Cottage Memories: Chronicles of A City Boy’s Life In The Country
Feeding Frenzy
Labour Day is my signal to get to work losing extra weight gained over the summer. That happens because life at the cottage is full of gastronomic surprises. Such as multitude of ways to pig out. In other seasons, I control overeating by not dining out, not shopping too much, and by chasing escaped Huskies down my cottage road.
If all else fails, I practice my dubious culinary skills, which the wife says are why our dogs try to run away. Despite my other sure-fire diet techniques like forgetting the steaks, burning the burgers, getting flies in the salad and bugs in the baking, enough of the wife’s succulent creations make it through to choke the elephant I’ve morphed into by September.
Meanwhile, as if I can’t be counted on to do enough damage of my own, folks are always trying to force feed me. Cottage summers abound with frequent socials, bounteous feasts and serious gorging. Simmering aromas and gourmet spreads only serve to tantalize taste buds in anticipation of each copious banquet. My overindulgent partaking requires therapeutic recovery in my reinforced lounge chair until the next dinner bell.
One bloated day, the wife noticed something in the local paper called a ‘Strawberry Social’. Never having met a berry socially, we attended the event at a nearby church in the hope that reverence would curb excess. Instead, we had discovered a veritable cornucopia of culinary delights. Laid out buffet style with no servers to slow down our collective gluttony. A paradise of casseroles, salads, roasts, and baked goods displayed for the more-than-once taking. It was all I could do to drag myself over to socialize with those strawberries for dessert. I’m nothing if not polite.
Once hooked, we ate our way through summer weekends of epicurean indulgence. A turkey supper here, a beef bar-b-cue there, here a pig roast, there a pancake breakfast. Bake sales. Corn roasts. Fish Fries, roadside snack shacks, veggie stands and chip trucks. It wasn’t for snow alone that I had to switch to four-wheel drive and heavy-duty suspension.
A ‘wild life’ bar-b-cue was another summer highlight. Expecting the rural equivalent of a frat party, I arrived in my wildest attire. But my rowdiest moments were the game of horseshoes where I threw a ringer around some guy’s ankle, and a sack race where I hopped out of my shorts. At the fire pit, several hunks revolved on a slow turning spit. Great sloppy paint brush strokes basted meat with mysterious marinade accompanied by frequent geysers of well-shaken beer. “Roast beef,” I inquired? With relish, the basters identified the main course: “That big one’s bear. That flank’s venison and the small one is beaver. There’s also squirrel and rabbit and coon. Wanna sample? Containing my enthusiasm, I declined, then hurried over to the wife who was also eyeing the meat. “Roast beef,” I confirmed. “Use lots of relish.”
By dinner, everything was cut and carved and burnt to a crispy sameness. So I never did learn whether I’d gnawed on Smokey
or Bugs or Bambi. Maybe because I conjured an image of Elsie the Cow with every mouthful. The wife, connoisseur extraordinaire, commented on the subtle taste differences between each beefy bite. “Grain versus grass fed”, I reassured her, with even more relish.
When our smorgasbording free-for-all ended at Labour Day, I’d discovered that every groaning board had its delights and disasters, treats and terrors – and juggling my two heaping plates made it tough to differentiate between them. Also that, for every prize-winning family recipe, I’d always have to spit a bite or two into a handy napkin – usually from a dish that no one ever owned up to. I also discovered it’s a challenge to socialize with your mouth full. Even if it’s with strawberries.
Inevitably, the wife realized wild life isn’t beef. Since she prefers to know exactly who’s being eaten, we’ll be dining from our cottage kitchen until next summer. We may not have the choices or the bounty, but I’ll be able to get through doorways again – and the wife will be able to answer with confidence when anyone asks: “Where’s the beef?”
Craig Nicholson is a long-time Kawarthas cottager who also provides tips and tour info for snowmobilers at intrepidsnowmobiler.com and for PWC riders at intrepidcottager.com.
