The annual Winged Elm holiday gathering was last night, and the event was notable for its complete lack of politics. Nary a divisive comment heard nor nasty post tweeted. Progress. Even the field of plate-and-bottle debris was modest when compared to years past. Still, like a glacial moraine deposited across a Vermont landscape, the remains could last for eons, all depending on our energy level in the coming day.

The spread of food was fairly pork centered. Among the evening’s meaty delights, a mound of home-cured ham (prosciutto), slices of ponce (a stuffed and smoked pork stomach), various salamis (some home-cured, some store bought), prosciutto-wrapped dates and cream cheese, a homemade potted ham (pâté), and a tray of boudin that lay forgotten in the refrigerator (ignored in the pre-party rush). There were also platters of cheese and cheese balls, relish trays, endless homemade dips, cookies enough to induce a diabetic coma for the entire valley, and, to provide the merest illusion of balance, fresh veggies (with the ubiquitous ranch dressing).

To wash down the massive amounts of food presented, our nearly 40 guests imbibed a proportionally massive quantity of wine, beer, hot mulled cider, soft drinks…. (Fortunately, my gifts from a guest — two bottles of outstanding home-distilled products, one a grape brandy aged in French oak and the other a corn whiskey aged in American oak — survived the evening intact and undetected in their hiding place.)

At the gathering was to be found a good mix of farmers and gardeners, beekeepers, horse people, and cattlewomen, small farm and small town, rural and urban. Halfway through the evening, a fellow farmer caught my eye across the room. Her arm extended and a grimace on her face, she twinkled her fingers as if searching for something. A mislaid lamb, perhaps. An earnest group of listeners surrounded her, all nodding. “I’ve been there,” I imagined them saying, but I couldn’t hear anything over the din.

The beekeepers took over the kitchen at one point, confabbing, I suspect, over the latest method of treating varroa mites. Although it may simply have been the homemade cinnamon ice cream one of them doled out parsimoniously that kept the colony near. Or, maybe it was their hive instinct that caused them to remain clustered on a cold East Tennessee evening.

In the front room, our Charlie Brown Christmas tree was on display. A scraggly cedar cut from the farm, then dressed up with special ornaments acquired over the years, it anchored the corner next to the crowded deacon’s bench. Underneath, among assorted presents, were jars of freshly rendered lard, gifts for our departing guests. Each one sported a label designed by Cindy, with the tagline, “Good lard, it’s tasty!”

The evening came to a close past our usual bedtime, but not before a late-night trek by guests to the hoop-house for bouquets of turnip greens for the deserving. We tidied up (It really wasn’t that bad considering the number of guests, food, and drink) and retired upstairs to read for a while before enjoying some well-earned rest. I dreamed of a breakfast of fresh scones with double cream and lemon curd left for us by a friend, and slept soundly.

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