It was straighforward-farmboy-comfort-food. Heavy. Buttery. Food that stays and sticks in ways unapproved of by the health/weight conscious ~ biscuits, sausage gravy, potato casserole, bacon, scrambled eggs, strawberries, blood oranges, orange juice, and milk. We felt no guilt. There was no force feeding this sort of warm fun down anyone's throat.
Loverby had the dutch ovens stacked high between layers of briquets. A circle of us hovered around them to keep warm. The biscuit steam curled up to catch and mingle with the bacon's perfume.
If we all had gone out to plow eighty acres, milk the cows, hoe the garden, feed the stock, or hand scrub nine loads of laundry, it would have been good fuel for the work ahead.
Instead, singing and hugging each other was the most strenuous thing we did afterwards. We wanted to take 'carb' induced naps, but the good news we were hearing kept us awake.
He's alive! For me, it's true. I happen to believe the grave is empty.
I often wish I could have been that Mary, the one who first saw him. I imagine grabbing his ankles in the dust, not wanting to ever let go. I imagine his look of fondness, unembarrassed by my too intimate, too passionate, public display of affection.
The building where we gather doesn't have a kitchen. Boldness and desperation made me ask a favor on behalf of the camp kitchen set up outside. Weather favors are risky. Asking for good weather when it is supposed to rain is crazy. I'm crazy. I asked, plead, begged, and persuaded.
As the line formed to eat, we were scrambling to make do with plastic forks for the bacon and strawberries. Christine hurried to the front of the line and put down two pairs of tongs. "I washed these last night and planned to bring them today, but don't know why." She had planned to bring them, even before I planned to forget to bring them!
Because she listened to the prompt, I felt overwhelmed with love from the one who held back the rain, and the one who stretched food for seventy to one hundred and thirty or so.
As the last canopy was taken down and stowed, it started to sprinkle.
Love like this gets my attention. And eternal gratitude.
There's no lover like the one who strategically and deftly makes plans to pleasure his beloved.
(Thanks to Loverby, Paul/Kimmie, Tracy, Frank/Trisha, Brita, Renee, and Dave.)