In the proper circumstance a pot of onion gravy can be more precious than a pot of gold. I would not believe it was so until I arrived there on Saturday.
The friends and relatives whose cottages surround us have played together for so long and so well that the best any interloper could realistically expect is possibly "fifth Beatle" status.
They have raised their children and, in some cases, grandchildren together with shared history and traditions that go back over two decades. They've perfected the rhythms and rituals of whose porch the evening will end on or who is cooking dinner in silent synchronization.
When they invited us to share their boat runs and porch nights the first few weeks, we thought they were being exceptionally nice to the new, not-kids on the block.
I'd used more than 20 years and 1,000 miles to define distant cousin, it was exceptionally gracious on their part. As was all the help the guys gave Charlie in dealing with our water problems and the offhand nuggets the women occasionally dropped about the practicalities of cottage life.
Within a month, Charlie had everything packed and ready to head out the door when I got off work on Fridays like a child ready to go to Disneyland. The anticipation was not for sitting on our porch watching the creek or listening to the constant rustling of leaves on the tall trees around us. We looked forward to seeing my cousins, their families and their friends. Somehow the neighborhood circle had closed around us without any merit or qualification on our part.
My immediate family and closest cousins were all coming out this weekend for a party. This would be more than the 60th anniversary of Charlie's birth -- it was reintroducing the cottage to my brother who hadn't been there since he was six years old. It was bringing my parents -- who put up the money to bring the cottage back into the family -- to the place they spent their honeymoon, to be entertained as our guests.
We have not been in a financial position to entertain this summer, so shopped carefully as we planned the menu --splurging on three perfectly trimmed 4-6 pound briskets. We opted for two cooking bag recipes and bought the garlic, cilantro, onion and other ingredients fresh at the farmers market.
The first few hours in the unfamiliar cotttage oven were olfactory heaven. With two hours left on the cookbook cooking time, we worked on setting things up outside. When I came back in an hour later, the odor had shifted. The inside of the cooking bag and the outside of the meat was dark and crispy. The cottage oven apparently doesn't do 300 degrees.
With guests arriving within the hour, I ran down the dirt road where my neighbors were cheering for their kids in the dunk tank at the end of the season community picnic -- to see if either had beef boullion I could borrow to make a gravy to ebb the tide of beef jerky that was overtaking the briskets.
Neither had boullion on the shelf, but Trish and Jane both darted back to their cottages to see what they had. When Trish produced five packages of brown gravy mix, I ran over to Jane's to tell her I was covered. She'd already started a heavy pot of onion gravy which she brought over 15 minutes later with the suggestion to combine them. No bottle of Chateau Margeaux ever surrendered such a spectacular bouquet.
The surviving, sinewy strings of brisket relaxed in the gravy bath and I served the concoction with the fresh bakery rolls Bernie and Karen brought from the city (and my fingers crossed). I was confident at least that there was enough other food to cover my culinary sins.
Everyone said it was good, but that would be expected. This isn't the kind of family that tells you if your baby is ugly.
The true test came yesterday when I spoke to Cheryl (who wasn't there) who had spoken to her mother (my aunt) who was. Aunt Judy raved about the food, especially the "pulled beef" sandwiches.
Sometimes the sum of ingredients are so much better than any one ingredient. Sometimes they can even carry the day.
That's the way it is at the cottage.
The best part of being there is being part of the mix.


Copyright 2005 Judi Griggs