By M.J. McAteer
Special to The Washington Post
Wednesday, April 30, 2008

For a week, Alison and I had tracked the weather. The extended forecast for the day of our tailgate picnic at the Fairfax Hunt Races was for possible thunderstorms and a high in the mid-60s. Not great, but it could have been worse.

It got worse.

As the day drew near, the forecast became a meteorological pile-on of rain with thunderstorms and a high in the mid-50s. I jokingly asked friends to do a sun dance for our picnic, but I must have needed Robert Redford for that.

Perhaps you recall April 20, the day of those Earth Day celebrations on the Mall? Also the day of the Fairfax Hunt's races at Morven Park in Leesburg. That was the Sunday you awoke to the rumble of thunder and a flood watch. Which brings me to the first thing to know about planning a tailgate picnic at a steeplechase race, such as the granddaddy of them all, Saturday's Virginia Gold Cup:

The races are run rain or shine. No Plan B.

I briefly contemplated a foray to Wal-Mart to buy an awning or a tent, but that straw was torn from my grasp, which leads me to the second thing to know about a tailgate picnic at a steeplechase race: Tents and awnings may be banned from certain spectator areas because they can block the view and the flapping can frighten the horses. Fairfax had a no-tents-on-the-rail policy; Alison and I had rented a space on the rail.

When the day arrived, Ellen Flynn, a volunteer from the hunt, was directing a trickle of traffic into Morven Park amid sheets of rain.

"They do this in England all the time," she said. As my wipers worked double time, Flynn grinned from deep inside the cave of her hooded yellow slicker. "Come on," she said. "It'll be fun."

To borrow a racing term, the Fairfax event was my maiden outing as a tailgater. Alison had had one previous start. Rather than get lathered up before post time, a few weeks before the races we had coffee with Debra Arthur: Middleburg resident, Fairfax Hunt member and tailgate maven. The self-described former Southern belle has been hosting tailgates since 1989, and she would be a tailgate judge at the Fairfax races (though she would recuse herself from judging ours). The categories for competition would be "Putting on the Ritz," "Hunt Country Chic" and "Down Home." We didn't care about making it into the winner's circle; we just wanted to clear all the fences and cross the finish line. Arthur told us how.

First, prep and presentation. "Out there in the pasture, you can't get another bowl," Arthur noted sagely. She advised a dress rehearsal in the dining room. So, a couple of weeks in advance, Alison and I laid out our prospective dishes on the folding table we'd be using:

· Platters, it became obvious, were out. No room. Small dishes in blue and white, replenished frequently, would keep the table looking fresh throughout an eight-race afternoon.

· Blue-checked tablecloth, also out. The blazing orange linen topped by Alison's bright yellow vase filled with brash Gerber daisies would create a positively van Gogh-ish effect.

· Yes to the iron horse head with the big brass ring, once used to tether horses. It didn't take up much space and could do double duty as centerpiece and tablecloth anchor.

Arthur advised a separate bar area, which we decided would be the tailgate of Alison's pickup, draped and adorned. The beer, white wine, sodas, water and champagne would go on ice in big muck buckets -- scrubbed and lined with garbage bags -- from Alison's barn.

We'd put a stock tie, the neckwear of fox hunters, on my plush toy fox and let him lounge on the cab roof of the pickup to let people know that a party was going on.

"It has to look good," Arthur said. We thought it would.

When it comes to the menu, two words say it all: finger food.

Cutlery is cumbersome, and plastic cutlery is considered, well, tacky, my dear. Even plates require a juggling act. Guests need to have one hand free at all times to hold drinks.

Country ham biscuits are classic tailgate fare -- and easy, Arthur said. We decided on bite-size biscuits from the Little Apple Pastry Shop in Aldie but chose a less-salty hickory-smoked, spiral-cut ham instead of country ham. I snagged Arthur's recipe for a spread made with poppy seeds, onion and lots of butter.

Our menu included wings from Buffalo Wing Factory in Ashburn, assorted crackers and cheeses, marinated mozzarella balls, salsa and chips, veggies and dips, and strawberries and grapes.

I also wanted to serve Scotch eggs, which Arthur described as "16th-century carryout." The recipe I found online called for each egg to be swaddled in a quarter-pound of sausage, which made them huge. In a test run, Alison discovered that the eggs sliced really well, which made them a manageable size and gave them the sophisticated look of pâté.

For dessert, Alison made brownies (always popular), but I violated the finger-food edict by making two cakes: Irish Whiskey Cake and, for the teetotalers in the group, Kentucky Buttermilk Cake. The whiskey cake had a proven track record, undoubtedly due to that pint of 80-proof Irish. The buttermilk cake, a recipe from Foxhunters OnLine, a chat group, was dense and sweet.

Arthur was sanguine about our fears of running short of refreshments. "It's the mix of people, not the food," she said.

Still, we fretted. We had invited about 50 people; would there be enough to feed them all?

After giving Flynn, the cheery traffic warden, a you've-got-to-be-kidding look about the day being "fun," I followed Alison to our rail space, which we had rented for $150. It was terrific: right in front of a timber jump, and the finish line was mere yards away.

We had come in two vehicles, the better to transport that passel of provisions. We didn't unpack, but Alison put the fox on top of the pickup as a beacon should any guests be kind or crazy enough to show up. Her husband, Jim, had rigged up an umbrella for the little guy, but the toy looked forlorn in the downpour.

Our only hope to avoid a washout stood on the hillside above us: a row of tents, rented in advance from the hunt at prices way beyond our budget. Several were empty.

We buttonholed Paula Michaels, another race volunteer, who was splashing around the grounds in a golf cart. Yes, she said, pointing toward a tent: a cancellation. We sprinted to our vehicles to claim it, free of charge, before another squatter could move in.

By then six faithful friends and two family members, who were obliged to be there, had arrived and were huddled under our tent. The temperature seemed to be dropping.

Alison and I, our best-laid plans kaput, raced to deploy food and drink, all thoughts of van Gogh gone. The horse head never made it out of the car. We forgot to unpack the marinated mozzarella balls and the salsa and chips. The table was a jumble of food. When Arthur stopped by, she tactfully averted her eyes from the mess, which included boxes and coolers strewn about the table. We did not win, place or show in the tailgate competition.

Our few and faithful guests made it through nearly two hours and three races before they began to slog off to see if their cars were stuck in the mud. We finally gave up when the rain turned torrential and the grumbles of thunder became accessorized by flashes of lightning.

But every leaden cloud is lined with silver, right? To wit:

· The food was a hit, especially the Scotch eggs, ham biscuits and whiskey cake. (The teetotaler cake never even got cut.)

· We won't need to buy beer, soda, water, plates or napkins for our next party.

· We have bubbly enough to ring in 2009, possibly 2010.

· We get first dibs next year on that great rail space that we had reserved and abandoned.

Finally, we can safely say that our guests had a memorable day. And between shivering and shifting their feet to avoid pooling water, they managed to do a lot of laughing.

In a perverse way, Flynn turned out to be right. It was fun, sort of.

M.J. McAteer is a former Washington Post editor who lives in Purcellville.