An Old Family Recipe

Every year for a number of years a horse show in Calistoga called the Napa Valley Classic raised money for kids. It was an evening-long event held on a Saturday in July. Jumps were set out on a grass arena at the fairgrounds, and people sat in the stands on one side or at tables along the other to watch. Because of the grass and the horses the arena smelled rich and wonderful and the colors were grand; everyone was dressed in fresh summer shirts and dresses, and lots of women wore hats; the jumps were freshly painted and tubs of greenery set throughout the grounds. Beneath a huge tent there was that nice swishy chuffle of ice as bottles of wine and spring water were fished out of bins; people brought elaborate picnics they set out with lots of energetic steppings back to check for the effect; caterers bustled about the pricier tables; teenagers in scarlet shirts shuttled electric “gators” to fetch hampers and the tired or infirm from the gate to the stands, and there was a solid feeling of well-being emanating from so many of us all enjoying the same thing for a good cause.

The main competition of the evening was a speed event, meaning the horse with the fastest time over the jumps won. Each horse could only go around once, time was added on for any faults, and the horse with the lowest time was the winner. It is very exciting to have horses ridden at top speed soar right by your seat. The horses seem close enough to put your hand on as they gallop by; and they pick up on the crowd’s excitement and try even harder. The riders, cued by their horses, try harder, too. Together they flew over huge mock-ups of castles and walls, gates and fences and, because Calistoga is part of the Napa Valley, a few wine barrels. Before the race the riders were auctioned off in teams. After all thirty or so horses jumped, lucky bidders split the proceeds, which ran into thousands of dollars, with half going to charity and the other half divvied up among the bidders whose teams took Win, Place or Show. Bidders cheered on their riders, the crowd cheered on the bidders and horses, and everyone had an extraordinary time seeing such beautiful athletes, both horses and riders, at the peak of their form competing for all they were worth, going like the wind a hand’s-breadth away.

Weeks before, I’d been invited by my friend Boris to sit at a table he had taken for the Classic. There were to be twelve of us and we’d each been asked to bring something. Two days before the event I realized I didn’t know how to make what I wanted to bring. Well, I didn’t know how to make the dressing for a cold vegetable salad I thought would be just the thing for a hot July evening. So, the day before the Classic, after several failed experiments, I called my cousin in Rhode Island. It was she who had made the salad I was trying to duplicate. I could do the vegetables, I just couldn’t figure out the dressing. I had last had the salad about twenty years ago. I could still see the platter in my mind’s eye perfectly. It had been all my godchild had asked for on her birthday. No cake or other dessert, just this salad. “Can you imagine?” asked her mother, wonderingly, as she got the table ready. She had indeed achieved a superb vegetarian array for her daughter and it had proven to be absolutely delicious. But, try as I might now, I couldn’t get the dressing right.

When I telephoned my cousin, I got her machine. I hadn’t spoken with her for a long time, at least a year and probably longer, but I could imagine her in her house on the shore in Little Compton, where she’d made the salad. I hoped she was only down at the beach and left a message. I explained my predicament and prayed she would call me back. She did, the next day. I had already been to town and gotten most of the vegetables. I had blanched and boiled, peeled and sliced all sizes of beets and carrots, radishes, endive, potatoes, and cauliflower from the store with string beans and herbs from the garden.

“Oh, I’m so glad you asked,” said my cousin, Annie. “The dressing really is an old family recipe and it came from California, from Aunt Peg (a native Californian who had died at home in Dedham, MA many years before).” And she told me. So simple: equal parts of mayonnaise and sour cream, a dash of horseradish and enough lemon juice to taste. “Peg would be so happy,” Annie said. “She’d love to know it’s being handed down and returning home.” Then we caught one another up in where our children were and what they were doing. My oldest had been married in Spain the year before and now their baby boy was to be christened there in August. “And you’re going?” asked Annie. “Well, no. I can’t afford to,” I said. “You should be there,” said Annie. “It’s important that you be there. I’ll send you a ticket. I can and I’d like to. Go find out and tell me how much it is. I want you to go.”

Reeling, I went off to buy sour cream in town and made the dressing in a daze. Fortunately, it was simplicity itself. Still dumb-founded by my cousin’s extraordinary generosity, I showered, changed and drove to the Classic, with the tray carefully bedded down in back so the vegetables wouldn’t slither away, and the dressing wedged in front so all that simplicity wouldn’t spill. The Classic was again a huge success. The spectators, the horses and the riders all had a grand time. Boris and his guests were no exception. They liked my salad. They liked everything everyone brought. We ate and drank, bid and watched intently as the glorious horses glided by under the lights. Lots of money was raised for charity, and lots of people came away amazed that such a beautiful event could happen practically right in their own backyard. They had been so moved by the competition they felt like they had been somewhere else for the evening, to a big city or the Olympics.

And I? I would be going all the way to Spain on the wings of an old family recipe.