Guerilla Dining @ Pocket Square Farm

I recently read about a "hot new trend" in seasonal, local cuisine: guerilla dining.

Okay, apparently I don't have my finger exactly on the pulse of foodie culture, because "guerilla dining" is referenced in articles as early as 2006, and it was nominated for the Macquarie Dictionary’s [people's choice] new word of the year in 2008.

So that means I'm just a little late to the party. Seeing as how I'm now in my thirties, I guess I'm okay with that. It's hard to be hip when you're past twenty-something... or so I'm told.

Anyhow, if guerilla dining is new to you, as it was to me, here's the definition.

guerilla dining: noun dining at a restaurant that has been set up temporarily in an unused space such as a car park, beach, rooftop or a private home, etc., customers being alerted by word of mouth to the location. Also, guerrilla dining.

It just so happened that stumbling upon this new craze coincided with my turn to host our book club's monthly meeting. The text I selected was Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver. She is one of my favorite authors, and in this [highly recommended] read she chronicles her family's attempt to eat exclusively locally, and grow most of their own food, for an entire year. Besides my obvious interest in the topic, I also love that the book is a family affair, co-authored in segments by her husband and college-age daughter, Camille. Don't you just love that name? Camille. So poetic.

My book club historically meant young, recently married women, dessert, coffee, and lots of discussion about the book. As the group has grown [and aged], we have evolved into an amazing and diverse group of moms of children ages 8 years down to 4 months. In fact, between the nine women in book club we now have 22 children (and another one due next month)! In light of this, book club has become more about the dessert and coffee, and less about the book. And we've added wine to the menu, a development I'm very happy about.

Shhhh. Don't tell our husbands.

It's not that we don't read the book. In fact, a few of us read the monthly book religiously. And then there are members like me. The slackers. Truthfully, I'm the worst. I even suggested that we change the name of our gatherings to "dessert club," in leiu of "book club," but the ladies didn't bite. I know, I'm so uncivilized!

Back to guerilla dining... I decided that to honor and exemplify the ideals set forth in Kingsolver's book, I would host an impromptu backyard meal made mostly from vegetables grown at Pocket Square Farm. That was the basic idea, anyway... and then I got a little crazy.

If I was going to do this, I was going to do it right! Growing and serving my own veggies morphed into baking the bread, making the cheese, and churning the butter. I experimented with recipes. I pulled out the tablecloths and arranged cut roses in mason jars for centerpieces. My husband restrung white lights in the backyard for a special touch of "guerilla ambiance." I pulled out the fine china and cloth napkins and candles, and I printed menus on linen paper.

Hair twisted into an updo, I donned a grass-skimming strapless dress and cinched a pink vintage-style apron around my waist. Wait... this is all sounding so elegant, so effortless.

I forgot to mention the part where I baracaded myself in my tiny kitchen and chopped and boiled and pureed and baked and whipped and kneaded and churned and roasted and seasoned for two days straight!

"Don't ever let me do this again!" I screamed at my husband in a frenzy of last-minute details. "If I ever say I'm going to host a dinner party again, honey, please stop me!" I pleaded in agony.

"Dinner parties are like childbirth," he replied. "As memory of the pain fades, you'll want to have another one." So wise, coming from a MAN. But I guess that's how book club ended up with 22 children and counting.

In retrospect, my husband couldn't have been more right this time. I'm fairly convinced that this Guerilla Dinner at Pocket Square Farm may have been the best thing I've ever created in my entire life, except for my own two children, of course. And that's saying a lot, because I'm always my own harshest critic.

It's getting late and I'm still recovering from washing five loads of dishes after the fact. So I'll share all the delicious details (and photos) soon, but I'll leave you with a copy of the evening's menu to ponder (or salivate over), whichever may be the case.