Once a year, in late September when the harvest is in and the nights are starting to cool, we set a long table in the field. Not a restaurant table. Not a catered event. A table made from sawhorses and barn doors, set with mismatched plates and mason jar glasses, surrounded by people who've been working the land all summer.

The menu is whatever came out of the ground that week. This year it was roasted squash with sage butter, a whole lamb that had been on the spit since morning, bread from the morning bake, and a salad that was still warm from the sun when we cut it.

There's no service at the harvest table. Everyone passes everything. The wine is local. The conversation is loud. The kids run between the legs of the adults until they fall asleep in the grass.

This is what I cook for. Not the critics. Not the cameras. This.