening is that I ended up with way more than I needed tonight. Another would be that there wasn't a single thing I didn't want. Random wins every time.
Sunday, November 9, 2014
Power of the Sisterhood
In theory, it sounds like an awful idea.
Take a half dozen middle-aged women, send them to an isolated house in the middle of nowhere for two nights and hope for the best. In my family, that's what we call the sistertrip, an annual sibling roundup where the goal is to spend a weekend bonding with my five sisters.
Sister #5 opted out from the get-go, claiming that she doesn't need to participate because she has nothing to say. While the remaining sisters know that this isn't true, we have stopped trying to win her over and accept her absence.
This year's trip had been planned for Delaplane by Sister #3, who suggested that any sisters who arrived early should meet her at Three Fox Vineyards. Somehow, I was the only one who made it.
Despite being an incomplete set, we tasted through the wines, enjoying their take on Italian wine-making styles with a couple of Sangioveses and a Piemontese Nebbiolo before taking glasses (mine was of the Cano Pazzo Rose) to the heated patio to sip and admire the property.
Scattered over the hillside were metal tables and chairs for anyone wanting an Italian-like view, but the blustery wind kept everyone indoors. At the top of a hill sat one lone table that's no doubt a popular spot when the weather is fine.
From the winery, it was only half a mile to our weekend digs, a house straight out of the Brady Bunch era. The one-floor house had high, timbered ceilings, there were windows covering all the walls for a view and a stone fireplace was at the center of the house. Vertical blinds, lots of sliding doors, all very '70s.
I was assigned to sleep in the "kids' loft," not a loft at all, but a bedroom that ran the width of the house with double-sized bunk beds and windows on three sides. It felt a lot like what may have been a porch at one time. Perfect for me, in other words.
After the extended unpacking period (so many bags for five people for only 42 hours), we began the real business of a sistertrip: drinking, talking over each other, reminiscing and laughing. The organizer, Sister #3, passed out cocktail napkins that summed up her itinerary: "Drink up, bitches."
You'd think that given that we all grew up in a nice, neat nuclear family, walking to school and taking family vacations together, that we'd share a lot of the same memories. Not so.
A reliably hysterical part of these trips is always when someone begins, "Remember when...?" and others in the group look at her dumbfounded. She may recall with great clarity something that the rest of us didn't even bothering filing away.
The town's annual corn boil and pig roast that #4 mentions fondly? If I went, no memory at all of it. But when I bring up the Bookmobile that used to visit before the library was built, I get a chorus of "Yes!" from the group, except Sister #6 who has nothing but skeevy memories of choosing books from it.
One thing the rented house came with that we weren't expecting was a pool table and I quickly learned that Sisters #2, #3 and #6 not only enjoy playing but aren't half bad. Me, never played before in my life.
That didn't stop me from being roped onto a team with Sister #3 who did her best to coach me in shooting (since I had zero experience) and strategizing, as least as much as an incompetent first-timer can. So there's pool, off my "before I die" list.
Several of the sisters were enchanted by the nearby sounds of train whistles because the tracks were so close. Since I live just as close to train tracks as these were, it was just business as usual for me. But Sister #3 was so curious, she walked down to the tracks to gather data, returning to share that it was at that station that Jackson had loaded 10,000 troops aboard to head north and fight. So, kind of a big deal.
One of the features of a sistertrip is that we each concoct games to play as the evening wears on and everyone's tongues get loosened by their bevvy of choice.
I came up with one where I listed six of the top ten songs from each of the years we graduated high school and you had to pick out which music went with what sister. Another games was called "He said, she said" and involved us trying to guess how our parents had answered questions.
The answers were illuminating in one way or another. When asked about our childhood dog, my mother's answer had been "guilt gift." Not a single one of us had any knowledge that guilt had factored into us getting a dog. As one sister reacted, "We're going to need to do some digging on this one."
Big meals are part of the agenda of a sistertrip and whenever we can arrange it, also fire tending. This house had a massive stone fireplace that allowed all five of us to demonstrate the fire-starting and maintenance skills that our father drilled into us as children. Sister #4 said that whenever she makes an unimpressive fire at home, her husband always makes a crack about reporting her to Dad.
Since we were up in Fauquier County, we had terrific views of mountains and changing leaves on massive, old trees. Three of us wandered the paths and hillside of the 33-acre property we were staying on, gathering kindling along the way (Dad would be so proud).
Friday night's full moon was impressive enough to sit outside and admire despite the chilly temperatures, but Saturday we did even better by making use of the fire pit and pulling five Adirondack chairs around it. Naturally, Sister #3 had brought the ingredients for s'mores, so we grilled marshmallows for the greater good.
When one sister wasn't participating in skewering a marshmallow, another chided her. "But I don't like s'mores!" Sister #2 explained. "I don't like them, either. This isn't about liking them, it's about childhood memories!" Sister #4 clarified.
We've coined a term for this sort of thing: forced family fun. And by fun, we mean dysfunctional.
Sister#3, an avid photographer for 30 years, had brought several boxes of old pictures for us all to go through and choose what to keep. She's finally decided that having boxes of photos she never looks at is silly.
As we passed handfuls of pictures around a circle, everyone commented about something - how '80s our hair looked (in the '80s, go figure!), how impossibly young we once were, a view at my parents' house that now looks completely different - and inevitably, one sister or another would find a flattering picture to set aside.
All of those landed on a large piece of display board (Sister #3 is tireless when it comes to sistertrip planning) which we covered in photos of us over the years, laying better photos over less flattering ones to create a visual history of our lives together as sisters. The fact that we all look like variations on a theme just adds to the goofiness of a collage of so many women so close in age.
Not long before dinnertime, Sister #5 - who'd opted out - graced us with her presence, staying long enough to eat dinner, play a game and look at a few photos before heading out into the darkness to make her way back to suburban Maryland.
Because all five of my sisters live in Maryland and I've been in Richmond for 28 years, I'm the one who's out of the loop. They can see each other socially and because they have more contact, they know each other much better than I know any of them. It's a given that I will not know something about a sister that everyone else already knows.
Not to mention how little they know about me when it comes to some things. "I don't pretend to know anything about your life," Sister #4 says, not unkindly but as statement of fact. And that's the sister who considers me her favorite.
Sisters are complicated.
After a big breakfast together this morning, my sisters were all eager to hit the road home while I was hoping someone would want to spend some time in the area wining or dining. I didn't ask what their hurry was (although, like fire maintenance, my father instilled in us a love of football so they may have wanted to make a 1:00 game), but chose to take my time anyway.
Checkout time was an ungodly 10 a.m. so my problem was that none of the wineries opened before 11 or 12. I headed south on Route 17, sure I'd eventually find something.
In Warrenton, I passed a vintage-looking Howard Johnson's with the angular orange roof, a throwback to childhood because my Mom would take us there for birthday lunches.
In the process, I showed my age by employing not one but two maps (one of Virginia's back roads and one of its wineries and vineyards) as I moseyed down Route 15 and Route 522.
When I spotted signs for Old House Vineyards, I followed the signs as far as one telling me that they didn't open for another 45 minutes. Drat the luck.
Eventually, I saw signs for Wilderness Run Vineyards, as it turned out, a winery that's only been open (unofficially) for three months and (officially) for three weeks. They first put in vines five years ago on what used to be a dairy farm. Now it's a vineyard with an orchard, horses, fields of grain and hops and a huge organic garden.
They had three of their own wines to pour for tasting - 2013 Chardonnay, 2011 blend of Viognier, Chardonnay and Petit Manseng and 2012 Merlot-Chambourcin blend - plus wines from other wineries.
I got to taste Ox-Eye Riesling (from 75 miles away according to the tasting notes) and Lemberger, Rappahannock 2012 Cabernet Sauvignon (54 miles), Ingleside sweet Virginia Rose (41 miles) and Rock Garden Cellars Vert, an effervescent green wine that would go down like water on a summer day.
The owner pouring for me asked what had brought me out and when I mentioned my Delaplane sistertrip weekend, he wanted to know if I'd visited Three Fox Vineyards. "I don't know how they keep their vineyards so neat," he lamented.
That's nothing. I don't know how Three Fox Vineyards keep their PortaPotties so decorated. When I went in one on Friday, I was caught off guard by its posh interior. First of all, heat (!), plus swags of leaves and flowers hanging from the walls, art, dried flowers in vases and pots It was as if '90s-era "Good Housekeeping" had sent out a crew to gussy up the latrine. It was a first for me.
And speaking of necessary rooms, the bathroom in the sistertrip house stirred up all kinds of memories. The sink, toilet and shower/bathtub were all pink, that '70s pink that no one makes anymore or even likes except for nostalgic reasons. The floral and bird wallpaper had to date back to when the Berlin Wall was still standing.
But the ultimate accessory of this bathroom was a pale pink plastic Clairol lighted makeup mirror that sat on a corner vanity in the bathroom. Just looking at it, you could imagine such a thing from our younger years.
One of the (myriad) problems of being one of six sisters is that you're expected to do a whole lot of sharing. If memory serves, Sister #2 and I were expected to share a makeup mirror as teenagers. As if.
One year, Santa left a set of electric rollers under the Christmas tree. Sister #3 was the first to spot them and presumed incorrectly that they were for her. Mom soon disabused her of that notion, gently explaining that the four oldest would be sharing that one set of curlers. You can imagine how well that worked out.
For the most part, not half as well as this year's sistertrip did. Oh sure, there were the inevitable moments when someone could have gotten her feelings hurt or made a scene, but they were glossed over and everyone got along more or less.
After fifteen years of doing these trips, we finally seemed to have mastered the art of getting along together for 42 straight hours. Mom will be so proud.
But she's still got to answer for that guilt gift business. Now drink up, bitches.
Take a half dozen middle-aged women, send them to an isolated house in the middle of nowhere for two nights and hope for the best. In my family, that's what we call the sistertrip, an annual sibling roundup where the goal is to spend a weekend bonding with my five sisters.
Sister #5 opted out from the get-go, claiming that she doesn't need to participate because she has nothing to say. While the remaining sisters know that this isn't true, we have stopped trying to win her over and accept her absence.
This year's trip had been planned for Delaplane by Sister #3, who suggested that any sisters who arrived early should meet her at Three Fox Vineyards. Somehow, I was the only one who made it.
Despite being an incomplete set, we tasted through the wines, enjoying their take on Italian wine-making styles with a couple of Sangioveses and a Piemontese Nebbiolo before taking glasses (mine was of the Cano Pazzo Rose) to the heated patio to sip and admire the property.
Scattered over the hillside were metal tables and chairs for anyone wanting an Italian-like view, but the blustery wind kept everyone indoors. At the top of a hill sat one lone table that's no doubt a popular spot when the weather is fine.
From the winery, it was only half a mile to our weekend digs, a house straight out of the Brady Bunch era. The one-floor house had high, timbered ceilings, there were windows covering all the walls for a view and a stone fireplace was at the center of the house. Vertical blinds, lots of sliding doors, all very '70s.
I was assigned to sleep in the "kids' loft," not a loft at all, but a bedroom that ran the width of the house with double-sized bunk beds and windows on three sides. It felt a lot like what may have been a porch at one time. Perfect for me, in other words.
After the extended unpacking period (so many bags for five people for only 42 hours), we began the real business of a sistertrip: drinking, talking over each other, reminiscing and laughing. The organizer, Sister #3, passed out cocktail napkins that summed up her itinerary: "Drink up, bitches."
You'd think that given that we all grew up in a nice, neat nuclear family, walking to school and taking family vacations together, that we'd share a lot of the same memories. Not so.
A reliably hysterical part of these trips is always when someone begins, "Remember when...?" and others in the group look at her dumbfounded. She may recall with great clarity something that the rest of us didn't even bothering filing away.
The town's annual corn boil and pig roast that #4 mentions fondly? If I went, no memory at all of it. But when I bring up the Bookmobile that used to visit before the library was built, I get a chorus of "Yes!" from the group, except Sister #6 who has nothing but skeevy memories of choosing books from it.
One thing the rented house came with that we weren't expecting was a pool table and I quickly learned that Sisters #2, #3 and #6 not only enjoy playing but aren't half bad. Me, never played before in my life.
That didn't stop me from being roped onto a team with Sister #3 who did her best to coach me in shooting (since I had zero experience) and strategizing, as least as much as an incompetent first-timer can. So there's pool, off my "before I die" list.
Several of the sisters were enchanted by the nearby sounds of train whistles because the tracks were so close. Since I live just as close to train tracks as these were, it was just business as usual for me. But Sister #3 was so curious, she walked down to the tracks to gather data, returning to share that it was at that station that Jackson had loaded 10,000 troops aboard to head north and fight. So, kind of a big deal.
One of the features of a sistertrip is that we each concoct games to play as the evening wears on and everyone's tongues get loosened by their bevvy of choice.
I came up with one where I listed six of the top ten songs from each of the years we graduated high school and you had to pick out which music went with what sister. Another games was called "He said, she said" and involved us trying to guess how our parents had answered questions.
The answers were illuminating in one way or another. When asked about our childhood dog, my mother's answer had been "guilt gift." Not a single one of us had any knowledge that guilt had factored into us getting a dog. As one sister reacted, "We're going to need to do some digging on this one."
Big meals are part of the agenda of a sistertrip and whenever we can arrange it, also fire tending. This house had a massive stone fireplace that allowed all five of us to demonstrate the fire-starting and maintenance skills that our father drilled into us as children. Sister #4 said that whenever she makes an unimpressive fire at home, her husband always makes a crack about reporting her to Dad.
Since we were up in Fauquier County, we had terrific views of mountains and changing leaves on massive, old trees. Three of us wandered the paths and hillside of the 33-acre property we were staying on, gathering kindling along the way (Dad would be so proud).
Friday night's full moon was impressive enough to sit outside and admire despite the chilly temperatures, but Saturday we did even better by making use of the fire pit and pulling five Adirondack chairs around it. Naturally, Sister #3 had brought the ingredients for s'mores, so we grilled marshmallows for the greater good.
When one sister wasn't participating in skewering a marshmallow, another chided her. "But I don't like s'mores!" Sister #2 explained. "I don't like them, either. This isn't about liking them, it's about childhood memories!" Sister #4 clarified.
We've coined a term for this sort of thing: forced family fun. And by fun, we mean dysfunctional.
Sister#3, an avid photographer for 30 years, had brought several boxes of old pictures for us all to go through and choose what to keep. She's finally decided that having boxes of photos she never looks at is silly.
As we passed handfuls of pictures around a circle, everyone commented about something - how '80s our hair looked (in the '80s, go figure!), how impossibly young we once were, a view at my parents' house that now looks completely different - and inevitably, one sister or another would find a flattering picture to set aside.
All of those landed on a large piece of display board (Sister #3 is tireless when it comes to sistertrip planning) which we covered in photos of us over the years, laying better photos over less flattering ones to create a visual history of our lives together as sisters. The fact that we all look like variations on a theme just adds to the goofiness of a collage of so many women so close in age.
Not long before dinnertime, Sister #5 - who'd opted out - graced us with her presence, staying long enough to eat dinner, play a game and look at a few photos before heading out into the darkness to make her way back to suburban Maryland.
Because all five of my sisters live in Maryland and I've been in Richmond for 28 years, I'm the one who's out of the loop. They can see each other socially and because they have more contact, they know each other much better than I know any of them. It's a given that I will not know something about a sister that everyone else already knows.
Not to mention how little they know about me when it comes to some things. "I don't pretend to know anything about your life," Sister #4 says, not unkindly but as statement of fact. And that's the sister who considers me her favorite.
Sisters are complicated.
After a big breakfast together this morning, my sisters were all eager to hit the road home while I was hoping someone would want to spend some time in the area wining or dining. I didn't ask what their hurry was (although, like fire maintenance, my father instilled in us a love of football so they may have wanted to make a 1:00 game), but chose to take my time anyway.
Checkout time was an ungodly 10 a.m. so my problem was that none of the wineries opened before 11 or 12. I headed south on Route 17, sure I'd eventually find something.
In Warrenton, I passed a vintage-looking Howard Johnson's with the angular orange roof, a throwback to childhood because my Mom would take us there for birthday lunches.
In the process, I showed my age by employing not one but two maps (one of Virginia's back roads and one of its wineries and vineyards) as I moseyed down Route 15 and Route 522.
When I spotted signs for Old House Vineyards, I followed the signs as far as one telling me that they didn't open for another 45 minutes. Drat the luck.
Eventually, I saw signs for Wilderness Run Vineyards, as it turned out, a winery that's only been open (unofficially) for three months and (officially) for three weeks. They first put in vines five years ago on what used to be a dairy farm. Now it's a vineyard with an orchard, horses, fields of grain and hops and a huge organic garden.
They had three of their own wines to pour for tasting - 2013 Chardonnay, 2011 blend of Viognier, Chardonnay and Petit Manseng and 2012 Merlot-Chambourcin blend - plus wines from other wineries.
I got to taste Ox-Eye Riesling (from 75 miles away according to the tasting notes) and Lemberger, Rappahannock 2012 Cabernet Sauvignon (54 miles), Ingleside sweet Virginia Rose (41 miles) and Rock Garden Cellars Vert, an effervescent green wine that would go down like water on a summer day.
The owner pouring for me asked what had brought me out and when I mentioned my Delaplane sistertrip weekend, he wanted to know if I'd visited Three Fox Vineyards. "I don't know how they keep their vineyards so neat," he lamented.
That's nothing. I don't know how Three Fox Vineyards keep their PortaPotties so decorated. When I went in one on Friday, I was caught off guard by its posh interior. First of all, heat (!), plus swags of leaves and flowers hanging from the walls, art, dried flowers in vases and pots It was as if '90s-era "Good Housekeeping" had sent out a crew to gussy up the latrine. It was a first for me.
And speaking of necessary rooms, the bathroom in the sistertrip house stirred up all kinds of memories. The sink, toilet and shower/bathtub were all pink, that '70s pink that no one makes anymore or even likes except for nostalgic reasons. The floral and bird wallpaper had to date back to when the Berlin Wall was still standing.
But the ultimate accessory of this bathroom was a pale pink plastic Clairol lighted makeup mirror that sat on a corner vanity in the bathroom. Just looking at it, you could imagine such a thing from our younger years.
One of the (myriad) problems of being one of six sisters is that you're expected to do a whole lot of sharing. If memory serves, Sister #2 and I were expected to share a makeup mirror as teenagers. As if.
One year, Santa left a set of electric rollers under the Christmas tree. Sister #3 was the first to spot them and presumed incorrectly that they were for her. Mom soon disabused her of that notion, gently explaining that the four oldest would be sharing that one set of curlers. You can imagine how well that worked out.
For the most part, not half as well as this year's sistertrip did. Oh sure, there were the inevitable moments when someone could have gotten her feelings hurt or made a scene, but they were glossed over and everyone got along more or less.
After fifteen years of doing these trips, we finally seemed to have mastered the art of getting along together for 42 straight hours. Mom will be so proud.
But she's still got to answer for that guilt gift business. Now drink up, bitches.
Friday, November 7, 2014
Do What You Wanna Do
Happy birthday, Mr. Sax! I didn't know you, but I love your horn.
Despite pouring rain and soggy feet, I made Ghostprint Gallery my first stop for the opening of "Out of Sight," a show of paintings and ceramics. Walking into the gallery, I knew instinctively that the work had been the product of a woman solely based on the color palette.
Some of Jeanie Keys' pieces were representational while others required some deciphering; my favorites involved figures layered over each other. Depth of field gave way to areas of color chosen purely for their complementary nature with other aspects of the work.
Best of all, every single one had the same name: "Untitled."
The guitar player and I kept dinner in the neighborhood, roosting at Saison Market when Saison itself looked to be full up. Even the market's tables were filling up fast, like the crew of movie-makers avidly discussing a project next to us.
I was bummed to learn that I'd missed an opportunity to see "2001: A Space Odyssey" at the IMAX recently. Tomorrow night I'll be missing "The Big Lebowski" at the Byrd. Curses on the music-scheduling gods for planning screenings on nights when I'm unavailable.
Besides Vino Verde, my choice on this damp evening was lambs and clams, a satisfying bowl of the aforementioned in a clam trotter broth with fennel and Billy bread for sopping. That broth had a depth of flavor and subtle heat that had me sopping up every bit with my bread and wishing for more.
Meanwhile the guitarist told me about his writing group, recent band practices and the upcoming cultural road trips (Washington and Annapolis, both for lectures) he's eagerly anticipating while working down Saison's magnificent burger under a blanket of Manchego and bacon. He generously shared a couple bites with me.
Even the fries were textbook-perfect, twice-cooked, seriously crispy and with just enough salt to be addictive (not that they were technically mine to eat). One fell on the floor and I didn't even pretend to observe the five second rule, taking it directly from the floor to my waiting gob.
We camped out for a good long while after eating, talking about everything and nothing and watching the rain come and go. Since no one was waiting for our seats, we felt no guilt at all.
After parting company, my next stop was Balliceaux, because what's art and good food without a little music to close out the night?
The usual musician suspects were milling about when I got to the back room and only one of two sax players knew that it was Mr. Sax's birthday ("You know, Adolphe," the wise one said to the clueless one) when I mentioned it. He must not get the NPR feed because that's the only way this non-musician found out about it.
Since a good part of tonight's band, the Hi Steps, are jazz musicians, there was no chance the show was going to start on time, so I used the lull to make the rounds and chat.
From the bartender I heard about Alton Brown's fantastical food show last night (lots of people brought him gifts of food and drink). The bandleader and I discussed the Japanese James Brown cover band I'd seen last week ("You need to tell people when something like that is happening!") that he'd missed. The organizer told me she couldn't start dancing until she had more to drink. The stranger asked me if I came here often (seriously, men really say that?). The photographer moved her camera to the side to give me a big hug.
Finally all nine members of the band had drinks and took the stage to begin the show. Master guitarist and vocalist Elliot got the ball rolling by saying, "We're the Hi Steps. Thanks so much for coming out. Blah, blah, blah." Best band opening schtick ever.
From the first time I saw the Hi Steps two years ago, I was struck by how well chosen their soul set list is. Sure, they play some obvious hits - "Chain of Fools," "It's Your Thing" and "Ain't Too Proud to Beg" - but also lesser known gems (at least to me) such as "Can't Stop the Rain," "Give It Up" and "Tell Mama." Good stuff.
They've also got three incredibly soulful people who can sing - Elliot, keyboard player Bryce (tonight stylishly dressed right down to his cream-colored shoes) and the lovely Butterfly who dances just as good as she sings.
Tonight she got tired of the empty dance floor, saying, "We're up here sweating and you all should be up here sweating, too." Of course she was right, the music is meant for dancing, but the crowd was slow to shake it tonight and not a soul got up there during their first set.
For a change, this fan had an early morning wake-up call and couldn't hang around for the second set, but I'd like to think that that thumping bass line or relentless percussion and drums eventually did the trick.
I mean, on the birthday of the man who invented the saxophone, you'd hope maybe that kickass horn section would be what finally lured people out into the dance floor.
No bets on whether Adolphe would have been proud, but at least it would have been fitting. Blah, blah, blah.
Despite pouring rain and soggy feet, I made Ghostprint Gallery my first stop for the opening of "Out of Sight," a show of paintings and ceramics. Walking into the gallery, I knew instinctively that the work had been the product of a woman solely based on the color palette.
Some of Jeanie Keys' pieces were representational while others required some deciphering; my favorites involved figures layered over each other. Depth of field gave way to areas of color chosen purely for their complementary nature with other aspects of the work.
Best of all, every single one had the same name: "Untitled."
The guitar player and I kept dinner in the neighborhood, roosting at Saison Market when Saison itself looked to be full up. Even the market's tables were filling up fast, like the crew of movie-makers avidly discussing a project next to us.
I was bummed to learn that I'd missed an opportunity to see "2001: A Space Odyssey" at the IMAX recently. Tomorrow night I'll be missing "The Big Lebowski" at the Byrd. Curses on the music-scheduling gods for planning screenings on nights when I'm unavailable.
Besides Vino Verde, my choice on this damp evening was lambs and clams, a satisfying bowl of the aforementioned in a clam trotter broth with fennel and Billy bread for sopping. That broth had a depth of flavor and subtle heat that had me sopping up every bit with my bread and wishing for more.
Meanwhile the guitarist told me about his writing group, recent band practices and the upcoming cultural road trips (Washington and Annapolis, both for lectures) he's eagerly anticipating while working down Saison's magnificent burger under a blanket of Manchego and bacon. He generously shared a couple bites with me.
Even the fries were textbook-perfect, twice-cooked, seriously crispy and with just enough salt to be addictive (not that they were technically mine to eat). One fell on the floor and I didn't even pretend to observe the five second rule, taking it directly from the floor to my waiting gob.
We camped out for a good long while after eating, talking about everything and nothing and watching the rain come and go. Since no one was waiting for our seats, we felt no guilt at all.
After parting company, my next stop was Balliceaux, because what's art and good food without a little music to close out the night?
The usual musician suspects were milling about when I got to the back room and only one of two sax players knew that it was Mr. Sax's birthday ("You know, Adolphe," the wise one said to the clueless one) when I mentioned it. He must not get the NPR feed because that's the only way this non-musician found out about it.
Since a good part of tonight's band, the Hi Steps, are jazz musicians, there was no chance the show was going to start on time, so I used the lull to make the rounds and chat.
From the bartender I heard about Alton Brown's fantastical food show last night (lots of people brought him gifts of food and drink). The bandleader and I discussed the Japanese James Brown cover band I'd seen last week ("You need to tell people when something like that is happening!") that he'd missed. The organizer told me she couldn't start dancing until she had more to drink. The stranger asked me if I came here often (seriously, men really say that?). The photographer moved her camera to the side to give me a big hug.
Finally all nine members of the band had drinks and took the stage to begin the show. Master guitarist and vocalist Elliot got the ball rolling by saying, "We're the Hi Steps. Thanks so much for coming out. Blah, blah, blah." Best band opening schtick ever.
From the first time I saw the Hi Steps two years ago, I was struck by how well chosen their soul set list is. Sure, they play some obvious hits - "Chain of Fools," "It's Your Thing" and "Ain't Too Proud to Beg" - but also lesser known gems (at least to me) such as "Can't Stop the Rain," "Give It Up" and "Tell Mama." Good stuff.
They've also got three incredibly soulful people who can sing - Elliot, keyboard player Bryce (tonight stylishly dressed right down to his cream-colored shoes) and the lovely Butterfly who dances just as good as she sings.
Tonight she got tired of the empty dance floor, saying, "We're up here sweating and you all should be up here sweating, too." Of course she was right, the music is meant for dancing, but the crowd was slow to shake it tonight and not a soul got up there during their first set.
For a change, this fan had an early morning wake-up call and couldn't hang around for the second set, but I'd like to think that that thumping bass line or relentless percussion and drums eventually did the trick.
I mean, on the birthday of the man who invented the saxophone, you'd hope maybe that kickass horn section would be what finally lured people out into the dance floor.
No bets on whether Adolphe would have been proud, but at least it would have been fitting. Blah, blah, blah.
Thursday, November 6, 2014
No Shortcuts
Sure, it's gray out there and the sky is intermittently spitting, but the air was warm enough that my first thought on stepping outside was to go to the river.
Heading east, I ran into a chef at the first corner and another at the second. I spotted an enormous tent set up in the back of Abner Clay Park and wondered about its purpose.
Heading south toward the river, I'd put my umbrella up whenever I began to feel rain on my face but it never lasted long and I'd take it down again. Walking past Penny Lane Pub, I smelled the stale odor of cigarettes and spilled beer, particularly unappetizing before 11:00 in the morning.
Once down on Brown's Island, I found myself completely alone, not another soul on the island. Now that was kind of cool.
Taking the path down toward the silvery river to the pipeline walkway, I was greeted by honking geese and rushing water. The last couple of times I've walked the pipeline, there's been a campsite set up to one side with a couple in sleeping bags but today there was no trace of them.
All good things must come to an end, I suppose.
Walking back through downtown, I was hardly the only one in shorts today, a change from the last few days when people were acting like jackets and hats were in order (they weren't).
But it was when I got to Fifth Street that I knew something was up. Starting from midway down the block between Broad and Marshall, a line snaked down to Marshall, turned the corner and went all the way to Third Street, made a U-turn and wound all the way back to Fifth. What the hell?
I tapped on the shoulder of a guy taking pictures of this mass of humanity to ask. "America's Got Talent auditions," he replied with a rueful smile.
You mean all these people have talent, I asked. "I didn't say that," he said emphatically. "But they all think they do." Or at least their parents did; there were so many children in line with their stage mothers at their side.
Walking on the north side of Marshall, I had to dodge and weave to get around the endless members of the VCU Peppas, brass and drums in hand, and perhaps on their way to join the line. Or maybe just to play for the wanna-be talent, who knows? I didn't stick around to find out.
I kept on walking away from the deluded masses, passing a little girl with too much make-up on (as in any for a child of 7 or 8) and her focused-looking mother who was pulling a polka dot suitcase on wheels.
The child was carrying her balled-up brightly colored jacket. "Didn't I tell you to fold that jacket properly?" he mother said in a voice that would chill your blood. The chastened child looked down at the sidewalk and attempted to please her mother as she walked.
It had been a beautiful gray morning for a walk to the river and "America's Got Talent" was a giant buzz kill of an ending to it. Everybody wants the shortcut to the dream.
Not me. I'm perfectly happy living it. Or my idea of it anyway.
Heading east, I ran into a chef at the first corner and another at the second. I spotted an enormous tent set up in the back of Abner Clay Park and wondered about its purpose.
Heading south toward the river, I'd put my umbrella up whenever I began to feel rain on my face but it never lasted long and I'd take it down again. Walking past Penny Lane Pub, I smelled the stale odor of cigarettes and spilled beer, particularly unappetizing before 11:00 in the morning.
Once down on Brown's Island, I found myself completely alone, not another soul on the island. Now that was kind of cool.
Taking the path down toward the silvery river to the pipeline walkway, I was greeted by honking geese and rushing water. The last couple of times I've walked the pipeline, there's been a campsite set up to one side with a couple in sleeping bags but today there was no trace of them.
All good things must come to an end, I suppose.
Walking back through downtown, I was hardly the only one in shorts today, a change from the last few days when people were acting like jackets and hats were in order (they weren't).
But it was when I got to Fifth Street that I knew something was up. Starting from midway down the block between Broad and Marshall, a line snaked down to Marshall, turned the corner and went all the way to Third Street, made a U-turn and wound all the way back to Fifth. What the hell?
I tapped on the shoulder of a guy taking pictures of this mass of humanity to ask. "America's Got Talent auditions," he replied with a rueful smile.
You mean all these people have talent, I asked. "I didn't say that," he said emphatically. "But they all think they do." Or at least their parents did; there were so many children in line with their stage mothers at their side.
Walking on the north side of Marshall, I had to dodge and weave to get around the endless members of the VCU Peppas, brass and drums in hand, and perhaps on their way to join the line. Or maybe just to play for the wanna-be talent, who knows? I didn't stick around to find out.
I kept on walking away from the deluded masses, passing a little girl with too much make-up on (as in any for a child of 7 or 8) and her focused-looking mother who was pulling a polka dot suitcase on wheels.
The child was carrying her balled-up brightly colored jacket. "Didn't I tell you to fold that jacket properly?" he mother said in a voice that would chill your blood. The chastened child looked down at the sidewalk and attempted to please her mother as she walked.
It had been a beautiful gray morning for a walk to the river and "America's Got Talent" was a giant buzz kill of an ending to it. Everybody wants the shortcut to the dream.
Not me. I'm perfectly happy living it. Or my idea of it anyway.
From Richmond with Love
Now that Zagat has named Church Hill one of the ten hot food neighborhoods around the U.S., it seemed like a good night to remind myself why.
When I pulled into Dutch & Co., there was one regular at the bar and a favorite bartender behind it. He had a quizzical look on his face and immediately said, "I expected you would be at Alton Brown tonight." Too costly, I explained and he nodded knowingly.
He said one of their staff had spotted Alton at Sub Rosa Bakery earlier when she went to pick up bread for the restaurant. And that was after he'd been to Lamplighter, Black Sheep, Saison and Sally Bell's.
Richmond will wear your tail out.
Before long, I overheard two servers trying to decide on the evening's music, pleased as could be when they went with Washed Out. As one server put it, "Kinda mellow, not too loud, sort of druggy."
That's my idea of an ideal sonic landscape for a fine meal.
As he was pouring the house white wine - the crisp La Galope Sauvignon Blanc - the barkeep made a few recommendations for eating and I took him at his word.
I'd already been eyeing one of the blackboard specials - white anchovies with beluga lentils, cucumber, apple and watermelon radish - and his praise of the dish was all I needed. The combination was full of contrasts (texture, sweet/salty) and the glistening tiny beluga lentils were perfectly cooked.
In between our conversations about Fire, Flour and Fork and the dangers of Richmond becoming a big-time food town, it was hard not to notice the bartender adding sugar and mixing a vat behind the bar. Turns out he's working on a batch of root beer to go with the back door dogs next week.
Since I'm a huge fan of root beer, he gave me a taste of the still-brewing liquid, explaining that the sugar at this point was to feed the yeast and aid fermentation, not for sweetening's sake. We puzzled over how root beer is a love it or hate it beverage with few people neutral about it.
"I just assumed everybody grew up with it and loved it, like me," he shrugged. Amen. I have five sisters and they all hate it while my parents and I love it. Go figure.
For my next course, I had a killer plate of jerked blood sausage with plantain cornbread, coconut-braised nuts, Aji dulce peppers and plum slices. An unabashed fan of blood sausage, I was especially taken with the coconut-braised nuts, a unique rendering of something hard and savory into something sweet and tender. Leave it to the D & Co guys.
The pleasure of dining alone is all about the conversations you overhear. One was about Katie Ukrop saying that she'd gone into Graffiato's and not seen a single face she recognized. That dovetails with my Graffiato's experience, where everyone around me at the bar was from the counties, on the scent of a celebrity chef.
Another came from a gentleman approaching the bartender asking when the neighborhood had been gentrified. Um, sir, it's still a work in progress.
Witness the guy on a bike pulling a suitcase on wheels as I walked to my car. Th-thump, th-thump.
My second pit stop of the evening was at Camden's for a screening of "From Italy With Love," a quasi-reality show where three Americans get whisked off to Italy to prove they can live and cook as Italians.
Good luck with that. I've been to Italy and they're a different breed.
The screening began with wine, hardly surprising since the sponsor of the show was Zonin Family Estates, owners of nine Italian wineries. Given a choice of Chianti or Prosecco, I took a few sips of the former before switching to the latter.
A guy near me observed, "I think there's nothing wrong with starting the day with bubbly. If you're going to drink before noon, it should be sparkling." He should know; he said he's woken up in bar in the morning before.
The small crowd who'd gathered to watch the screening was a lively, wine-drinking bunch and wasted no time in mocking the TV show, which began with a very Olive Garden-like look. From there, it showed the three (embarrassing) American contestants as they arrived in Italy and were welcomed into the bosom of an Italian family.
Perhaps it was the wine, but from there, we were catcalling the contestants and mocking their selection since they clearly had no cooking or wine skills to speak of. When told to cook whole branzino, one guy admitted he'd not only never cooked fish, he didn't even like to eat it.
And you got selected for an Italian cooking show?
They went to a jovial butcher in Tuscany who graded their meat cutting and cooking skills, finding them lacking. Their final stop was a Zonin winery where the hapless trio attempted to blend wines. Epic fail.
Not so for those of us watching because we were enjoying Zonin's wine along with house-cured salami, prosciutto and pastrami along with cheeses, pickled vegetables and more of the wines while making non-stop commentary about the show.
As a people, Americans represent so poorly as to be comical.
Twenty minutes after the show ended, two women showed up to join the party, delayed by Alton Brown's performance at CenterStage, bearing pictures and tales of over-sized E-Z Bake ovens and songs about shrimp.
In a typical only-in-Richmond moment, one of the women turned out to be the girlfriend of a long-time music friend, a talented singer and drummer I've known for years. I knew as much about her boyfriend as she did.
One of the guys at the party had me in stitches joking about some of the attendees and their resemblance to the clueless contestants on "From Italy With Love." Meanwhile, we wasted no time sipping the very Prosecco so prominently placed in the show we were watching.
Conversation flowed with the attendees, ranging from William Shatner to Pulp to Dr. Who (who?). A guy told me I seemed "very cool" while some of the attendees did not (he pointed out examples and grinned). One guy leaned in close and asked what I do.
Apparently I go behind Zagat and watch Italian reality TV...and that's not the half of it.
When I pulled into Dutch & Co., there was one regular at the bar and a favorite bartender behind it. He had a quizzical look on his face and immediately said, "I expected you would be at Alton Brown tonight." Too costly, I explained and he nodded knowingly.
He said one of their staff had spotted Alton at Sub Rosa Bakery earlier when she went to pick up bread for the restaurant. And that was after he'd been to Lamplighter, Black Sheep, Saison and Sally Bell's.
Richmond will wear your tail out.
Before long, I overheard two servers trying to decide on the evening's music, pleased as could be when they went with Washed Out. As one server put it, "Kinda mellow, not too loud, sort of druggy."
That's my idea of an ideal sonic landscape for a fine meal.
As he was pouring the house white wine - the crisp La Galope Sauvignon Blanc - the barkeep made a few recommendations for eating and I took him at his word.
I'd already been eyeing one of the blackboard specials - white anchovies with beluga lentils, cucumber, apple and watermelon radish - and his praise of the dish was all I needed. The combination was full of contrasts (texture, sweet/salty) and the glistening tiny beluga lentils were perfectly cooked.
In between our conversations about Fire, Flour and Fork and the dangers of Richmond becoming a big-time food town, it was hard not to notice the bartender adding sugar and mixing a vat behind the bar. Turns out he's working on a batch of root beer to go with the back door dogs next week.
Since I'm a huge fan of root beer, he gave me a taste of the still-brewing liquid, explaining that the sugar at this point was to feed the yeast and aid fermentation, not for sweetening's sake. We puzzled over how root beer is a love it or hate it beverage with few people neutral about it.
"I just assumed everybody grew up with it and loved it, like me," he shrugged. Amen. I have five sisters and they all hate it while my parents and I love it. Go figure.
For my next course, I had a killer plate of jerked blood sausage with plantain cornbread, coconut-braised nuts, Aji dulce peppers and plum slices. An unabashed fan of blood sausage, I was especially taken with the coconut-braised nuts, a unique rendering of something hard and savory into something sweet and tender. Leave it to the D & Co guys.
The pleasure of dining alone is all about the conversations you overhear. One was about Katie Ukrop saying that she'd gone into Graffiato's and not seen a single face she recognized. That dovetails with my Graffiato's experience, where everyone around me at the bar was from the counties, on the scent of a celebrity chef.
Another came from a gentleman approaching the bartender asking when the neighborhood had been gentrified. Um, sir, it's still a work in progress.
Witness the guy on a bike pulling a suitcase on wheels as I walked to my car. Th-thump, th-thump.
My second pit stop of the evening was at Camden's for a screening of "From Italy With Love," a quasi-reality show where three Americans get whisked off to Italy to prove they can live and cook as Italians.
Good luck with that. I've been to Italy and they're a different breed.
The screening began with wine, hardly surprising since the sponsor of the show was Zonin Family Estates, owners of nine Italian wineries. Given a choice of Chianti or Prosecco, I took a few sips of the former before switching to the latter.
A guy near me observed, "I think there's nothing wrong with starting the day with bubbly. If you're going to drink before noon, it should be sparkling." He should know; he said he's woken up in bar in the morning before.
The small crowd who'd gathered to watch the screening was a lively, wine-drinking bunch and wasted no time in mocking the TV show, which began with a very Olive Garden-like look. From there, it showed the three (embarrassing) American contestants as they arrived in Italy and were welcomed into the bosom of an Italian family.
Perhaps it was the wine, but from there, we were catcalling the contestants and mocking their selection since they clearly had no cooking or wine skills to speak of. When told to cook whole branzino, one guy admitted he'd not only never cooked fish, he didn't even like to eat it.
And you got selected for an Italian cooking show?
They went to a jovial butcher in Tuscany who graded their meat cutting and cooking skills, finding them lacking. Their final stop was a Zonin winery where the hapless trio attempted to blend wines. Epic fail.
Not so for those of us watching because we were enjoying Zonin's wine along with house-cured salami, prosciutto and pastrami along with cheeses, pickled vegetables and more of the wines while making non-stop commentary about the show.
As a people, Americans represent so poorly as to be comical.
Twenty minutes after the show ended, two women showed up to join the party, delayed by Alton Brown's performance at CenterStage, bearing pictures and tales of over-sized E-Z Bake ovens and songs about shrimp.
In a typical only-in-Richmond moment, one of the women turned out to be the girlfriend of a long-time music friend, a talented singer and drummer I've known for years. I knew as much about her boyfriend as she did.
One of the guys at the party had me in stitches joking about some of the attendees and their resemblance to the clueless contestants on "From Italy With Love." Meanwhile, we wasted no time sipping the very Prosecco so prominently placed in the show we were watching.
Conversation flowed with the attendees, ranging from William Shatner to Pulp to Dr. Who (who?). A guy told me I seemed "very cool" while some of the attendees did not (he pointed out examples and grinned). One guy leaned in close and asked what I do.
Apparently I go behind Zagat and watch Italian reality TV...and that's not the half of it.
Wednesday, November 5, 2014
Titillating and Informative at the Same Time
It's probably terribly post-modern of me to write about writing, but here goes.
If, as Benjamin Franklin said, you should either write something worth reading or do something worth writing about, where does that leave writing something no one will read?
I spent a fair amount of my day writing a letter that I didn't send, but needed to capture. Thoughts have been swirling around in my head and in order to make them stop, I needed to get them down in words and sentences, which I did.
But the more I thought about it, the more sure I was that no one needed to read them. But, plain and simple, I needed, really needed, to write them.
The words I wrote weren't about being the 282nd person to vote at my polling place or about the sweet old lady outside it who questioned me intently about whether I'd been challenged when I provided my photo ID to vote (I hadn't).
They weren't about taking my hired mouth and a friend to lunch and having him remind me that we should be getting together for more than lunch, say music or art.
And while it was a lovely meal, my words weren't about dinner at Lucy's where my fellow diner told me about a car chase, crash and arrest on Broad Street this afternoon, snarling traffic westward for hours.
Irresistible was the soup of the day, a tomato-based mahi mahi and potato with just a hint of heat, worth slurping up every spoonful. Then I tucked into the lemon-vinaigrette-dressed winter salad of kale, roasted Brussels sprouts and sunflower seeds while hearing tales of familiar faces showing up in commercials and TV shows (so I'll never see them).
Post-dinner, I made my way to the Speakeasy to see 5th Wall Theater's staged reading of "Writer's Weekend: A New Musical," sharing a table with two women, one of whom turned out to be in the show's band.
I'd seen the first reading of the play last Spring and thoroughly enjoyed the story of six people attending a writer's workshop in hopes of fine-tuning their writing skills or, as the only published writer in the bunch put it, "Jump-starting my literary libido."
A four-piece band of two keyboard players, a bassist and drummer accompanied the actors as they sang of their frustrations and hopes for their writing careers, all in various stages. The sci-fi writer was self-published with cartons of her books crowding her basement, the former TV action star wanted to be a playwright but his concept was weak, the newspaper reporter hoped to use his journalism background writing about crime to pen detective stories, the young technical writer was trying to branch out into fiction, the suburban slam poet still had more attitude than talent and the oversexed romance writer had writer's block but a string of best-sellers behind her. Add in the bitter writer who leads the sessions and the potential for snappy dialog was obvious.
Jacqueline Jones narrated the play, sometimes even helping it along when there was overly-long silence. "I think that's a music cue!" she said cheerily to get everyone back on track.
And just in case the audience was unclear on what being a writer means, it was spelled out in song. "A working writer means a writer who gets paid. Who knows, I might even get laid." Don't count on it, friend, it never got me laid.
I couldn't decide which character I found the funniest, the timid technical writer played by Mark Persinger who was seduced by the older woman ("Old is the new black") or the ebony goddess poet played by Carolyn Meade, all attitude and adjectives.
Like last time, there was a lot that made me laugh out loud (editor jokes, older woman comments) including the written-to-be-awful manuscripts the would-be writers shared with their peers ("Rickets: The Musical").
And like with all his staged readings, director B.C. Maupin had made sure we got a lot more than just actors with scripts reading in chairs. Characters made eyes at each other, moved as if to dance, met at a bar and just generally suggested a lot more staging than some readings deliver.
Even though I knew the story, it was interesting to hear the songs come out of different mouths this time - and there were some excellent voices in the cast - and watch how these actors put their spins on the characters I'd met last May.
Seeing "Writer's Weekend" satisfied old Ben Franklin's directive to do something worth writing about. As to the other part of his wisdom, I'd even go so far as to say my earlier, unsent letter was worth reading.
Didn't get paid, didn't get laid, but there's always tomorrow. I'll probably write about that, too.
If, as Benjamin Franklin said, you should either write something worth reading or do something worth writing about, where does that leave writing something no one will read?
I spent a fair amount of my day writing a letter that I didn't send, but needed to capture. Thoughts have been swirling around in my head and in order to make them stop, I needed to get them down in words and sentences, which I did.
But the more I thought about it, the more sure I was that no one needed to read them. But, plain and simple, I needed, really needed, to write them.
The words I wrote weren't about being the 282nd person to vote at my polling place or about the sweet old lady outside it who questioned me intently about whether I'd been challenged when I provided my photo ID to vote (I hadn't).
They weren't about taking my hired mouth and a friend to lunch and having him remind me that we should be getting together for more than lunch, say music or art.
And while it was a lovely meal, my words weren't about dinner at Lucy's where my fellow diner told me about a car chase, crash and arrest on Broad Street this afternoon, snarling traffic westward for hours.
Irresistible was the soup of the day, a tomato-based mahi mahi and potato with just a hint of heat, worth slurping up every spoonful. Then I tucked into the lemon-vinaigrette-dressed winter salad of kale, roasted Brussels sprouts and sunflower seeds while hearing tales of familiar faces showing up in commercials and TV shows (so I'll never see them).
Post-dinner, I made my way to the Speakeasy to see 5th Wall Theater's staged reading of "Writer's Weekend: A New Musical," sharing a table with two women, one of whom turned out to be in the show's band.
I'd seen the first reading of the play last Spring and thoroughly enjoyed the story of six people attending a writer's workshop in hopes of fine-tuning their writing skills or, as the only published writer in the bunch put it, "Jump-starting my literary libido."
A four-piece band of two keyboard players, a bassist and drummer accompanied the actors as they sang of their frustrations and hopes for their writing careers, all in various stages. The sci-fi writer was self-published with cartons of her books crowding her basement, the former TV action star wanted to be a playwright but his concept was weak, the newspaper reporter hoped to use his journalism background writing about crime to pen detective stories, the young technical writer was trying to branch out into fiction, the suburban slam poet still had more attitude than talent and the oversexed romance writer had writer's block but a string of best-sellers behind her. Add in the bitter writer who leads the sessions and the potential for snappy dialog was obvious.
Jacqueline Jones narrated the play, sometimes even helping it along when there was overly-long silence. "I think that's a music cue!" she said cheerily to get everyone back on track.
And just in case the audience was unclear on what being a writer means, it was spelled out in song. "A working writer means a writer who gets paid. Who knows, I might even get laid." Don't count on it, friend, it never got me laid.
I couldn't decide which character I found the funniest, the timid technical writer played by Mark Persinger who was seduced by the older woman ("Old is the new black") or the ebony goddess poet played by Carolyn Meade, all attitude and adjectives.
Like last time, there was a lot that made me laugh out loud (editor jokes, older woman comments) including the written-to-be-awful manuscripts the would-be writers shared with their peers ("Rickets: The Musical").
And like with all his staged readings, director B.C. Maupin had made sure we got a lot more than just actors with scripts reading in chairs. Characters made eyes at each other, moved as if to dance, met at a bar and just generally suggested a lot more staging than some readings deliver.
Even though I knew the story, it was interesting to hear the songs come out of different mouths this time - and there were some excellent voices in the cast - and watch how these actors put their spins on the characters I'd met last May.
Seeing "Writer's Weekend" satisfied old Ben Franklin's directive to do something worth writing about. As to the other part of his wisdom, I'd even go so far as to say my earlier, unsent letter was worth reading.
Didn't get paid, didn't get laid, but there's always tomorrow. I'll probably write about that, too.
Monday, November 3, 2014
God Willin' and the Creek Don't Rise
I know we gained an hour last night, but with a non-stop day and night, it sure doesn't feel like it.
Sunday slipped away in a haze of thought provoking film, noisy dining and mellow music.
I chose "Dear White People" to get the afternoon started, convinced after seeing the preview last month that it would offer a smart look at a still delicate subject.
Of course the crowd was small for a 2:40 movie with a smattering of black couples, but when a white couple came in after us, they chose to sit in the same row we were in, an odd choice given that most of the seats were free. So much potential commentary there.
As the film told the story of being black at an Ivy League school, one of the main characters spouted racial wisdom on her radio show.
"Dear White People, the minimum number of black friends required not to seem racist has just been raised to two." Whew, got that covered.
One of her comments was about how if white people are saying African-American instead of black, they're racist, a point I found especially satisfying. Having always used the term "black," I have been corrected a few times only to insist that there was nothing derisive about the word. Vindicated.
As the credits rolled, the screen showed news clippings from the past few years about colleges that have held blackface parties, a stark reminder that even in a time when the President is half black, we still have a lot of racial issues to address.
The movie was everything I want in a film: smart, funny and thought provoking with well-drawn characters and whip smart dialog. The kind of film I'll be encouraging people to see and wanting to talk about for a while.
The only downside of the entire movie was that I over-buttered the popcorn, something I didn't think was possible. Lesson learned.
With a goal of parking once and partying twice, we made our next stop 821 for dinner and they were busy already and getting busier all the time.
Tucked in a front booth with black bean nachos and 1800, we stuffed our faces and talked about the movie's message, agreeing that a second viewing would be in order.
The usual thrash music played in the background, our server was a friend who knew my order before I gave it and in what seemed like no time at all, it was the appointed hour to walk over to theMosque Landmark Altria Theater.
It seems like it's been closed for ages for renovations but other than moving the box office to the Main Street side and adding fancy lighted marquees, we couldn't tell any difference at all inside.
The crowd was decidedly one that doesn't go out often for shows (I'm guessing most of the people in the room had to get babysitters to attend). They were endlessly restless, too, getting up and down throughout the evening during the performances.
Call me picky, but I find that annoying at a seated show. No one would do that so often at the symphony.
That new marquee had said that the show was at 7 but once in our seats, we had to wait until way after 7 for the opener, Belle Brigade, to come out and begin our musical evening.
A brother/sister band (and she was the drummer!) with two other band members, they made sunny, rootsy music and inserted self-deprecating remarks in between songs.
"This is a song bout having big feelings for someone who doesn't have them for you," drummer Barbara said. "I hope you don't know what this feels like." Oh, but I did once.
"We're from Los Angeles, so we're sorry about this next song," she cracked. "It's a country song." They finished with the gorgeous "When Everything Was What It Was" about being kids and the night was off to a fine start.
During the break I spotted my long-time music buddy and went down to chat with him. Surprised to see him because I wouldn't have guessed he was a Ray LaMontagne fan, he admitted he'd been given a free ticket in exchange for reviewing the show.
Teasing him about what a good seat they'd given him (he was several rows closer than us), he whispered that it wasn't so great because he was seated next to the therapist he and his ex had seen for two years. Awkward.
Ray LaMontagne came out in a hat looking sensitive and intense, beginning an hour and a half of women (and even men) calling out their devotion to him. "I love you, Ray!"
Spare me. No doubt their book groups will thrill to their stories of seeing Ray.
There was a gorgeous backdrop, a big circle surrounded by curved lines onto which were projected colors, patterns and light throughout the set.
Although I love Ray's distinctive and husky voice, I'm not familiar enough with his music to recognize a lot of what I heard (beyond "Trouble," "Three More Days" and "Jolene"). That's not a complaint because there's a certain appeal to hearing music you don't know because it allows you to experience it with no expectations.
The first time I saw Neko Case ten years ago, I knew nothing of her music and I walked away in love with her voice and music.
But many of the fans clearly had a better knowledge of Ray's catalog than me, frequently calling out for favorites. Finally, Ray told them to be patient and asked if parents didn't teach their children patience anymore. Pretty sure they don't. Instant gratification and all that.
One of the best parts of the band's sound was the upright bass player's obvious talent. Ray referred to him as "Zacharias, a good man."
Given the number of amateur show-goers in attendance, we shouldn't have been surprised when so many people rushed out when the show ended. We waited the minute it took for the band to come out for their encore and only then made our move to leave.
Rounding out the night listening to "Dusty in Memphis" and drinking Desert Rose Cabernet Franc, I felt like I finally had time to relax, making for a fine, low-key ending to a non-stop day.
Where exactly did that extra hour go?
Sunday slipped away in a haze of thought provoking film, noisy dining and mellow music.
I chose "Dear White People" to get the afternoon started, convinced after seeing the preview last month that it would offer a smart look at a still delicate subject.
Of course the crowd was small for a 2:40 movie with a smattering of black couples, but when a white couple came in after us, they chose to sit in the same row we were in, an odd choice given that most of the seats were free. So much potential commentary there.
As the film told the story of being black at an Ivy League school, one of the main characters spouted racial wisdom on her radio show.
"Dear White People, the minimum number of black friends required not to seem racist has just been raised to two." Whew, got that covered.
One of her comments was about how if white people are saying African-American instead of black, they're racist, a point I found especially satisfying. Having always used the term "black," I have been corrected a few times only to insist that there was nothing derisive about the word. Vindicated.
As the credits rolled, the screen showed news clippings from the past few years about colleges that have held blackface parties, a stark reminder that even in a time when the President is half black, we still have a lot of racial issues to address.
The movie was everything I want in a film: smart, funny and thought provoking with well-drawn characters and whip smart dialog. The kind of film I'll be encouraging people to see and wanting to talk about for a while.
The only downside of the entire movie was that I over-buttered the popcorn, something I didn't think was possible. Lesson learned.
With a goal of parking once and partying twice, we made our next stop 821 for dinner and they were busy already and getting busier all the time.
Tucked in a front booth with black bean nachos and 1800, we stuffed our faces and talked about the movie's message, agreeing that a second viewing would be in order.
The usual thrash music played in the background, our server was a friend who knew my order before I gave it and in what seemed like no time at all, it was the appointed hour to walk over to the
It seems like it's been closed for ages for renovations but other than moving the box office to the Main Street side and adding fancy lighted marquees, we couldn't tell any difference at all inside.
The crowd was decidedly one that doesn't go out often for shows (I'm guessing most of the people in the room had to get babysitters to attend). They were endlessly restless, too, getting up and down throughout the evening during the performances.
Call me picky, but I find that annoying at a seated show. No one would do that so often at the symphony.
That new marquee had said that the show was at 7 but once in our seats, we had to wait until way after 7 for the opener, Belle Brigade, to come out and begin our musical evening.
A brother/sister band (and she was the drummer!) with two other band members, they made sunny, rootsy music and inserted self-deprecating remarks in between songs.
"This is a song bout having big feelings for someone who doesn't have them for you," drummer Barbara said. "I hope you don't know what this feels like." Oh, but I did once.
"We're from Los Angeles, so we're sorry about this next song," she cracked. "It's a country song." They finished with the gorgeous "When Everything Was What It Was" about being kids and the night was off to a fine start.
During the break I spotted my long-time music buddy and went down to chat with him. Surprised to see him because I wouldn't have guessed he was a Ray LaMontagne fan, he admitted he'd been given a free ticket in exchange for reviewing the show.
Teasing him about what a good seat they'd given him (he was several rows closer than us), he whispered that it wasn't so great because he was seated next to the therapist he and his ex had seen for two years. Awkward.
Ray LaMontagne came out in a hat looking sensitive and intense, beginning an hour and a half of women (and even men) calling out their devotion to him. "I love you, Ray!"
Spare me. No doubt their book groups will thrill to their stories of seeing Ray.
There was a gorgeous backdrop, a big circle surrounded by curved lines onto which were projected colors, patterns and light throughout the set.
Although I love Ray's distinctive and husky voice, I'm not familiar enough with his music to recognize a lot of what I heard (beyond "Trouble," "Three More Days" and "Jolene"). That's not a complaint because there's a certain appeal to hearing music you don't know because it allows you to experience it with no expectations.
The first time I saw Neko Case ten years ago, I knew nothing of her music and I walked away in love with her voice and music.
But many of the fans clearly had a better knowledge of Ray's catalog than me, frequently calling out for favorites. Finally, Ray told them to be patient and asked if parents didn't teach their children patience anymore. Pretty sure they don't. Instant gratification and all that.
One of the best parts of the band's sound was the upright bass player's obvious talent. Ray referred to him as "Zacharias, a good man."
Given the number of amateur show-goers in attendance, we shouldn't have been surprised when so many people rushed out when the show ended. We waited the minute it took for the band to come out for their encore and only then made our move to leave.
Rounding out the night listening to "Dusty in Memphis" and drinking Desert Rose Cabernet Franc, I felt like I finally had time to relax, making for a fine, low-key ending to a non-stop day.
Where exactly did that extra hour go?
Sunday, November 2, 2014
I Love Long Life Better Than Figs
Bootleg: to make, distribute or sell illicit goods. Origin: late 19th century, from the smugglers' practice of concealing bottles in their boots.
Bootleg Shakespeare: annual production whereby actors learn their lines separately and only come together for one night to stage Shakespeare without rehearsal.
Scene: VMFA for the first time, meaning that instead of standing outdoors on a nasty evening to wait in line for tickets, would-be attendees waited in the comfort of heat and art.
I could get used to this.
Once tickets were handed out, everyone beat feet to Best Cafe to wine and dine until showtime. Both Pru and I opted for steaming bowls of beef stew and bread, the better to ward off the chill from tonight's wind and rain.
We joined George and Jo, two strangers who'd been in line behind us, at their table to eat and listen to Bardship Enterprise, an aptly named quartet playing music (Prince, Jackson 5, Bob Marley, Sublime) for our listening pleasure.
Between songs, George, a security guard at the museum, regaled us with tales of drunken debauchery during corporate parties and weddings at the museum. Imagine a couple pitching woo on the Rockefeller bed and you get an idea of the nerve exhibited while on state property.
It was only during our chit-chat that I learned that tonight we turn the clocks back. Woo-hoo, after the week I've had, I could sure use an extra hour.
Then it was on to the Leslie Cheek theater for "Antony and Cleopatra" directed by local favorite Foster Solomon.
"Twelve hours ago, this production did not exist," he explained from the stage. "If you know 'Antony and Cleopatra," you're going to be surprised. If you don't know 'Antony and Cleopatra," you're going to be surprised."
Sounded like a win/win to me.
The play opened with "As Time Goes By" performed by the show band onstage which went on to feature the vocal stylings of Rebecca Anne Muhleman in a bright red wig and Jacqueline O'Connor in a sassy blond wig on vocals doing Lady Gaga and Beyonce.
My full heart remains in use with you.
The always compelling (and quick) Joe Carlson played Antony, getting big laughs with lines such as, "Look here at this imaginary letter" and pulling out nothing.
The world and my great office will sometimes divide me from your bosom.
When he said that line, he stared directly into Octavia, his future wife's, chest.
Octavia is of a holy, cold and still conversation.
Of the 33 actors involved, I recognized many of them. I'm an unabashed fan of David Janosik who played Caesar for his diction and timing, Billy Christopher Maupin who played a white-faced soothsayer for his facility with language and comedic detail, and Kerry McGee for her elastic face and descriptive gestures.
And we are women's men.
I never tire of watching the nuances of an Adam Mincks character, Dean Knight can convey more with a glance or downturn of his mouth than some actors can with entire monologues and Dixon Cashwell was born to play a saucy eunuch.
During the big fight scene in Act II, a screen showed everything from Monty Python to space battles, while the real cast used plastic swords and pillows to fight onstage.
You knew very well that my heart was tied to your ship and that you would pull me along with you.
The delight of a bootleg performance is that even when you're watching a tragedy, humor bubbles up throughout, whether it's an actor calling for his line (and often making a joke of it in the process), missed cues ("Enter Caesar...Caesar?") or improvisation ("Trust no one with Caesar except that guy with the "P" name").
By the end, the lovers were dead and even Caesar had to soften a little acknowledging their love of each other, but not before the inimitable Susan Sanford had the audience in stitches as the asp supplier with a thick Scottish brogue. Hilarious.
After the cast took a well-deserved bow or two, Pru and I walked out discussing how the Bootleg Shakespeare production is always top-notch despite the lack of rehearsals and reliably funny because of the lack of rehearsals.
It was enough to make me drop everything I had in my wallet into the bucket on my way out.
And then, just because I'd found out we had an extra hour, we headed to the Sporty to hear our favorite '80s cover band who tonight were all about some southern rock.
Turning away from the bar after procuring my 1800, a guy asked me to dance before I'd even had a sip or found a place to roost. Sorry, sir, not yet.
Sipping and listening to the band, I exercised my best conversation, which was neither holy, cold or still.
Octavia, I'm not. All about bootleg and '80s covers, I absolutely am.
Bootleg Shakespeare: annual production whereby actors learn their lines separately and only come together for one night to stage Shakespeare without rehearsal.
Scene: VMFA for the first time, meaning that instead of standing outdoors on a nasty evening to wait in line for tickets, would-be attendees waited in the comfort of heat and art.
I could get used to this.
Once tickets were handed out, everyone beat feet to Best Cafe to wine and dine until showtime. Both Pru and I opted for steaming bowls of beef stew and bread, the better to ward off the chill from tonight's wind and rain.
We joined George and Jo, two strangers who'd been in line behind us, at their table to eat and listen to Bardship Enterprise, an aptly named quartet playing music (Prince, Jackson 5, Bob Marley, Sublime) for our listening pleasure.
Between songs, George, a security guard at the museum, regaled us with tales of drunken debauchery during corporate parties and weddings at the museum. Imagine a couple pitching woo on the Rockefeller bed and you get an idea of the nerve exhibited while on state property.
It was only during our chit-chat that I learned that tonight we turn the clocks back. Woo-hoo, after the week I've had, I could sure use an extra hour.
Then it was on to the Leslie Cheek theater for "Antony and Cleopatra" directed by local favorite Foster Solomon.
"Twelve hours ago, this production did not exist," he explained from the stage. "If you know 'Antony and Cleopatra," you're going to be surprised. If you don't know 'Antony and Cleopatra," you're going to be surprised."
Sounded like a win/win to me.
The play opened with "As Time Goes By" performed by the show band onstage which went on to feature the vocal stylings of Rebecca Anne Muhleman in a bright red wig and Jacqueline O'Connor in a sassy blond wig on vocals doing Lady Gaga and Beyonce.
My full heart remains in use with you.
The always compelling (and quick) Joe Carlson played Antony, getting big laughs with lines such as, "Look here at this imaginary letter" and pulling out nothing.
The world and my great office will sometimes divide me from your bosom.
When he said that line, he stared directly into Octavia, his future wife's, chest.
Octavia is of a holy, cold and still conversation.
Of the 33 actors involved, I recognized many of them. I'm an unabashed fan of David Janosik who played Caesar for his diction and timing, Billy Christopher Maupin who played a white-faced soothsayer for his facility with language and comedic detail, and Kerry McGee for her elastic face and descriptive gestures.
And we are women's men.
I never tire of watching the nuances of an Adam Mincks character, Dean Knight can convey more with a glance or downturn of his mouth than some actors can with entire monologues and Dixon Cashwell was born to play a saucy eunuch.
During the big fight scene in Act II, a screen showed everything from Monty Python to space battles, while the real cast used plastic swords and pillows to fight onstage.
You knew very well that my heart was tied to your ship and that you would pull me along with you.
The delight of a bootleg performance is that even when you're watching a tragedy, humor bubbles up throughout, whether it's an actor calling for his line (and often making a joke of it in the process), missed cues ("Enter Caesar...Caesar?") or improvisation ("Trust no one with Caesar except that guy with the "P" name").
By the end, the lovers were dead and even Caesar had to soften a little acknowledging their love of each other, but not before the inimitable Susan Sanford had the audience in stitches as the asp supplier with a thick Scottish brogue. Hilarious.
After the cast took a well-deserved bow or two, Pru and I walked out discussing how the Bootleg Shakespeare production is always top-notch despite the lack of rehearsals and reliably funny because of the lack of rehearsals.
It was enough to make me drop everything I had in my wallet into the bucket on my way out.
And then, just because I'd found out we had an extra hour, we headed to the Sporty to hear our favorite '80s cover band who tonight were all about some southern rock.
Turning away from the bar after procuring my 1800, a guy asked me to dance before I'd even had a sip or found a place to roost. Sorry, sir, not yet.
Sipping and listening to the band, I exercised my best conversation, which was neither holy, cold or still.
Octavia, I'm not. All about bootleg and '80s covers, I absolutely am.
Saturday, November 1, 2014
One and Done
Still firing, still flouring, still forking.
In a repeat of yesterday, my friend shows up at the crack of 9:30 so we can walk over to the Library of Virginia for day two of food curiosity. The weather has turned noticeably cooler and the sky threatens rain so I bring along my umbrella.
Our first course offering today is "At the Counters," a screening of two documentaries about lunch counter sit-ins in the '60s.
"If We So Choose" chronicles the non-violent sit-ins ("You can't put out a fire with fire") at the Varsity Grill in Athens, Georgia.
"The Richmond 34" told a story much closer to home about the VUU students who staged demonstrations and sit-ina (resulting in the first mass arrest of the Civil Rights movement) at Thalhimer's lunch room.
A marcher's protest sign said it all: "Don't blame the police. Thalhimer's swore out the warrants." Truth.
A panel of four - the Athens documentarian, a VUU history professor, a Thalhimer and an original member of the Richmond 34, Elizabeth Johnson Rice - each gave their take on the events for a fascinating look from all sides.
My next stop was "Founding Foodies" with author Dave DeWitt, who took numerous tangents ("And then there was a scandal" about dating a student when he was a college professor) in talking about how Washington (a farmer with money), Jefferson (a gardener with debt) and Franklin (retired at 30 after creating the post office system) all had vigorous interest in food and wine.
Among the interesting food topics he discussed were the history of barbecue (begun as a cheap way to feed crowds at political rallies), how Jefferson was the first to import a pasta machine, and how peacocks were the "feast" bird before turkeys.
Among the tangents he took were Jefferson vowing not to remarry when his wife died (hence the affair with 16-year old Sally Hemmings), how De Witt got a free pellet smoker out of Yoder Company and how using a conventional wood smoker cut into his sports-watching time. Yawn.
Leaving FFF behind, we walked over to Lucy's for lunch where a cheeseburger salad was just what I needed after yesterday's all-day small bite eating. The music was funky, a Doris day movie was on the screen and the crowd was low-key. Perfection.
My last class, "Getting Gnudi," was with Mike Isabella of Graffiato whom I'd never heard because I don't watch TV so haven't seen "Top Chef" (which he claimed was a nightmare fueled by over-drinking by the judges and crew).
His plan was to make a quick and easy meal - Ricotta and goat cheese gnudi with shallot/tomatoes sauce -that we could make at home that would taste as good as his.
Being from New Jersey, he pronounced onion as ung-yin and meatball as meat-bowl. He told a story of a line cook under him using a dull knife to chop chives and throwing that knife in the garbage and telling the guy, "We don't use dull knives here. Get out!"
That line cook now works at the French laundry, for which Isabella jokingly took credit.
His advice boiled down to two things: with cooking, all you need is love and pasta water should be as salty as the ocean. Got it.
Once through with his Italian wisdom, Friend and I made one last stop in the big tent for coffee (her) and chocolate (me) before walking home in a fierce wind, light rain and uncomfortably cold temperature.
It's hard to believe that only four days ago I was in the ocean in a bathing suit.
And so my Fire, Flour and Fork foray comes to a close. I'll give its creators credit, they did a fabulous job of planning, organizing and executing two days and nights of varied and mostly compelling programming.
One thing that came up again and again with people I talked to was that this event is going to be huge next year while this year, everything was manageable, interesting and easy to navigate. The consensus is that next year and going forward will be overcrowded and far less enjoyable as attendance grows.
It makes me glad I got to be an FFF virgin. Hats off to the inaugural weekend of what's sure to become an unwieldy monster with time.
That said, it was a distinct pleasure to be fired up and forked.
In a repeat of yesterday, my friend shows up at the crack of 9:30 so we can walk over to the Library of Virginia for day two of food curiosity. The weather has turned noticeably cooler and the sky threatens rain so I bring along my umbrella.
Our first course offering today is "At the Counters," a screening of two documentaries about lunch counter sit-ins in the '60s.
"If We So Choose" chronicles the non-violent sit-ins ("You can't put out a fire with fire") at the Varsity Grill in Athens, Georgia.
"The Richmond 34" told a story much closer to home about the VUU students who staged demonstrations and sit-ina (resulting in the first mass arrest of the Civil Rights movement) at Thalhimer's lunch room.
A marcher's protest sign said it all: "Don't blame the police. Thalhimer's swore out the warrants." Truth.
A panel of four - the Athens documentarian, a VUU history professor, a Thalhimer and an original member of the Richmond 34, Elizabeth Johnson Rice - each gave their take on the events for a fascinating look from all sides.
My next stop was "Founding Foodies" with author Dave DeWitt, who took numerous tangents ("And then there was a scandal" about dating a student when he was a college professor) in talking about how Washington (a farmer with money), Jefferson (a gardener with debt) and Franklin (retired at 30 after creating the post office system) all had vigorous interest in food and wine.
Among the interesting food topics he discussed were the history of barbecue (begun as a cheap way to feed crowds at political rallies), how Jefferson was the first to import a pasta machine, and how peacocks were the "feast" bird before turkeys.
Among the tangents he took were Jefferson vowing not to remarry when his wife died (hence the affair with 16-year old Sally Hemmings), how De Witt got a free pellet smoker out of Yoder Company and how using a conventional wood smoker cut into his sports-watching time. Yawn.
Leaving FFF behind, we walked over to Lucy's for lunch where a cheeseburger salad was just what I needed after yesterday's all-day small bite eating. The music was funky, a Doris day movie was on the screen and the crowd was low-key. Perfection.
My last class, "Getting Gnudi," was with Mike Isabella of Graffiato whom I'd never heard because I don't watch TV so haven't seen "Top Chef" (which he claimed was a nightmare fueled by over-drinking by the judges and crew).
His plan was to make a quick and easy meal - Ricotta and goat cheese gnudi with shallot/tomatoes sauce -that we could make at home that would taste as good as his.
Being from New Jersey, he pronounced onion as ung-yin and meatball as meat-bowl. He told a story of a line cook under him using a dull knife to chop chives and throwing that knife in the garbage and telling the guy, "We don't use dull knives here. Get out!"
That line cook now works at the French laundry, for which Isabella jokingly took credit.
His advice boiled down to two things: with cooking, all you need is love and pasta water should be as salty as the ocean. Got it.
Once through with his Italian wisdom, Friend and I made one last stop in the big tent for coffee (her) and chocolate (me) before walking home in a fierce wind, light rain and uncomfortably cold temperature.
It's hard to believe that only four days ago I was in the ocean in a bathing suit.
And so my Fire, Flour and Fork foray comes to a close. I'll give its creators credit, they did a fabulous job of planning, organizing and executing two days and nights of varied and mostly compelling programming.
One thing that came up again and again with people I talked to was that this event is going to be huge next year while this year, everything was manageable, interesting and easy to navigate. The consensus is that next year and going forward will be overcrowded and far less enjoyable as attendance grows.
It makes me glad I got to be an FFF virgin. Hats off to the inaugural weekend of what's sure to become an unwieldy monster with time.
That said, it was a distinct pleasure to be fired up and forked.
Food, Glorious Food
Being food curious can take all day and night.
First of all, it starts at the crack of dawn, meaning my fellow Gemini showed up at 9:30 to collect me and walk over to the Hilton Garden Inn and check in for Fire, Flour and Fork's Friday extravaganza.
People were clustered around the coffee station like it was mother's milk. When forced to, I can get up at the butt crack of dawn (though I'd prefer not to) but coffee's not what I'm looking for at that hour. Or any hour.
Our first session of the day was called "Relish Fork" with Paul Virant of Chicago's Vie restaurant talking about pickling and preserving ("Eat what you can and can what you can't") and Jamie Coffey of Williams & Sherrill making jam. Spoon jam, to be precise.
I'd never heard of spoon jam, but soon learned that it's jam made without using a hot water bath, meaning that the strawberry freezer jam I made for decades probably qualifies. Jamie's version was far more nuanced than mine, using raspberries, the juice of an orange, honey, sugar, orange zest and thyme.
Best of all, he passed around a jar of jam and little wooden spoons inscribed RVA for us to taste his beautiful jam with. When the jar was passed to me, the woman next to me told she loved my shoes. "I would wear the hell out of those." I assured her I do. Cute and comfortable wins the race.
As a lovely parting gift, Chef Virant passed out miniature jars of apple butter, pleasing me no end and sparking memories of childhood. Whenever one of my sisters or I would ask Mom for a snack, she always offered bread and apple butter.
You'd think I'd have gotten tired of it by now, but well-crafted apple butter still speaks to me. And I have to assume Chef Virant knows how to make some apple butter.
Our next session was "Biscuits of the South" for two reasons.
One, it was being given by Ronni Lundy, a founder of the Southern Foodways Alliance, and two, growing up with my Richmond grandmother living with us meant she made biscuits at least two or three times a week. Biscuits are in my blood and probably my DNA.
She began by holding up a bottle of sweet sorghum syrup and saying, "I'm gonna show you how little hillbilly children are introduced to it. It's a gateway drug," before pouring a third of the bottle into a bowl where several sticks of softened butter awaited.
Once she'd turned the yellow butter golden brown with sweet sorghum syrup, we received little ramekins of it with a biscuit. My first thought after one bite was how those hillbilly mothers had cut out a step. I always smeared my breakfast biscuits with a thick schmear of butter and then a layer of strawberry jam for sweetness.
A biscuit with sweet sorghum syrup delivers both sweet and salty in one application. Brilliant!
Lundy talked about how sweet sorghum syrup tasted of terroir, like wine, picking up mineral notes and changing from season to season.
"It's hard to make a bad biscuit and it's an art to make a good one," she informed us, saying light hands and soft wheat flour are essential. She critiqued the biscuits we were eating as having too much chew inside instead of fluff. Also, bacon grease makes great biscuits (duh).
Baking lessons aside, she also provided cultural history (cat's head biscuits are called that because they're big, like a cat's head) such as why farmers' wives made small biscuits in the morning. That way, everyone at the breakfast table - family and farmhands- got one biscuit to start eating while the next batch baked.
She talked about how when self-rising flour was developed, the public didn't embrace it, but mountain women did. Before, they'd had to measure their own leavening agents into the flour and now it was done for them.
I know my grandmother, who used no measuring to make her biscuits, took to self-rising flour from the day it came out. When she moved in with us, it was the first time I'd ever seen it.
And I could totally relate when she shared John Edgerton's axiom about how you could always tell a southerner because when biscuits were put on the table and most people took one, a southerner would take two and butter them both at once while the biscuits were still hot.
I am that person despite not being born a southerner. I suppose that comes from having a southern grandmother in the house making biscuits three times a week. I want hot, liquid butter oozing out of every bite of biscuit.
The question and answer period took us all over the place. Chef Colin Perry (and his epic mustache) of Montreal's Triple Crown Dinette (who makes 500 biscuits a weekend) was in the audience and fielded a question about adding pimento cheese to biscuit dough and why the results had been varied.
A guy in the row in front of us with a serious southern drawl raised his hand and observed about things such as pimento cheese additives, "That's not a biscuit." No indeed.
Someone asked about molasses versus sweet sorghum syrup and before she addressed that, Lundy turned to the pimento cheese maker and asked politely, "Was your question answered? Because I'm going to go down a road here."
"It's a dirt road," the southerner drawled and I laughed out loud.
After her explanation, a women told a story of meeting a couple who'd been married for 40 years, yet the wife complained that her husband still ate biscuits wrong.
Seems he would break them in half and spread his sweet sorghum syrup inside the halves while the wife was positive that the correct way was to stick your finger into the side of the biscuit to create a hole and pour the syrup in.
Forty years and that poor woman still hasn't been able to train her man how to eat a biscuit properly. I think there was a life lesson more than a culinary lesson there.
Two classes behind us, we were glad when it was lunch time, taking the secret side door to the giant sampling tent set up on Sixth Street to gobble Belmont Butchery sausage (and watch butcher Tanya debone a whole pig), Gearhart's chocolates, Rapphanock oysters, and a host of other locally made food items.
At the Virginia wine tasting table were Veritas, Pollack, Barboursville, Keswick, North Gate and Grace Estate, the latter two new to me. It's impossible to keep up with all the new Virginia wineries in spite of my best efforts.
It was inevitable that I'd run into people I knew and I did - the former co-worker, the beermiester, the kitten lover, the baker, the low key mover and shaker - and the consensus was that FFF had been meticulously planned and executed so far.
From there we went to the John Marshall ballroom where ZZQ was serving up their Texas style barbecue. Once I'd procured a plate of brisket and potato salad, I found a seat at a table of strangers, only to have the guy across from me ask, "Aren't you Karen? I think Prabir introduced us a few years ago. Don't you write a blog called I Could Go On and On?"
The woman to his left assured me that he has an unbelievable memory and does this all the time. Meanwhile, I had no problem finishing off my plate while chatting with them about their screen-printing business, which sessions they'd attended and where we were all heading next.
I'd found it impossible to pass up "Oyster Fork" with Mike Hutt of the Virginia Marine Products Board, an unabashed cheerleader for Virginia oysters.
I've done several stories on Virginia's oyster industry so while I knew almost everything he told us, a few tidbits were new to me.
The governor has declared November Virginia oyster month.Seventeen tons of oyster shells were collected last year in Richmond from festivals and restaurants (such as Lemaire, Heritage, Saison and Dutch & Co.). They love our oysters in Asia.
After being shown how to open oysters, they let us loose on two trays of bivalves, one of buttery oysters from the Rappahannock and the other seaside oysters tasting like a mouth full of ocean water.
He suggested we begin with the less salty ones, but I already know I prefer saltier so I did my damage there and damn, these were some of the briniest oysters I've ever had. Delicious.
I will give these guys credit, though, the oysters were served with no accouterments - no cocktail sauce, no lemon, no mignonette - so you were just tasting oysters and water, no adornments. If there were any oyster virgins in the room, it was the equivalent of dropping them into the deep end of the pool.
After I'd gorged on the sea, Gemini and I cut out. We weren't skipping class exactly, but we wanted some down time to assess and regroup, finding it at Saison market for a happy hour glass of Vino Verde.
Then she was off to home and hearth and I got cleaned up to go to someplace I never thought I would despite smelling it for years: the inside of the 1911 C.F. Sauer factory on Broad Street.
Walking up to the check-in desk, the woman looked at me and feigned surprise. "You, again?" FFF humor.
Being the punctual sort, I got herded into the first tour group along with a guy who'd been at my lunch table and the oyster class. When I asked what had brought him to FFF, he said simply, "I love food."
With a little probing, he shared that he'd worked in restaurants for years (including with Sean Brock back in the day), although he was no longer in the business. It's an addiction some people never get over.
Our tour guide was Sauer's marketing director and she took us up and down old staircases to see the workings of the company who puts out the spicy scents on Broad Street.
Walking in to the building, we saw a charming, wood-framed window, above which hung a sign saying "Information." I was thrilled when she told everyone to deposit their cell phone in the back room because no cameras were allowed. I was the only one who didn't have to divest myself of a device.
Sauer tours are quite a rarity, it seems.
She showed us a framed collection of awards Sauer's had won, asking if anyone had read "The Devil in the White City," (which I had) set in the 1893 World Columbian Exposition in Chicago.
It was at that fair that Sauer's had won their first award for purity in their products.
Walking past vintage wooden doors, a break room with library chairs and tables and machinery, we heard how Sauer's was the first to bottle extracts and the only company still using glass bottles.
All the equipment was original to the building as was the sign, "Think! This equipment pays your salary. Take care of it."
We learned that in terms of what they produce, it's predominantly pepper, garlic and cinnamon. We heard about how they still cold soak their vanilla beans in grain alcohol while other companies use a sped-up heating process much like percolating coffee.
Speaking of, the aroma of the warm, vanilla room was sublime and while others got overheated, I could have listened to her talk there all night and enjoyed that scent and temperature.
When we saw huge sacks of MSG, we all guessed it was for Asian markets, but learned that MSG is extremely popular in the American southeast. Who knew?
Filing past the president's office, we looked in to see green leather furniture, painted portraits of past Sauer presidents (it's always been a family owned business) and a fireplace mantle with one of their most popular products, jars of Duke's mayonnaise, adorning it.
After that, we stood in the office area for a Q & A, learning that in all its years, Sauer's had never laid off an employee, even during the world wars and the depression. Now, that's impressive.
Outside in Sauer's rose garden, our group was offered whiskey-based Boulevardier cocktails and hors d'oeuvres to accompany them, all under the scenic glow of the Sauer's vanilla sign, which now meant a whole lot more after 28 years in Richmond because I'd learned why their vanilla was such a big deal.
One of the Sauer men sat in a windowsill outside, sharing colorful stories about his great-grandfather's racing car habit, how they got the city to let them replace the rotting windows facing Broad Street and that multiple bands had asked to have their picture taken in front of the vanilla sign.
FYI: The answer is always no. The reason he gave was who knows what their music is like? Or if they're going to be naked in the picture?
Purity, remember?
My final FFF stop of the day was Hardywood for the Festival of the Hungry Ghosts, a dine-around with local chefs.
For this portion of the never-ending FFF day, I was to meet a favorite couple who'd just come from "Spice Poker" at Curry Craft. Clearly their stomachs were bigger than mine.
Arriving before they did, I caught a few songs by Full Moon Fever, a Tom Petty cover band playing tonight as part of the "Night of the Living '70s" bill. It was particularly appropriate since it was the show I'd have attended if my friends hadn't offered me their extra FFF ticket.
When they finally showed up, full of apologies for their tardiness, I wasted no time in going inside to eat from the tables of local chefs.
As I was savoring Julep's goat stew over pumpkin, I was handed the last of Magpie's beef tongue skewers. Heritage's pumpkin gemelli with brown butter, kale and mushrooms impressed even this non-pasta lover. One chef described Metzger's trotter torchon as "an orgasm in my mouth." Blue Goat's rockfish and cooked peanuts was an unusual take on a familiar fish.
But I think my favorite was Secco's head cheese with celery slaw, a pitch perfect marriage of fat and acid.
Although beer was part of the affair, that held no interest for me, so I passed on my beer tickets to a favorite record store owner whose costume resembled a Monopoly character.
Lots of people had come in costumes, and many were clever. One friend started to explain her group's costumes and stopped. "Oh, you don't watch TV, you're out living life, so you won't know about this show."
A guy I once worked with and his girlfriend came as farm to table, him with a table draped over his shoulders, her in overalls with a pitchfork.
The one that baffled us was the girl with romaine leaves on her breasts. We puzzled and puzzled over it until I came up with a guess. Maybe she was supposed to be lett-tits.
Since we had to know, one of us went up and asked her. When I told her what my guess was, she laughed loud and hard. When her boyfriend arrived, I told him my theory and he laughed even harder. Turns out she was going for Bibb lettuce.
"But yours is so much better," she laughed. "That's what I'm coming as next year!" Who knew I was so clever?
By the time I got around to trying desserts -sarsaparilla pudding with toasted pumpkin seeds, tres leches cake, pistachio cookies with dark chocolate and fig, and pumpkin cheesecake - some chefs had already run out of their desserts.
That was okay because we were ready to move on, this time back to Curry Craft for our private after-party.
There I found a music friend at the bar, a beer rep swooning over wine and the dear friend who'd donated his FFF ticket to me tonight. After a while, a couple of restaurant owners.
Everyone wanted to hear about my FFF classes today and I obliged with tales of jam and biscuits, oysters and spices.
At one point I looked over at a friend, who'd been up since 6 a.m. this morning, and pantomimed sleeping. He pointed at me and then himself and nodded.
When I got up to say my goodnights, the male half of my couple date registered shock. Explaining that I'd been up since 8 - unusually early for me - and had another day of early morning classes tomorrow, I was leaving.
"Yea, you look tired and that never happens," he said, clearly surprised. Just this morning, a friend had e-mailed me about tomorrow night, saying, "Your energy is unrelenting!"
Honey, you've never seen me after fifteen hours of being food curious. I gotta say, being out living my life is far less tiring.
First of all, it starts at the crack of dawn, meaning my fellow Gemini showed up at 9:30 to collect me and walk over to the Hilton Garden Inn and check in for Fire, Flour and Fork's Friday extravaganza.
People were clustered around the coffee station like it was mother's milk. When forced to, I can get up at the butt crack of dawn (though I'd prefer not to) but coffee's not what I'm looking for at that hour. Or any hour.
Our first session of the day was called "Relish Fork" with Paul Virant of Chicago's Vie restaurant talking about pickling and preserving ("Eat what you can and can what you can't") and Jamie Coffey of Williams & Sherrill making jam. Spoon jam, to be precise.
I'd never heard of spoon jam, but soon learned that it's jam made without using a hot water bath, meaning that the strawberry freezer jam I made for decades probably qualifies. Jamie's version was far more nuanced than mine, using raspberries, the juice of an orange, honey, sugar, orange zest and thyme.
Best of all, he passed around a jar of jam and little wooden spoons inscribed RVA for us to taste his beautiful jam with. When the jar was passed to me, the woman next to me told she loved my shoes. "I would wear the hell out of those." I assured her I do. Cute and comfortable wins the race.
As a lovely parting gift, Chef Virant passed out miniature jars of apple butter, pleasing me no end and sparking memories of childhood. Whenever one of my sisters or I would ask Mom for a snack, she always offered bread and apple butter.
You'd think I'd have gotten tired of it by now, but well-crafted apple butter still speaks to me. And I have to assume Chef Virant knows how to make some apple butter.
Our next session was "Biscuits of the South" for two reasons.
One, it was being given by Ronni Lundy, a founder of the Southern Foodways Alliance, and two, growing up with my Richmond grandmother living with us meant she made biscuits at least two or three times a week. Biscuits are in my blood and probably my DNA.
She began by holding up a bottle of sweet sorghum syrup and saying, "I'm gonna show you how little hillbilly children are introduced to it. It's a gateway drug," before pouring a third of the bottle into a bowl where several sticks of softened butter awaited.
Once she'd turned the yellow butter golden brown with sweet sorghum syrup, we received little ramekins of it with a biscuit. My first thought after one bite was how those hillbilly mothers had cut out a step. I always smeared my breakfast biscuits with a thick schmear of butter and then a layer of strawberry jam for sweetness.
A biscuit with sweet sorghum syrup delivers both sweet and salty in one application. Brilliant!
Lundy talked about how sweet sorghum syrup tasted of terroir, like wine, picking up mineral notes and changing from season to season.
"It's hard to make a bad biscuit and it's an art to make a good one," she informed us, saying light hands and soft wheat flour are essential. She critiqued the biscuits we were eating as having too much chew inside instead of fluff. Also, bacon grease makes great biscuits (duh).
Baking lessons aside, she also provided cultural history (cat's head biscuits are called that because they're big, like a cat's head) such as why farmers' wives made small biscuits in the morning. That way, everyone at the breakfast table - family and farmhands- got one biscuit to start eating while the next batch baked.
She talked about how when self-rising flour was developed, the public didn't embrace it, but mountain women did. Before, they'd had to measure their own leavening agents into the flour and now it was done for them.
I know my grandmother, who used no measuring to make her biscuits, took to self-rising flour from the day it came out. When she moved in with us, it was the first time I'd ever seen it.
And I could totally relate when she shared John Edgerton's axiom about how you could always tell a southerner because when biscuits were put on the table and most people took one, a southerner would take two and butter them both at once while the biscuits were still hot.
I am that person despite not being born a southerner. I suppose that comes from having a southern grandmother in the house making biscuits three times a week. I want hot, liquid butter oozing out of every bite of biscuit.
The question and answer period took us all over the place. Chef Colin Perry (and his epic mustache) of Montreal's Triple Crown Dinette (who makes 500 biscuits a weekend) was in the audience and fielded a question about adding pimento cheese to biscuit dough and why the results had been varied.
A guy in the row in front of us with a serious southern drawl raised his hand and observed about things such as pimento cheese additives, "That's not a biscuit." No indeed.
Someone asked about molasses versus sweet sorghum syrup and before she addressed that, Lundy turned to the pimento cheese maker and asked politely, "Was your question answered? Because I'm going to go down a road here."
"It's a dirt road," the southerner drawled and I laughed out loud.
After her explanation, a women told a story of meeting a couple who'd been married for 40 years, yet the wife complained that her husband still ate biscuits wrong.
Seems he would break them in half and spread his sweet sorghum syrup inside the halves while the wife was positive that the correct way was to stick your finger into the side of the biscuit to create a hole and pour the syrup in.
Forty years and that poor woman still hasn't been able to train her man how to eat a biscuit properly. I think there was a life lesson more than a culinary lesson there.
Two classes behind us, we were glad when it was lunch time, taking the secret side door to the giant sampling tent set up on Sixth Street to gobble Belmont Butchery sausage (and watch butcher Tanya debone a whole pig), Gearhart's chocolates, Rapphanock oysters, and a host of other locally made food items.
At the Virginia wine tasting table were Veritas, Pollack, Barboursville, Keswick, North Gate and Grace Estate, the latter two new to me. It's impossible to keep up with all the new Virginia wineries in spite of my best efforts.
It was inevitable that I'd run into people I knew and I did - the former co-worker, the beermiester, the kitten lover, the baker, the low key mover and shaker - and the consensus was that FFF had been meticulously planned and executed so far.
From there we went to the John Marshall ballroom where ZZQ was serving up their Texas style barbecue. Once I'd procured a plate of brisket and potato salad, I found a seat at a table of strangers, only to have the guy across from me ask, "Aren't you Karen? I think Prabir introduced us a few years ago. Don't you write a blog called I Could Go On and On?"
The woman to his left assured me that he has an unbelievable memory and does this all the time. Meanwhile, I had no problem finishing off my plate while chatting with them about their screen-printing business, which sessions they'd attended and where we were all heading next.
I'd found it impossible to pass up "Oyster Fork" with Mike Hutt of the Virginia Marine Products Board, an unabashed cheerleader for Virginia oysters.
I've done several stories on Virginia's oyster industry so while I knew almost everything he told us, a few tidbits were new to me.
The governor has declared November Virginia oyster month.Seventeen tons of oyster shells were collected last year in Richmond from festivals and restaurants (such as Lemaire, Heritage, Saison and Dutch & Co.). They love our oysters in Asia.
After being shown how to open oysters, they let us loose on two trays of bivalves, one of buttery oysters from the Rappahannock and the other seaside oysters tasting like a mouth full of ocean water.
He suggested we begin with the less salty ones, but I already know I prefer saltier so I did my damage there and damn, these were some of the briniest oysters I've ever had. Delicious.
I will give these guys credit, though, the oysters were served with no accouterments - no cocktail sauce, no lemon, no mignonette - so you were just tasting oysters and water, no adornments. If there were any oyster virgins in the room, it was the equivalent of dropping them into the deep end of the pool.
After I'd gorged on the sea, Gemini and I cut out. We weren't skipping class exactly, but we wanted some down time to assess and regroup, finding it at Saison market for a happy hour glass of Vino Verde.
Then she was off to home and hearth and I got cleaned up to go to someplace I never thought I would despite smelling it for years: the inside of the 1911 C.F. Sauer factory on Broad Street.
Walking up to the check-in desk, the woman looked at me and feigned surprise. "You, again?" FFF humor.
Being the punctual sort, I got herded into the first tour group along with a guy who'd been at my lunch table and the oyster class. When I asked what had brought him to FFF, he said simply, "I love food."
With a little probing, he shared that he'd worked in restaurants for years (including with Sean Brock back in the day), although he was no longer in the business. It's an addiction some people never get over.
Our tour guide was Sauer's marketing director and she took us up and down old staircases to see the workings of the company who puts out the spicy scents on Broad Street.
Walking in to the building, we saw a charming, wood-framed window, above which hung a sign saying "Information." I was thrilled when she told everyone to deposit their cell phone in the back room because no cameras were allowed. I was the only one who didn't have to divest myself of a device.
Sauer tours are quite a rarity, it seems.
She showed us a framed collection of awards Sauer's had won, asking if anyone had read "The Devil in the White City," (which I had) set in the 1893 World Columbian Exposition in Chicago.
It was at that fair that Sauer's had won their first award for purity in their products.
Walking past vintage wooden doors, a break room with library chairs and tables and machinery, we heard how Sauer's was the first to bottle extracts and the only company still using glass bottles.
All the equipment was original to the building as was the sign, "Think! This equipment pays your salary. Take care of it."
We learned that in terms of what they produce, it's predominantly pepper, garlic and cinnamon. We heard about how they still cold soak their vanilla beans in grain alcohol while other companies use a sped-up heating process much like percolating coffee.
Speaking of, the aroma of the warm, vanilla room was sublime and while others got overheated, I could have listened to her talk there all night and enjoyed that scent and temperature.
When we saw huge sacks of MSG, we all guessed it was for Asian markets, but learned that MSG is extremely popular in the American southeast. Who knew?
Filing past the president's office, we looked in to see green leather furniture, painted portraits of past Sauer presidents (it's always been a family owned business) and a fireplace mantle with one of their most popular products, jars of Duke's mayonnaise, adorning it.
After that, we stood in the office area for a Q & A, learning that in all its years, Sauer's had never laid off an employee, even during the world wars and the depression. Now, that's impressive.
Outside in Sauer's rose garden, our group was offered whiskey-based Boulevardier cocktails and hors d'oeuvres to accompany them, all under the scenic glow of the Sauer's vanilla sign, which now meant a whole lot more after 28 years in Richmond because I'd learned why their vanilla was such a big deal.
One of the Sauer men sat in a windowsill outside, sharing colorful stories about his great-grandfather's racing car habit, how they got the city to let them replace the rotting windows facing Broad Street and that multiple bands had asked to have their picture taken in front of the vanilla sign.
FYI: The answer is always no. The reason he gave was who knows what their music is like? Or if they're going to be naked in the picture?
Purity, remember?
My final FFF stop of the day was Hardywood for the Festival of the Hungry Ghosts, a dine-around with local chefs.
For this portion of the never-ending FFF day, I was to meet a favorite couple who'd just come from "Spice Poker" at Curry Craft. Clearly their stomachs were bigger than mine.
Arriving before they did, I caught a few songs by Full Moon Fever, a Tom Petty cover band playing tonight as part of the "Night of the Living '70s" bill. It was particularly appropriate since it was the show I'd have attended if my friends hadn't offered me their extra FFF ticket.
When they finally showed up, full of apologies for their tardiness, I wasted no time in going inside to eat from the tables of local chefs.
As I was savoring Julep's goat stew over pumpkin, I was handed the last of Magpie's beef tongue skewers. Heritage's pumpkin gemelli with brown butter, kale and mushrooms impressed even this non-pasta lover. One chef described Metzger's trotter torchon as "an orgasm in my mouth." Blue Goat's rockfish and cooked peanuts was an unusual take on a familiar fish.
But I think my favorite was Secco's head cheese with celery slaw, a pitch perfect marriage of fat and acid.
Although beer was part of the affair, that held no interest for me, so I passed on my beer tickets to a favorite record store owner whose costume resembled a Monopoly character.
Lots of people had come in costumes, and many were clever. One friend started to explain her group's costumes and stopped. "Oh, you don't watch TV, you're out living life, so you won't know about this show."
A guy I once worked with and his girlfriend came as farm to table, him with a table draped over his shoulders, her in overalls with a pitchfork.
The one that baffled us was the girl with romaine leaves on her breasts. We puzzled and puzzled over it until I came up with a guess. Maybe she was supposed to be lett-tits.
Since we had to know, one of us went up and asked her. When I told her what my guess was, she laughed loud and hard. When her boyfriend arrived, I told him my theory and he laughed even harder. Turns out she was going for Bibb lettuce.
"But yours is so much better," she laughed. "That's what I'm coming as next year!" Who knew I was so clever?
By the time I got around to trying desserts -sarsaparilla pudding with toasted pumpkin seeds, tres leches cake, pistachio cookies with dark chocolate and fig, and pumpkin cheesecake - some chefs had already run out of their desserts.
That was okay because we were ready to move on, this time back to Curry Craft for our private after-party.
There I found a music friend at the bar, a beer rep swooning over wine and the dear friend who'd donated his FFF ticket to me tonight. After a while, a couple of restaurant owners.
Everyone wanted to hear about my FFF classes today and I obliged with tales of jam and biscuits, oysters and spices.
At one point I looked over at a friend, who'd been up since 6 a.m. this morning, and pantomimed sleeping. He pointed at me and then himself and nodded.
When I got up to say my goodnights, the male half of my couple date registered shock. Explaining that I'd been up since 8 - unusually early for me - and had another day of early morning classes tomorrow, I was leaving.
"Yea, you look tired and that never happens," he said, clearly surprised. Just this morning, a friend had e-mailed me about tomorrow night, saying, "Your energy is unrelenting!"
Honey, you've never seen me after fifteen hours of being food curious. I gotta say, being out living my life is far less tiring.
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