My friend Tamar and I established a family picnic tradition about one year into our friendship. (In my opinion, an appropriate time to put a tradition into place, as you know you’ve really committed to the relationship.) Our family picnic dinner consists of odds and ends, leftover from the week, and plenty of wine.
In recent months, this tradition has also become part of our routine with our no longer “new” neighbors Chris and Kelly. Because as soon as I get the five P.M. text “Drinks?,” we all know what it really means—I dust off the front porch chairs and, unrequested, take out the leftover olives I stored with the Italian artichokes in olive oil from last weekend, a wheel of already-wedged-into Camembert, a few slices of last night’s pork roast or chicken, and whatever else I can forage. There is also usually something pickled. We are all very, very good wine drinkers, so one must arrive prepared with sustenance. (Luck favors those that do, so I’m told.) There are more meats, cheeses, and crackers on their end to round out this meal, and in a flash it’s ten P.M.
