Tallahassee Restaurants

Food Glorious Food has been a favorite lunch spot for me since before I moved to Tallahassee. The last visit I made there, however, was less than glorious. I sat for thirty minutes before I realized that I had my invisibility cloak around my shoulders. I had no menu, no tea, no prospect for any lunch at all. I decided never to go back. As there was no one in sight on which to spring this news, I got into my car and drove away. Many restaurants are hurting for my business, I told myself. In fact, they are happy to have any business at all. 

I guess management has got hold of itself, six months later. Today, I entered a bustling, busy, out-of-doors area, where I was promptly greeted, drink order taken, table edged around for a bit more shade by a wait-staff who seemed happy to be there.

As many times as I have eaten at F.G.F., I have always chosen the same menu item. The Grouper and Grits is a southern dish, tasty enough to die for. Hearty yellow grits are topped with perfectly cooked collards on which the golden, crunchy, sauteed grouper hides - peeking out from under a mound of the tastiest string potato fries imaginable. I have pushed my string fries aside, here, in order to show you the grouper, minus one bite!

   

Food Glorious Food is famous for its deserts. Long ago, when I visited Tallahassee for meetings, the group would buy several choices to share. Corey and I have been known to split a piece of cake on a cold winter night. Honestly, now that I live here and always eat outside where I'm not tempted by the bulging showcase of sweets, I simply savor my grouper and never mind the sugar. 

Today, diners all around were enjoying time outside in the beautiful fall air. There was a birthday party going on at the rear of the garden. The waiters were bustling, laughing and talking to the diners. Mine even took my picture for the blog. Lots of tea jugs floated by, refilling the empty glasses. I saw a friend and talked for a while fork poised over the beautiful seafood.

All in all it was a wonderful lunch. The air was rich with the smell of the grouper and the salmon on the plate at the next table. The fresh salad veggies were a powerful bouquet as well.  I could swear that I smelled freshly-chopped summer cucumber...

Food Glorious Food, 1950 Thomasville Road 

Surprise! No. Not a Birthday Gift. An Idea.

I've been reading Team Cul-de-Sac and doing a lot of thinking about cartoonists. I sketch a little and have tried my hand at comic strips about Squirrel and Belle. In Jacksonville, it was turtles and geese - all the creatures who lived on or in the lake at Pablo Point.

I've joined a Guild at church. Spirit and Creativity. I believe my work is too secular to be accepted there, but I will try. I've dug out my never-used Creativity Self-Hypnosis CD and listen every night while I fall asleep. I put the musical, subliminal persuasion, version in the car to play while I drive. Just for fun. Get the juices stirring. I am an old hand at self-hypnosis and at creativity. The two are compatible.

I realized after a short talk (about my personal path to creativity) that I gave at last weeks meeting that I write mysteries, poetry, haiku, recipes, and more - then transfer everything to CD's with password protection. That's over, I decided. Everything I do, from here on out, will be for sharing.

When I woke up this morning, it was my Birthday!

I put all of this into the back of my mind, yesterday, in favor of football, hot wings, and afternoon sunshine. When I woke up this morning, it was my Birthday! Seventy-two is a remarkable age. In my humble opinion. (IMHO)

That's a lot of written words, over a great number of years. Trade journal articles, diaries, Opticianry rules, optical presentations, speeches, neighborhood newsletters, classroom essays, op-ed letters, short stories, and limericks don't come even close to telling the whole story of what I did with all those words in all that time.

My self-hypnosis tape suggests that the listener keep a bottle of water by the bed, along with a pencil and a notepad. Upon awakening, one should first drink a little water which nudges (post-hypnotic suggestion) the subconscious to spew forth ideas and thoughts. One must write these down. Like a bad dream, they'll be forgotten within the hour. Skip this morning, I told myself. It's going to be a wonderful day.

After coffee in the cool of the early-morning patio air, I came inside for bed-making and blind-opening. There it was. The composition book was on the floor, pencil on top. There was a sheet of copy paper stuck inside. I saw that the entire page was covered with the  drawings of a set of cartoon characters. Five of them. (I can almost remember, if I concentrate, turning on the reading lamp and going to work in the deep of the night.) In the notebook, there are the dialogues for several cartoon strip installments. Each one of them can also be used as a one-window script. I have it all notated!

The trouble is that the characters, the humor, the sketches, and the ballooned voices are all about my church, Holy Comforter. Is a church allowed to have a comic strip? May comic characters be based on Fr. Ted and Mtr. Terry? Can an angel become best friends with a little boy? Is she a real angel and not an imaginary friend? Might that be the question that the story line explores?

Will anything extraordinary and lasting come of all this? I have to try. I'll take some samples of the work to next month's meeting. The worst that can happen would be the members nodding and smiling, all the while thinking, "Senile, poor dear."

Several days ago, I had another great idea (I was wide awake for this one) which was to write the children's Christmas Pageant.   I think it's too late for this year, but surely for 2013. My idea for that event is amazing, too.

First, though, the comic strip. What a surprise! Happy Birthday to me - more than a little quirky, but certainly alive and happy - on this beautiful October morning.  Still, I may be dismissed from the Guild. They are a group of talented, seemingly very serious, deeply spiritual thinkers. Time will tell. I have some sketching to do.

Images of Lake Petty Gulf

Caroline's Book Reviews

Team Cul de Sac: Cartoonists Draw the Line at Parkinson's by Chris Sparks
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

There are no words left.

Everything that could be said about cartoonist Richard Thompson and his genius, or Team Cul de Sac and it's  wonderfully clever attack on Parkinson's Disease, plus the remote, secret world of comic artistry, illustration, and related professions was said in this delightful book by the contributors who took part.

If you enjoyed the cartoon, Cul de Sac, in the Washington Post, or have known anyone with Parkinson's, or if you simply want to support Team (Michael) Fox in a quest for the cure for this debilitating disease, please order this book!

I am going to keep it on my coffee table forever! Just because!  





































































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Tallahassee Restaurants

Riccardo's is located at 3305 Capital Circle, NE, "Your Dining Room Away From Home."
(Pictures were lifted from the on-line menu.)

Many years ago, when I was a member of (as Hillary Clinton put it) the sisterhood of the traveling pantsuits, I found myself attending a financial session in the Tallahassee Airport meeting room.

At that time, the only part of Tally that I was familiar with was Monroe Street, where the Department of Health was then located, as well as a few of the hotels around the I-10 and Monroe Street exit.

Our consumer Board member was a Tallahassee native and wanted to take us to dinner at the "best Italian restaurant in North Florida." I didn't get the name, if she said it.

I rode with someone else.

We drove, drove, drove, drove. (Capital Circle NE is as far away from the airport as you can get in Tally - across town and opposite.) Finally, there was a strip mall. Nothing fancy. I had no idea where I was. "Best Bread in Tallahassee," the sign said. Secret Bread, it was called.

Dinner was delicious that night, long ago. When I moved here, I tried to find the restaurant without knowing the name or the location.  When I couldn't get any information from the people I asked, I assumed that it had closed. Most of the local eateries that I was so excited to move near were no longer with us just before and - especially - after the financial crunch.

Last week I found myself meeting my family at Riccardo's for dinner. I hadn't heard of it, didn't know where it was, and never gave that a thought. I'm not yet familiar with all the dozens (hundreds?) of strip malls on Capital Circle.

When I drove up, however, I recognized the building! Inside, I asked lots of questions. How long have you been here? Is the room I'm sitting in an addition since the  late '90's? Who owns the restaurant now? We ordered Secret Bread. Yes. This was the place.

Beth and I, who are forward-thinking and want to fit into our wedding clothes when the time comes, ordered antipasto. Delightful. Corey ate calzone. I don't remember that item being on the menu in the past. Tom chose the child's cheese pizza but Jack tried a bowl of spaghetti and meatballs - the same as his Granny had devoured after her meeting, long ago.

To be memorable, a family-style Italian restaurant needs a few signature sauces, a collection of high-quality pasta selections, a repertoire of delicious homemade mix-ins (meatballs, Italian sausages, spinach, great cheeses), good antipasto, and impeccable service. A top-notch wine list helps, but the table wine that we drank was excellent.

Riccardo's has a German Night on Thursdays. I have no idea why. The Italian offerings were tasty, served promptly, and left me with a feeling of camaraderie and hospitality. Yet, I'm going to visit again some Thursday evening soon!  I love good German food, too.

Tallahassee Restaurants

The Egg, 3500 Kinhega Drive, Tallahassee. 

I've enjoyed this quaint breakfast café, now called The Egg Cafe & Eatery, ever since I moved into my Tallahassee neighborhood.

This morning was no different. Except that it was! In such a delightful way!

The last time I ate at The Egg (formerly known as Another Broken Egg, part of a small southern restaurant chain) it had been bought, reorganized, and was headed for a remodel that very next weekend.

I gave them plenty of time to get it together. What I found this morning was heart (and stomach) warming, big time. The remodel of the inside of the café did not take the ambiance away from the two dining rooms. Rather, new paint and clean wood floors simply emphasized the coziness.

The former establishment was not particularly noted for fast, efficient service. When I heard the wait-staff discussing the fact that they were the only two people working on the floor, I pulled out the Kindle and creamed my coffee, settling down to enjoy the view and use the extra time before breakfast to read my book club selection.

The view from the window of The Egg; a little fog this morning.

 
But, no. Everything rolled right along. Scrambled eggs, bacon,  jalapeño cheese grits, and an English muffin was sitting before me in a flash.

Not only that. Everything was delicious; cooked to perfection, using good quality grits, just the right amount of pepper-heat, with crisp bacon slices.

It was a nice, relaxing brunch. I sent the chef my compliments, gladly paid the bill, and left as the lunch crowd was beginning to arrive. I'll try lunch next. I wonder if they still have the tomato/basil soup on the menu?

A Week of Sundays

I feel blessed to have had this remarkable week.

On Sunday, we enjoyed Beth's (West Palm Beach) family, who attended church with us after a weekend of wedding dress shopping. This was actually the designated day for celebrating Episcopal Schools, but it felt to me as if it were a celebration of family solidarity; we are merging into a single unit in order to fully enjoy Corey and Beth's wedding and to be a part of their life together. There are, naturally, challenges; we will overcome them.

On Tuesday, the occasion was somber. A funeral service. I've lost so many family and friends in these past five years, but I had not been to a funeral since Ms. Vera's. I barely remember that day because Wayne was so very ill. This was my first Episcopal funeral. I basked in the joy of the opportunity to pray, not only for Dixon Robinson and his family, but for everyone I have personally lost these past years.

Wednesday evening was a service of shear joy. Corey was confirmed into the Episcopal church. Wayne's son (and Loretta's, Art's, and mine) is such a joy, in every way. We surrounded him as he knelt before the Bishop; Beth, Tom, Jack, and me - each with our hands on his arm -  supportive and so happy for him.

I loved hearing Bishop Keyser, who said that he would talk to us from his chair instead of speaking formally, recite parts of James Weldon Johnson's poem, "The Creation," a reminder of my childhood. He was kind and gentle in his manner, wise and intelligent, knowing just what to say to those present. We are a church family who is also kind, gentle, keen, and insightful.

I'll remember this time as my personal Week of Sundays (to differentiate them from Easter and Christmas weeks) for the rest of my life. These five days have made me thoughtful; I am pensive, in a totally good, even remarkable, way. I'm thankful, this morning, for my personal blessings.  

 

Breathe; Now.

I woke at seven, sat up in my bed, and was overjoyed to be awake and out of that dark, deep place. I don't usually remember my dreams. That was a nightmare and terrible.

In it, Corey was five (just the age of Jack and Tom) and we three were sitting around the pool at Hidden Hills Country Club in Jacksonville.

I was having Sarah Donner, modern-day rocker and cat-lady blogger - who probably was not yet born - teach Corey the words to her new Christmas song and help him learn to sing one of her jingles about cats. I had been playing tennis (which I don't) and shuffleboard (which I also don't) with a group of people whom I've never met.

Wayne was talking to some men he knew, laying some plans, wheeling and dealing, bartering eyeglasses for diamonds. (That's a lot of eye-wear.) He wasn't happy with me in the dream. Those lyrics were pretty adult, he said. Why did I slip Sarah fifty dollars? I shrugged. No answer. How was I to know? Nothing at the club today was making much sense.

Wayne said that he would be gone by afternoon. It wasn't working with us. That broke my heart. He didn't mention Corey or what time Loretta was going to pick him up. I looked around and Corey was gone. I was in a panic, trying to find his Dad, but Wayne was gone too. Forever, I knew. Reality was crushing me as if I were sleeping under ten thousand comforters.

I woke up in a fit of desperation, heart pounding, trampled by a dozen horses. It was the light of a cool Tallahassee morning. Don't do this, I whispered. It was just a dream. Don't let anything that happens in sleep upset you. There was still hope while you were lost in dreamland. In reality, when he had to go, plans and dreams and hopes for the future were gnashed forever. You couldn't breathe then. Breathe now.

Morning's Work - No Small Job

Cleaning the foyer, at my house, is a morning's work - no small job. The person who designed the area made mistakes going and coming; I love the strange set-up only because it directs so much sunlight into the living room. This great placement makes for beautiful and bright winter days.

Otherwise, the foyer is akin to a long, galloping hallway that runs the length of the guest room wall and the dining room, which is open above the chair-rail.  The lack of a wall, right there, displays a cheerful dinner space; that's important, in this case, because the furniture is just a touch too large for the room itself. With two open walls, the smallness of the room exudes a remarkable feeling of  simple coziness.

I've divided my foyer into two separate areas using a tall, ladder-type plant holder of African violets sitting on an oversize round coir rug right at the halfway point of the walking space. Feng Shui dictates that the chi be slowed down and not allowed to run from the front door, down the foyer, and through the living room in a straight line. This ploy works beautifully.

That the rug is too big for the width of the area and is tucked in on one side divides the small space in half and makes the foyer look wider at the same time. It reminds me of Grandmother's palmetto grass rug which she had arranged in the same way on one wall of her foyer under cuckoo clocks and weather vanes. A bench sat along that wall. She tucked the rug under because of the effect and not because of the size of the space. Grandmother's foyer was room-sized and square, after all.

The area before the coir rug is the entrance-way; a windowpane door with an over-sized seascape to the right and a foyer table, lamp, and mirror to the left. That's what I've always wanted. Who knew that it would become such a home-design puzzle simply because the hallway doesn't really stop there?

On the other side of the plant stand and rug, walking into the living room, is the pouting bench. I owned two derelict park benches in Jacksonville, gifts from my husband. I designated them for pouting and other thoughtful moments. When I left, I gave the hardware to a friend and threw the wooden planks away. Richie rebuilt the benches. He has one at his house and I have the other in my foyer with an oversize painting of a Wilmington tobacco barn on the opposite wall.

Every time I clean the foyer, as you see, I become mildly irked at the design in general. The space is a little too narrow and the wall on the right can only sport paintings and the laundry room door to allow for any walking at all.

The whole area is a little too long, hence my mentally cutting it in half with a floor covering and plants. I spend a good portion of my working time, on those cleaning days, rearranging real and imaginary furnishings in my head. Why can I not figure out some better way of balancing out this long and lean, room-like space?

Once everything is spit and polish, however, I quickly forget my irritation. The mirror and hallway-type chandelier sparkle. Teak, bathed in oil and buffed to a healthy glow, is timeless. My park bench is cozy-looking and inviting under its pillows. Violets are watered and seasonal flowers are blooming in the doorway, inside and out. The artists, whose works are hanging, have gained prominence over the years. Tile is gleaming; coir is welcoming - trimmed of snags. Door panes are nearly transparent and beckon, "Come in."

The Bose changer, long banished to inhabit the foyer table's bottom shelf, has been re-filled with fall favorites. The Barber of Seville is turned up high. I am making a lunch smoothie of fruits, green nutrients, rice protein powder, and healthy oils. Yum. Wonderful. Beautiful. What's not to love?

Figaro here, Figaro there,
Figaro up. Figaro down.
Quicker and quicker
I go like greased lightning....
La, la, la, la, la, la. 
La la, La la la.

Personality Pet Peeve

I try to avoid the Imees. You know; "I" or "me" prominent in every sentence, their life stories within the hour, and nothing left to be discovered but the skeletons in the closet.

My family boasts Imees that are the worst in the nation; I can spot the personality type from more than a mile away. I'm too experienced to fool for any length of time. So if you meet me, tell me about your passions, what you're reading, what music pulls your heartstrings, and what you love to do. Then we will click!

Snapshots. Dealing With Plagiarism.

Me, taking snapshots.

Between you and me, plagiarism is rampant on the internet. Did you ever Google a topic and find that every reference site has exactly the same information, word for word? Do you wonder if the "expert" copied the work from Wikipedia? Or vice-versa?

Do you read your facebook wondering if your friends are quoting songwriters, novelists, famous people, philosophers, and more? The answer is, yes, they are.

Here's what I do. If I recognize quoted material (even when I cannot pinpoint with certainty where I read it), I share it to my own page immediately. I word my comment in such a way that I am leaning toward giving the friend, or friend-of-friend, the credit for the "quote." The truth will usually come out, especially if he or she published the passages in Notes or as a Profile Update answering, "what are you thinking?"

The facebook Notes section is given to us as a soapbox. Live it up. Write a diary, or an article, or a poem. Sound off! Upload a photo! Air your politics, if you must. But please, write the words yourself and make the article your own.  Favorite Quotes is where we go so that we may copy down those passages that we admire but that were written by others.

I like to give credit where credit is due, and I often quote "him" or "her" simply by annotating with a name, or the title, or both. Writing can be work. Don't pretend that you are Hemingway. Some of your friends cannot tell the difference, but I can.

One quick word, however. Quote the Bible all you want. That edifice was written by many in order to be spread to everyone. If this approach appeals to you, simply give the passage (book, chapter, and verse) and let the reader do the research. If the quote is a familiar one, and most are, surround the verse or verses with quotation marks. In that way everyone will know that you are not trying to pass on the Bible as your own work even though you have "made it your own" in your heart.  

Where is the Sunshine?

I just Goggled the cities (population over 20,000) in the United States with the
least amount of sunshine per year. The top fifteen were in the state of Washington and ten of them enjoyed fewer than 40% of sunny days per annum.

Charleston, West Virginia, is #16 on this list of dreariest cities - with Pittsburgh following closely at #17. Those two hover around 45% sunshine.The statistics stop at #102 and the last five spots are all in Illinois with only 53% sunny days.

Tallahassee, Florida, where I am sitting this morning, usually has an average of 231 sunny, or mostly sunny, days per year - ten more than my old house in Jacksonville that easily saw 63% sunshine. I equate Jacksonville rain with the occasional nor'easter, nearly-daily summer-afternoon thunderstorms, and rainy but warm (no more than two at a time) winter days.

I woke up to another foggy, muggy, unseasonably hot, and overcast morning.   The forecast is for more of the same all day, Saturday, and Sunday. Trending keywords are rain, wind, and cloud. In Tallahassee, when it rains, it pours. And pours.

I made myself a pot of strong coffee and baked a biscuit to have with a sausage patty, eschewing my "good" breakfast of herbal tea and protein shake. Variety is, after all, the spice of life. Spice? I sprinkled the coffee with cardamom, cinnamon, and nutmeg to enhance quality.

I've decided to use a picture of sunny and butterfly-saturated (not dreary) Lake Petty Gulf along with this annoying weather post, for I never think of Tallahassee as rainy. I always picture this city basking in fresh, beautiful spring mornings; smelling of neighborhood fireplaces roaring on sunny, bright, cold winter afternoons - when the light is perfect and shines, blaring, into my porch and kitchen window; and suffering happily through long, hot, summer days filled with sunshine, emitting smells of cut grass and of the Red Hills clay on which my little house is perched.