— Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, “Running Down a Dream”
I am the only person in my family who likes car rides. I love to go for a drive through the mountains on the weekend, or toodle around to nearby little towns. And unlike my husband and our kids, I like road trips. Our children get bored, of course, just like I did when I was their age. They just want to get to where we’re going.
But I like the going. I like looking out the window, watching the landscape roll by: a sign of being on the move, of seeing someplace different from our everyday ordinary life. The highway and the passing scenery are a reminder that the world is big and interesting and beautiful.
What makes a road trip even better is good driving music. One of my favorite musicians for driving, especially in spring, is Tom Petty. There’s something free about his music. It makes me feel alive, and it pairs well with watching the landscape roll by through a car window.
It was a beautiful day, the sun beat down
I had the radio on, I was drivin’
On our way to Baltimore, we drove through forests edged with redbud trees that bloomed magenta, farmlands filled with white-blossomed pear trees, passed red barns on green hills in sunlight, saw the first signs of spring green leaves on mountainsides. In the background was Tom Petty, the soundtrack to our drive through the flowering Appalachians.
I had my feet on the dashboard and my eyes on the moving American landscape, and I was happy.
For the month of April, I will publish a 10-minute free write each day, initiated by a prompt from my prompt box. Minimal editing. No story. Just thoughts spilling onto the page. Trying to get back into the writing habit.
We ate late lunches in Baltimore — large meals at 3 o’clock in the afternoon that left us still full at dinner time. On Easter, by the time evening rolled around, we didn’t want a full meal. So instead of eating dinner, we had desserts and drinks instead.
Well, I had dessert.
We ate and drank at the B&O Brasserie, a place which delighted me because of the trains on the sign and the nostalgia of the B&O Railroad in Monopoly. For deseert, I saw things on the menu I knew my husband would like — mocha creme brulee, a chocolate torte — but what I wanted was the banana pudding. I’ve been having unusual dessert attractions lately, often wanting peanut butter or banana desserts when I’ve never cared much about those in the past.
The cocktails and the cheddar stout fondue with fresh potato chips had been amazing, so I was excited for my dessert. I anticipated a similar level of deliciousness.
When it arrived, I knew I made the right choice. Our server placed a small Ball jar filled with layers of fudge and caramel sauces, smooth pudding made from fresh bananas, glossy white marshmallow creme, and three slender wafers as long as my finger and flecked with vanilla.
The pudding was phenomenal. Even better than I imagined it would be. The marshmallow creme was pristine and perfect: gooey and soft, but breaking at the exact time you wanted it to so that you didn’t have to fight to get it onto your spoon, and you didn’t have to worry about drizzling it across the table (or your chin).
The banana pudding was at the bottom of my husband’s list of desserts he would have chosen. Banana pudding made him think of the pans on buffet or elementary school potluck tables: layers of browning banana disks, Jello pudding, and boxed ‘Nilla wafers.
When he tasted the B&O pudding, his eyebrows rose up. He took another small spoonful.
“I have to give it to you,” he said. “That’s really good.”
I nodded and “Mmmhmmm”ed, dipping in for another spoonful.
“I love the little jar,” I said. “It works for this. It reminds me of a dessert I ordered in New Orleans that was not as successful. A deconstructed pecan pie, served in a jar like this.”
My husband dipped a delicate cookie in the marshmallow creme.
“Everything else at the restaurant had been amazing,” I said. “And we were in the South, where I know they can do pecan pie.”
He spooned smooth banana and caramel into his mouth.
“But it came in a jar like this, and it just didn’t work. The pecan layer on top was like a scab. It was impossible to crack with my spoon. Once I did, pieces fell out of the jar, and the pie filling leaked over the side each time I tried to dip my spoon in. The goo was too sticky, too. It was really hard to eat.”
I sunk my spoon easily into the soft pudding.
“On top of that, there was no crust! There were these little attempts at crust pieces, tiny garnishes on the plate, but it just wasn’t right. The pie needs to bind with the crust — the crust can’t be separate.”
“You can’t have pecan pie without crust,” I continued. “WTF is up with that?”
My husband placed his spoon on the table and savored his final helping of pudding. “The thing with that is that banana pudding can be improved on,” he said. He pointed at the jar. “This is a major improvement.”
“Pecan pie, however, is already perfect,” he said. “Why mess with it? You can’t improve on perfection.”
For the month of April, I will publish a 10-minute free write each day, initiated by a prompt from my prompt box. Minimal editing. No story. Just thoughts spilling onto the page. Trying to get back into the writing habit.
My husband and I don’t get out alone much at night these days, what with children and all, but when we do, a new favorite thing to do is visit classy bars and order swanky cocktails we’d never make at home.
Actually, scratch that. Change it to we never make as well at home.
At home I like to make relatively easy cocktails that require only basic ingredients: gin martinis, rum or whiskey sours, Tom Collins in summer, Old Fashioneds in winter. If we want to get fancy in summer we’ll make basil gin smashes.
For all of those we use economical brands of liquor, and we make them in our formica-countered kitchen.
I love getting dressed up, ironing my hair, and going out for cocktails. I have fond and vivid memories of three nights out, and the associated cocktails I drank. Though two of the nights involved basic martinis, which I make all the time at home, the drinks were elevated by the quality of the gin, the elegance of the service, and the atmosphere of the establishment.
Miami, Florida: The Regent Cocktail Club
The Regent Cocktail Club, courtesy of Southern Living
Oh, The Regent, how I love thee. The picture above absolutely captures the experience of The Regent Cocktail Club: bowties and waistcoats, dark wood, fine glassware, and lots of charm from the bartenders. I ordered a martini there, and it was worth every penny of the price.
Each barkeeper had his own style of shaking cocktails, and it was like watching a dance to see the three of them behind the small bar: pulling glassware out and turning it; shaking high and low for one keep — above his head then down to his waist, above his head, down to his waist, like he was playing a musical instrument — while another keep shook outward and with a small twist from torso to chest; garnishing tumblers with fresh mint, creating lemon curls for martinis, placing ice cold crystalline glasses on silver trays for serving.
My husband and I lounged on a leather couch, watching the patrons at the bar, while we sipped our drinks. There was one man, lean and dressed in a slim, trendy suit, who was obviously a fixture at The Regent; the keeps knew him, and he made himself at home. He talked to everyone who came in and sat near him, or moved to a new stool if the ones next to him became empty.
We couldn’t hear the conversations at the bar, but we watched body language. My favorite scene was watching as a woman got bored when her date was polite to this regular, and got sucked into a conversation, ignoring her completely. The date realized his mistake and moved, incrementally, to the far side of his stool from the regular. He tried to turn his body towards the woman accompanying him. But the trendy-suited fixture leaned in, his entire body pointed toward the man, while the man, polite to a fault, would not be rude to the Regent regular. The woman poked around in her glass with a stirrer, stared at the ceiling, checked her phone.
Eventually her date turned his back to the regular to face her again, but it was too late at that point. She slipped her arms into her cardigan sleeves, and they left. The regular moved two bar stools to his left and started talking to a new patron who had just arrived.
I really loved being there, and I highly recommend it. The people-watching was brilliant. Fair warning, though: be prepared to spend some money if you ever decide to visit.
The B&O American Brasserie in Baltimore was our most recent cocktail adventure, and is the only one in this list where I ordered something other than a martini. We walked to the B&O from our hotel near the Inner Harbor, and I was delighted to see the trains on the B&O logo: the B&O Railroad! Monopoly!
Inside was warm, dark, and cozy. It was Easter evening, so it’s hard to judge what the ambiance is usually like, but it was pretty subdued when we were there. The cocktails (and the Cheddar And Milk Stout Fondue) more than made up for the sparse patronage, though. My husband declared that his Coppertop No 1 was possibly the best cocktail he’s ever had — and he’s not prone to hyperbole. Made with “Dorothy Parker” gin, Yellow Chartrreuse, ginger syrup, lemon juice, and pink & black Pepper, the Coppertop was clean and light with gin and citrus, yet warm & spicy with ginger and pepper.
His was quite good, but I’d go back for the Farmstead: Bulleit bourbon, Solera sherry, lemon juice, basil syrup, and lemon bitters. I’m a sucker for basil in a cocktail.
Anna Maria Island, Florida: The Beach Bistro.
Inside the Beach Bistro, Anna Maria Island, FL
The food at The Beach Bistro is life changing. I think I’ve written about it on my blog before. But since this is a post about cocktails, I have to say that their Tony Jacklin martini is life changing too. It was so cold it felt like drinking liquid ice. And those blue cheese stuffed olives. My god. The balance of flavors was sophisticated and perfect. From the cocktail menu:
“THE TONY JACKLIN” Bombay Sapphire martini with Maytag blue cheese olives … Icy blue, like Tony’s nerves.
I remember delighting in every small sip of that martini, and of the visual of how clean and cold it was. I don’t remember much after the martini, but that’s kind of the point, right?
For the month of April, I will publish a 10-minute free write each day, initiated by a prompt from my prompt box. Minimal editing. No story. Just thoughts spilling onto the page. Trying to get back into the writing habit.
Each weekend, one person in our family gets what we call a “special day.” With a household of four, all with different favorite foods and preferred activities, there came a point where we could never agree on how to spend our family weekend time. Some wanted to hike while others wanted to bowl, or one person wanted to grill burgers when another wanted homemade pizza.
The special day began as a way for us to narrow those options down. If it’s our son’s special day, he gets to choose a meal menu (brunch or dinner), a dessert, and if he wants, a family activity.
All four of us go all in. We allow no griping, even if one of us doesn’t like the selected menu or the chosen activity. Instead, we celebrate the special person with food and fun, or at a minimum, by letting them have the day to just do what they want — write blog posts, read a book all day, disappear in the garage — without having to do a bunch of work or chores.
You’d think I’d love my special day best because I get to choose what we eat and what we do. I do love my day for reading and writing blog posts, and especially on nice days when I want to hike with everyone. But when it comes to the food, I love my husband’s special day best. While our son always chooses homemade cheeseburgers, or my daughter and I choose ordinary meals we eat all the time, like grilled fish with salad, my husband always comes up with something new and exciting. He usually selects a vibrant and seasonal dinner, along with a dessert that gets our daughter and me baking together. He’s good at getting us out of food ruts.
Sunday was his special day. It was a sunny spring day, with a bright blue sky and a high, strong sun. For dinner he chose blackened fish tacos with a jicama slaw and and avocado crema. And for dessert? Lemon meringue pie.
Our daughter loves to bake, and he keeps her in practice. She and I spent the morning rolling crust, simmering lemon filling, beating egg whites, and researching what constitutes a stiff peak. The result was lovely: pure white meringue with golden tips, smooth lemon custard, and flaky golden pastry.
My special day is next weekend. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to top this.
For the month of April, I will publish a 10-minute free write each day, initiated by a prompt from my prompt box. Minimal editing. No story. Just thoughts spilling onto the page. Trying to get back into the writing habit.
I looked up to the crow’s nest where lookouts would have perched. Lines dropped down to the ship’s deck, cutting the sky into triangles. I snapped photographs of all that geometry, those hard lines, that negative space, and daydreamed about sailing.
As I photographed, each frame made me realize the expanses of my ignorance. I know no terminology. I do not know the names of the sails, the posts the ropes are draped on, the masts, the hardware. If I were to sail, I would not be able to communicate anything about the boat other than bow, stern, port, and starboard (and even port and starboard I confuse).
I want to learn. I want to name. Naming is a form of knowing. Language is a form of intimacy. Blocks, cleats, sails, positions. When captioning the images for my Rope post, I had to look up words. The iron post the Stad Amsterdam was tied to? A bollard. The loop used to moor it? I don’t know.
What’s the coil of rope called? Is it a rope or a line? And the wooden posts with the ropes — they’re not cleats, they’re not bitts. What are they? I don’t know, but I guarantee they have names. On board a ship in the open ocean, clarity in communication would be vital. I’ll bet every part of the ship has its own name so that orders can be communicated swiftly in precise, unquestionable language.
Aboard the USS ConstellationSo a project: learn the names of the things I wondered about as I snapped photos on deck.
For the month of April, I will publish a 10-minute free write each day, initiated by a prompt from my prompt box. Minimal editing. No story. Just thoughts spilling onto the page. Trying to get back into the writing habit.
Saturday in Baltimore: the sun shone bright, the sky gleamed blue, and I carried my real camera to the Inner Harbor where the historic wooden USS Constellation and the USS Torsk submarine are moored as museum ships.
Ropes belayed to cleats in the bow of the USS Constellation
Rope pulls me with its usefulness: twisted for strength and elasticity, fibrous for friction to hold itself tight. Tough enough to haul ships and sails, malleable enough to bend, wrap, curl.
Coil of bleached rope on the deck of the USS Torsk submarine
I was captivated by ropes as thick as my wrist, strands twisted into tidy cables, coils bleaching in the sun on the decks of ships, cordage so strong it can secure a ship that displaces 1400 tons of water.
Rope around an iron bollard: the Stad Amsterdam in port in Baltimore
You can see the weight of the ropes as they drape over posts on deck. They are hefty. Heavy. Organic and strong.
Heavy ropes. Lots of them.
All those beautiful ropes made me want to spend more time on boats. I miss them.
Cord: Several yarns hard-twisted together.
Cordage: All twisted rope of whatever material or size.
Line: A common name for various cordage, without specific meaning, as fishline, clew line, heaving line, spring line, tow line, clothesline, mooring line.
Rope: Anything in cordage over one inch in circumference.
For the month of April, I will publish a 10-minute free write each day, initiated by a prompt from my prompt box. Minimal editing. No story. Just thoughts spilling onto the page. Trying to get back into the writing habit.
Butterfly Mind 