A field with a feast
The sound of a car horn, in the driveway, on a Sunday? Unexpected. A visit from a cousin and his extended family. After a proper round of introductions and catch-up chatter, we agreed to meet for supper, at the Feast.
Yes, already a year and a week gone by. The date is later, this time around. The usual venue, in the middle of a large field that still sports the blue lines of regular soccer meets. Throw in a few dozen bales of hay, a field kitchen, trencher tables and 1100 strangers to break bread together. OK, not bread; the menu is steak based. Including the queue that seems to tickle so many funny bones: Burnt. Like last year (and the year before, as this was my third time) we ate well, with real cutlery. So important to notice, in a world of plastic forks and knives.
The dog guarded his fence corner (I believe, as he was out of sight and mind) until the end of the afternoon.
It takes a lot of planning and a devoted team of (130? 140?) volunteers to pull off such a display of good will. The monies collected will go to charities, and the pride of the town is evident. If you’re not there, you had best be away, far away. I had cousins to keep an eye on (me), and now I can claim to have enjoyed an outdoor meal this season. Not part of my usual routine.
Checking out the news feed on social media; nothing of note has happened today. Did they hear about my steak and salad, yet?
