Day Two: Dinner

You might think it's odd that I would devote an entire post to a single, solitary meal. You, my friend, clearly don't understand how much I like to eat.  Food generally, dessert specifically.

On Sunday evening, The Homestead put on a Memorial Day Cookout.  Tickets had to be purchased in advance, and it was a really big whoop.  The picture below does not do the event justice.  It was a planning and culinary triumph all the way around. 

First, let me marvel at the logistical feat that was this cookout.  I don't know exactly how many tables there were, but we were seated at Table #47, so there were at least that many.  There were 10 people at every table.  Each table was set with real silver and china, which struck me as really funny.  Here we were, eating out on the lawn, with place settings fancier than I had at my wedding.  There were several stations set up with different types of food -- burgers and fries and fixings at one, charcoal pit fare at another, cold foods like fruit and cole slaw at yet another, and so forth with every kind of "cookout" food you can imagine.  You would think with hundreds of hungry people milling about, there would undoubtedly be lines at every station, or they would run out of whatever food you wanted, or there would be some sort of general chaos.  Not so.  There was not one line.  There was no end to the food.  Waiters took your drink orders and brought them to your table.  Bus boys promptly removed dirty dishes.  Everyone served you with a smile.  The atmosphere was one of general merriment.  I had never seen anything like it.  I kept waiting to find the hitch, kept looking for the catch.  I never saw it.

Now, all of the organizational success that was achieved at this event would have been for naught if the food had been sub-par.  But it wasn't.  Oh, it wasn't.  The food was incredible.  Whether it was steak, or ribs, or chicken, or pulled pork sandwiches, or baked potatoes, or cheese biscuits, or any of a zillion other offerings, everything was scrumptious.  After our canoeing adventure earlier that day, we were both starving, but with so much good food to choose from, we filled up fast.  We started bargaining with each other, trying to rationalize how it would be ok to go back for just one more helping of this or that.  The people at our table, who were eating normal person portions as opposed to our embarrassing piles of food, definitely took note every time we returned with another plate.  They were friendly, so they were able to quickly suppress their horror as they watched us return time after time, but we didn't care.  We were on a mission.

 We finally convinced ourselves to stop eating dinner -- after all, there was dessert to be thought of.  We had spied a station that looked interesting, and this is what it gave us:

That's right, freshly made donuts with strawberries and the richest, creamiest whipped cream you can imagine.  The station was manned by a team of French chefs, whose sole purpose in life appeared to be cranking out these lovely little treasures.  I hope I get the chance to thank them some day, and tell them how much their work means to me.

After two (or three, or four?) donuts, we retired to our room, because it was clear that there physically was not any more room in any part of our digestive systems, no matter how much coaxing we did.  The magical meal had to come to a close.  We felt a little sad, walking away from our table for the last time.  But mostly, we were just grateful we got to be there at all.