Judy P's Tickle Trunk

The Mad Hatter

Not the British white glove and flower garden hat kind of garden party – this was a casual affair for family and friends of Ken and Carole at their country home down a long dirt road not too far from Hume, Virginia, USA.

I had purchased a hat in Falls Church the day before. I was unprepared for the weather in Virginia, which was much sunnier than that which I left behind in Nova Scotia where there had been a sum total of two sunny days in the month of May (or May Month as we say in Newfineze). I felt like I had crawled out of a deep dark cave and was almost blinded by the bright sun. I hadn’t purchased the hat specifically for the party but was glad enough for it any time I stepped out from under the massive tree where I spent most of the afternoon. It is a very a  plain hat and won’t be white very long in my hands. Had I wanted a more English garden party hat I would have purchased one online at http://www.jillhenninghats.com/index.php.

The green rolling hills of Virginia

I felt very far from the ocean here in this lush green hilly paradise. I admired the horses, the spaniels, Ken’s antique truck and the vast expanse of lawn.  

Finches at the feeder.

 I spent a long time staring at the bird-feeder, hoping to see a cardinal or another bluebird. I saw a live bluebird there for the first time last year – must be the cutest little bird in existence. Was it genetically engineered by Disney corporation? I caught up on the news since last year’s pig party and admired Joyce’s granchildren; two of the most contented children I have ever met. The babe gurgled and laughed throughout, the toddler toddled with his plastic mower (there was surely no shortage of grass) when he wasn’t excavating a new driveway with his little tractor. Nary a tear nor a whine nor whimper. There must have been something consolatory in the vapours from the roasting pig.

Apologies to Priscilla Pig

A good time was had by all except for the pig! It had been roasting on a spit over hot coals from seven in the morning til two p.m. The smell of crackling back fat must have had bears from Manassas to Strasburg licking their chops and wishing for pick-a-nick baskets to raid.

The partly carved roast pork looked like it was right out of an episode of "Bones". Or did it look more like a partially preserved prehistoric fish salvaged from a melting glacier?

Potluck on a paper plate.

It was a fine scoff indeed. The crowning glory was Carole’s sour cherry pie over which I was so busy salivating and serving  that  I neglected to get a photo. It was not the least bit like any other cherry pie I have had, which were usually made with artificially bright red cherry filling from a can. This pie was made with the sour cherries which grew on trees lining the drive up to the hill to the house.

Cherries

 When I was wandering to aid digestion after my meal I plucked one and ate it and suddenly wished that I had eaten less barbecue and left room for grazing on cherries right off the tree. I ate my fill anyhow, gleefully spitting the cherry pits ever the fence. The cherries were as sour as rhubarb and as sweet as peaches. Mmm-mmm-mmmm. There is nothing quite like fresh fruit right off the tree. The gold of the paved streets of heaven holds no appeal for me but if I knew that those streets were lined with trees filled with ripe cherries and peaches I might pay a little more attention to practicing exemplary behaviour.

Sour Cherries

More Sour Cherries

And more sour cherries

Copyright Judy Parsons 2011