I write this from north of the Mason Dixon line. It is all right, I think.
I am in Lancaster PA for a wedding and drove here by a circuitous route (NE when it really should have been N NE from the nation’s capital). I am very glad I took a wrong turn somewhere, for the countryside between wherever I was, and wherever I am now was lovely. Neat fields colored by saxifrage. Feed barns and polite signs asking “are you freed of your sins?” Lots of Lutherans. Tall royal purple weeds by the side of empty roads, surrounded by shorter but airy plants colored the blue mauve you find inside oysters. I think both plants are campions. The houses are passably old, this part of the U.S. having been settled by white folks from the early 1700s.
Tomorrow’s bride, the former Ms Allie Cat is lucky in her in-laws for they are people who obviously like a drink. The pre-wedding cocktail party, hosted by the mother and father of the groom, is to run from 7:30-10:30pm.
You know you are too old for weddings and just right for funerals when you would rather buy your own dinner than stand around with a free drink. I went to the restaurant in the hotel which promised all kinds of flair with local produce.
I ordered bruschetta with caulilflower, fennel, raisins and goats cheese, each ingredient identified by the farm from which it allegedly came. The dish tasted like something you make the Thursday before pay day: a horrible lash up of leftovers. The bread was toasted but the topping was cold and alternately slimy and spiky. I swear the cauliflower came from a pickle jar. If the cheese was produced by a goat, it was a creature that had feasted on more tin can labels than meadow herbs. The cheese tasted like a slice of melted swiss, more Kraft than Keystone state.
Never mind–I shall think back to the rainbow arcing over old town Lancaster as I arrived, and the smell of wild garlic that permeated my route. I shall imagine the beauty of tomorrow’s bride. Perhaps there will be yard sales in the morning…