The title quote is how Carrie, Megan's friend who organized the outing, summed up the Foxfield races, and she was not wrong. The racing was definitely out of the money when it came to ranking the activities for the day--in spite of the fact that we had a great spot right on the rail where we could see the horses as they ran by. (The photo at right is not zoomed in; we were actually that close.) Our interest in the racing was tempered by what can only be described as the massive quantities of drinks and food we packed into the car--a gigantic Suburban rented for the day because there is only one parking pass per eight tickets. I must say, after spending my youth in the none-too-aptly named grandstand at Saratoga, that there is something to be said for the elaborate spread that accompanies tailgate-style race watching. It was clear that there would be no heading to the infield for overpriced hotdogs and beers at the concession stands. Carrie and her friends had packed a fold-out table--with flowers--that offered myriad food options, along with a vast array of fancy beverages. Options included mint julep martinis, sake margaritas, and something called artillery punch, which contained about every single type of alcohol you can think of, which combined to taste oddly like communion wine in church. I took quite a liking to the sake margaritas, which taste much better than they sound. A recipe will be forthcoming, if I can get my hands on it.
Anyway, the parts of the day that were not consumed with eating and drinking were mostly taken up by people watching. There is something just too comical about college girls wearing pretty-princess dresses while sloppy-drunk in a field, being held up by smashed boys in madras shorts and bowties. I was particularly amused by a girl in a froufy, strapless tulle dress sporting a gigantic tattoo down one arm drunkenly playing frisbee. (Really, what's not to like about that?)
Oh, and there were no dog races, thankfully. Apparently that's only at the Gold Cup.