Wednesday, July 31, 2013
Sometimes, I think I picnic to stay sane.
One might think that plates of pretty food are an indication of a sunny outlook. I say, look deeper.
I say, the peeling and the chopping and the dressing and the arranging and the packing and the carrying and the sitting in a place where the air moves in a way that it never can indoors, are a last resort, the culinary equivalent of a rooftop-howling wolf inconsolable in its grief at the state of things. I picnic to let it all out. To say if we have nothing else, we have this. Goddamnit.
Just a thought.