Honey-Coated Manure

As the day’s events tumbled through Scott’s head, the silver-cased pencil paused to gather thoughts and then continued.

In Massachusetts all the way,

From Boston down to Buzzards Bay,

They feed you till you want to die,

On rhubarb cake and pumpkin pie.

The poet’s name who penned that tongue-in-cheek view of Bostonian eating habits eludes me. However, having sat through never-ending multi-course meals, I can appreciate his thoughts on being ‘fed til you want to die’.

Smile. 

Although I always managed to have room for Winnie’s warm apple bread. 

Since the moment I laid eyes on Lancer’s green blades of grass, there have been numerous adjustments in my day-to-day existence. Surprisingly, eating proved to be one of them. Gone were long pauses between the strategic order of served food, each course presented by Harlan Garrett’s dutiful house servants. Also gratefully absent: the obsession to match specialized silverware to strange concoctions. 

Instead -

Knife. Fork. Spoon. They are all one needs at Murdoch’s table of hearty dishes. Don’t get me wrong - polished silver still gleams and cut-glass crystal continues to sparkle, but the informality of ‘pass the potatoes’ has been a welcome transition from the rituals of stewed eel and spotted dick.

However, there’s one belief that the Garrett/Lancer supper tables thankfully share: nourishment and conversation are deeply intertwined; a time set aside where both food and dialogue serve as important personal connections with family and friends.

Granted, Grandfather wouldn’t be discussing this season’s calf branding, nor would my father have had much to add regarding the Union Club’s charity ball; however, whatever the topic, conversation and nourishment provided necessary interactions at both tables. 

The same held true today at my little cousin’s wedding. 

Food. 

Dialogue. 

Connections.

*********

“My God, just look at all of this!” Phillip Westcott, sporting the persona of a proud patriarch, spread his arms to embrace the joyous celebration unfolding at the vineyard that was his legacy. 

Kinsey had insisted the Westcott wedding breakfast reflect standing-style dining. Even though seating was offered, the informal presentation of entrees and delicacies at various stations allowed guests to move freely and mingle rather than sit through a rigid, assigned, multi-course meal, thus creating an atmosphere for intimate conversations.

Much like the guests, tables of traditional New England dishes - croquettes of fowl, curried lobster, venison pasty, and fish, followed by jellies, blancmange, and cheesecakes - mingled with California’s cultural offerings of mole barbacoa, pork carnitas, tamales, and enchiladas verdes with Pastel de Almendra and polvorones satisfying sweet-tooth seekers.

The result was an impressive saporific collection spurring Phillip Westcott’s remark and jesting concern. “Think we got enough food, young man? Ha! What am I saying?” Crinkles around the old man’s eyes foretold a punch line. “I best ride into Stockton and round up anyone who’s left that could help us eat all of these fine fixin’s.”

Scott viewed his own plate heaped with belly-timber and agreed with the elder Westcott’s gravely-voiced observation. “Sir, you may need to widen your corralling to include Sacramento appetites.”

“And let me add Sacramento palettes would rave over these polvorones.” Emily popped the last of the shortbread-like cookie into her mouth. “What are my chances Isabella would share her recipe with me?”

“Well… ” The vineyard’s proprietor snagged an uncorked bottle of wine from a nearby table. “Slip the old girl a few glasses of vino and the recipe is yours.” Wink.

“Done.” A mischievous grin assisted Arcade’s head chef with swapping her empty plate for the offered libation. “Now, if you’ll excuse me gentlemen, I’m on a culinary quest!”

“Keep a hold on that gal.” Westcott squinted. “Hmmm… spying the look on your face following Miss Browning’s exit, son, I believe I’m preaching to the choir.”

“Yes, sir. I believe you are.” A plated lobster canapé was selected and devoured to serve as Scott’s exclamation point.

Another factor in Seth and Kinsey’s choice to reject traditional sit-down dining: the unnecessary need for servants in an informal setting to be at the guests’ beck and call. Isabella and Maria, mother hens of their broods, were family and, along with a few other longtime vineyard employees, would be treated as such at today’s celebration. 

While Scott applauded the wedding couple’s dining decision, the groom’s mother passed on giving it her standing ovation. Seated at a table, the woman’s condescending demeanor had diminished slightly with the dusting of a traveler’s pinched confusion when negotiating a foreign country and its language.

Ah! Behold, Roberta’s translator in the land of wilderness heathens.

Balancing a food-laden plate in each hand, Scott watched his grandfather maneuver through clusters of conversing guests. A grandson’s smile widened in time with his elder’s approaching steps. “I see, sir, your appetite has improved greatly since you’ve stopped filling your lungs with Back Bay fog.”

“Scooootty. Please. Save your buffoonery for a time when it can be appreciated. Roberta is struggling with today’s contrary method of food service.”

“I believe it’s called help yourself.” Scott demonstrated by forking a bite from his selections, presenting it for all to see and successfully guiding the morsel into his mouth.

“Hand over a plate, old friend. I’ll be happy to deliver it to my daughter-in-law.” Phillip’s devilment was palpable as he examined the offerings. “Let’s top this off with one of Isabella’s spicy enchiladas.” 

Harlan’s disapproving shake of the head saw the prankster off on his journey. “The man’s sense of humor has changed little since our boyhood days.”

“I enjoy it.”

“You would.” Sigh. “I suppose a bee shouldn’t waste its time explaining to flies that honey is better than manure.”

Scott’s side-eye caught his and Phillip’s demotions in the Garrett world of insect metaphors. “When do you plan on presenting your honey-coated manure of a vineyard buyout to Roberta Westcott?”

“I would hardly call a fair and sizable sum of money that the woman could then invest as honey-coated manure. Under my investors' guidance, if she wishes, the yearly yield would be profitable and easily sustain her accustomed lifestyle.” Indignation continued. “And don’t stand there, young man, and pretend you wouldn’t be pleased to cut permanent ties between her and Westcott Vineyards.” Harlan’s olive branch finally appeared. “Grandson, we’ve been over all of this. It’s for the best. And the sooner, the better.”

“You didn’t answer my question.” 

“So I didn’t.” Harlan’s frowning gaze journeyed to Phillip serving the Smiling Cobra. “I’m boarding the Transcontinental with Roberta for Boston tomorrow morning. My understanding is that Kinsey and Seth will be sailing from New York in one month for Paris. I plan to be there to wish them bon voyage.” A smile surfaced with a more pleasant prospect. “What better send-off than my surprise wedding gift: vineyard shares once in possession of the woman who would’ve continued to give them grief. Now, let me go spread a little honey on an unwanted enchilada and enjoy this celebration.”

Enjoy this celebration. Grandfatherly good advice for a change. Scott surveyed the gathering. Just how many glasses of vino does it take to acquire a secret recipe for polvorones? 

Before he could discover the answer, another resolve showed itself. Across the way stood the newlyweds and the Stanfords. Scott didn’t need to be privy to their conversation in order to understand what was taking place. Kinsey’s hand fluttered to cover an oh her mouth had formed before being embraced by the older woman. Seth’s smile traveled from ear to ear as he accepted the governor’s congratulatory slap to the shoulder and a politician's grasp. The Stanfords were presenting their wedding gift: an exclusive contract between the Transcontinental Railroad and Westcott Vineyards for unlimited gratuitous rail transportation eastward.

A crystal ball foretelling gravitated Scott’s returned focus to the table where his grandfather sat. The Rattler had successfully cajoled a smile from The Cobra. 

Grandson, we’ve been over all of this. It’s for the best. And the sooner, the better.

“Make it sooner, sir, or your buyout plan will find itself buried under a substantially more expensive pile of manure.”