Maybe you shouldn’t read this.
It is dusk; the evening is warm and we are standing together with many friends beside a long, lovely, white-clothed table set for dinner in a beautiful field. Music is playing; we’re drinking wine, our spirits high, expectant. The smell of earth hangs in the air: dew and fertile ground and the fragrance of late summer flowers. Night creatures begin their enthralled chatter.
Where am I? Am I about to sit at a table in a field where food has been grown and harvested for generations? I guess so. From the field kitchen now a cadre of servers comes with trays of food—in waves, one after another—starting with rich-flavored soups and warm breads, then colorful salads, followed by sumptuous courses of roasted meats and fish and vegetables, some of which we have never seen, and every taste an epiphany.