I am pleased to report that my nefarious plan paid off. My poker earnings last week more than covered the cost of my plane ticket to Virginia.

Well yeah, I admit that would be a lot more impressive if I hadn't used frequent flyer miles to get there. But the important thing is I ended up ahead.

Sort of. I just remembered that the airline charged me a $5 "ticket processing fee," which effectively wipes out my net gain.

But at least I didn't lose. Though the weekend would have been a winner even if Jerry (who left with heavily loaded pockets) had cleaned me out along with the others. You can't buy fun -- or food -- like that for any amount of money.

This particular group is a well-oiled machine -- we've had a lot of practice cooking up good times together. We've hung out and made meals and memories together for decades, in one another's houses as well as in campgrounds, mountain cabins, beach houses, ski chalets and for one memorable week, in a large rented RV en route to Texas. With perfect coordination, each of us launched into our assigned meal on schedule, with everyone else pitching in to chop, stir, mix, mash, baste, set the table or wash up.

Every meal was better than the last, all weekend long.

The well-tested recipes and loving preparation were certainly part of the reason for the deliciousness. But there was another factor as well: spectacular ingredients.

I am happy to say that the gospel of "local, fresh, sustainable" has taken root on the East Coast. Our hostess Laura recently finished reading "The Omnivore's Dilemma," a fabulous book by Michael Pollan that traces several meals to their sources. (If you haven't read it, you should.) She was already committed to home-grown veggies, with a large, productive garden of her own, and friendships with local farmers. But after reading the book, she's now a true believer.

One major section describes the author's visit to Joel Salatin's Polyface Farm, a beyond-organic "grass farm" in the Shenandoah Valley where Salatin raises chickens, turkeys, pigs, cattle and rabbits using a complex pasturing system that continually improves the land. The cows eat the grass and move on, then a few days later the chickens eat the grubs hatching in the cow pies. The chicken poop fertilize the grasses, which grow lush so the cows can come back, and so on and so on. In the meantime, the rabbits, more chickens and the pigs have their own cycle going, creating fabulous compost as well as happy animals. Pollan paints a picture of a working farm, with all the associated smells and dirt -- but compared to large-scale "chicken factory" ranches, it still sounds like a vision of agriculture drawn from those books we read as kids, where the cows go moo-moo and the hens go cluck-cluck, and the overalls-wearing farmer and his plump wife live in a dell.

Since Pollan stressed that Salatin refuses to sell to customers outside a fairly small radius, and wouldn't agree to ship him a chicken no matter how much he pleaded, I was resigned to never tasting the products of this legendary farm. But it turns out Laura and Stan's house in Outer Nowheresville is actually within the magic circle. And better yet, they belong to a buying collective that purchases from Polyface.

So Saturday night dinner featured three plump Polyface hens. And it doesn't get much better than that.

Maybe it was the assurance that the chickens led a short but happy life, or the preparation (we gave them a dry rub and roasted them slowly on the grill), or the friendship, or the potatoes from Laura's garden, or the accompanying green beans we bought from Laura's hairdresser/farmer/neighbor, or the five-mile hike we took that afternoon along the Appalachian trail - but those were the most delicious, meaty, chicken-y chickens I have ever tasted. Poultry perfection.

In fact, they were almost enough to tempt me to move back East closer to the source -- or at least to visit more often, as everyone urged me.

Though if they really wanted me back, they would have let me win a few more hands.

And promised me a chicken in every pot.

Chickens that good just need the simplest kind of roasting, so instead I'm giving you a recipe from the next meal. I kind of felt sorry for Chris when he drew Sunday breakfast. After all, what could top the memory of that amazing dinner the night before? But I shouldn't have worried. His airy, fruit-filled, half-inch-thick blueberry buttermilk pancakes -- from a recipe he and his then-wife begged many years ago from a B&B where they stayed in Maine -- were amazing. You won't be able to make them, as he did this time, with an uber-egg from Polyface, but they'll still be delicious.

(By the way, the recipe is almost identical to one in my old faithful Settlement Cookbook. But don't tell Chris. The story about the B&B is much more romantic.)

Kennebunk Blueberry Buttermilk Pancakes

1 cup flour

1 Tbsp. sugar

1 tsp. baking powder

1/2 tsp. baking soda

1/2 tsp. salt

1 egg

1 cup buttermilk

2 Tbsp. melted butter or oil

1 cup blueberries (or substitute other fruit - I used peaches that I froze earlier this summer and they were great)

In a mixing bowl, stir the flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda and salt together. In another small bowl, whisk the egg with the buttermilk and then the melted butter or oil. Pour this mixture into the dry ingredients, stirring until the flour is just incorporated. Gently stir in the fruit.

Heat the frying pan or griddle you are using. (Chris uses an electric frying pan. I have a built-in griddle on my stove, and both worked fine, or you can use a frying pan over medium-high heat. The gauge on my stove broke sometime in the 1950s, but if it were working, it would read about 400 F.) Grease the surface with butter or oil and pour or spoon the batter onto the griddle, using a little less than 1/4 cup per pancake. Cook until large bubbles appear on the top of the pancakes and the bottoms are brown, then turn and cook until the other side is golden brown. Repeat until all the batter is gone, greasing the pan between batches.

Makes about 15 medium-sized pancakes

Napa writer Betty Teller is a serious foodie who tries not to take food too seriously. She can be reached at amuse-bouche@sbcglobal.net.