Today I had a hankering for a deviled egg.
I have a plastic container to keep or transport deviled eggs, but as anyone knows, a Southern belle has at least one and preferably several deviled egg plates, and this is mine. I love the rooster and the sunflower, but here is its quirk: there are slots for nine eggs. I don’t know how y’all make deviled eggs, but I cut my boiled eggs in half, scoop out the yolk, mix it with stuff, and fill the egg hollows with that stuff. At the risk of sounding mathy, you can’t add egg halves and come up with nine. I’ve decided this means the person who prepares the deviled eggs must, therefore, eat the extra one. This also works if you need a poison tester, because I connect deviled eggs to stuff like picnics and families, and you know both of those can be treacherous.
The process of deviling the eggs led me to think about two kinds of picnics: planned and spontaneous. My earliest impressions of picnics are the ones we took while we traveled during my childhood. Interstates were rare–we were more likely to take state highways and old backroads to get anywhere. We were also not yet a fast food nation. So trips meant either stopping at wonderful diners and cafes in small towns or–because we didn’t really have the budget for eating out that way–my mother packed sandwiches, fruit, chips, and drinks. When the back seat started sounding cranky, my parents knew it was time to find a shady roadside picnic area, pull over, and stuff food in us. The place might have been left to chance, but not the fixings, because everybody had to have the right things to eat (this one doesn’t like mustard, that one won’t eat Fritos, the other one hasn’t tasted much beyond peanut butter in two years, etc.).
Somewhat irrelevant aside: One time I was watching an episode of Mad Men (set in the early Sixties, if you don’t know), and the Draper family was having a picnic in an idyllic spot–green grass, shade trees, nothing but the sounds of nature and the kids being kids. Don finished his beer and rocked my world by tossing the can as far as he could throw it. Then when it was time to go, Betty told the kids to get their things, stood up, shook the blanket free of plates, cups, napkins, and food remnants, and they all got in the car and drove off, leaving a pile of debris behind. I GASPED. I would just like to say that my family did not behave in a way that would make the Keep America Beautiful Indian shed a tear. We properly disposed of our trash before moving on.
I think anytime children are involved, a picnic requires planning, and I used to be a champion planner myself, so I understand the compulsion. However, as I aged, I began to see how overplanning takes all the joy out of an event–both for the planner and everyone else. Because there will always be things you can’t prepare for, and I’m not talking about only nuisances like ants, mosquitoes, drunks, and rain. The world will not end if a picnic does not go exactly as planned–well, unless it’s taken over by zombies, but that hasn’t happened to me yet, so I disregard it. Consequently, I’m more in favor of the spontaneous picnic.
One such occasion began on a spring night when Lynne and I had a discussion about fried chicken. She said Craig didn’t really like fried chicken, and I said it was probably because he’d never had mine. (Y’all know Lynne is a fantastic cook, right, and taught me a lot of what I know? But never let it be said an Aries will miss an opportunity to be a little cocky.) So we decided to have a cook-off. We each separately spent a late night frying chicken and packed some other random foods. Early the next morning, we loaded Craig’s van, then the two of them, Tom, and I rode toward the Hill Country looking for the perfect picnic spot.
This is Texas, and they really mean it when they say if you don’t like the weather, wait ten minutes. A couple of hours later we were unloading the van in a bucolic setting with wildflowers and singing birds. And without warning, the temperature dropped about thirty degrees. Fortunately, Craig had some work coveralls in his van, so Lynne and I put those on, and we managed to stuff our food past blue lips with shivering hands. Crazily, that memory is one of my favorite picnics ever. And I can’t say it’s because Craig liked my chicken best–he did!–but it turned out that Tom and I liked Lynne’s best, so it all evened out. But we laughed ourselves stupid, rode home in the cozy van, and probably played cards all night with some good cussin’ and cold chicken.
Recently, Lynne asked me if Jess was with us on that picnic, and I remembered that he wasn’t. I’m not sure where he was–he might have been on spring break in Alabama with his great-aunts–but I knew for sure if he’d been with us, he’d have had the sense to get out of the cold.
Chief Iron Eyes Cody and I salute you for not littering. My mother always brought a trash bag along to pick up all the picnic droppings and bring them home with her. She always felt the bears would try to turn over the sites trash barrels.
That was smart of her. I don’t think we ever thought of bears.
road trips are enhanced by the roadside picnic. You know that Craig loved road trips (he WAS a driver). Jess and Laura think road trip = nap. However, when we travel i still pack some food and carry our travel table cloth in case we decide to stop and relax.
Did i tell you about the chilly picnic with Amanda & Wayne in Georgia earlier this year?
No–was it colder than ours?
Sometimes when Tom and I have traveled, we’ve bought fast food but then found another, more scenic place to eat it.
I like to keep my eyes open on road trips, ’cause you never know what kind of good stuff you’ll see. Though there are times my metabolism gets the best of me.
not any colder; about the same but very windy and up on a mountain.
Growing up, we always went somewhere new for two weeks in the camper. While we were on the road, we’d always pull over at lunch time and (Mom would) fix something to eat. Even once there were more interstates, my dad still refused to take them, saying that you could never see any of the country that way (which is true, but sure added to road time). Even when we would go to a restaurant, he would refuse to go to any chain (“I can eat that stuff at home”) and stopped at diners.
When Danielle and I were in Ireland we saw a KFC, Subway, Burger King and lots of McDonalds. We always found somewhere else to eat. (“I can eat that stuff at home.”)
Flying and driving interstates are best if you’re in a hurry. But isn’t it fun when travel can be about the journey AND the destination?
Great post. I love picnics and I can’t believe you have photos of events I can’t even remember. What was that? Steve’s birthday? Bobbo’s “That 70’s Shirt” was worth an out loud chuckle. I wonder, was he was wearing the gold chains too?
Yes, it was his birthday–summer after freshman year. My college roomies were there–Debbie and Jeanette–and Larry and Debbie H (though I think they weren’t married then), Pat F, Tanya, Steve W, Mark M. I wondered if you’d happen by and see the photo. =)
I “happen by” nearly every day. It’s my morning ritual: favorite websites while enjoying two cups of “Boulder Breakfast,” my preferred hot tea blend out of Denver, CO. I’ll send you some, if you’d like.
Sometimes I just want to hug you. =) Thank you.
Also, I don’t have any pictures of Bobby head-on, so I don’t know about the chains! Dang.
Every time I see a pic of your Dad my butt hurts! Feels like hundreds of picnic ants
biting me through my Wranglers. Just saying…
So you’re saying you were on the receiving end of one of those paddles? I can’t believe it–you were such a well-behaved lad. =)
I enjoyed the Paddle thread, do you have any pics of your Dad in the Pinto? Remind me what happened to his little finger? I was in the Houston Airport Tue for about an hour, I looked for you everywhere; I really wanted a big hug.
Thanks! I don’t know if I have any of him IN the car. I’ll look. Are you speaking of the little blue Pinto (the one I learned to drive on and wrecked in the school parking lot) or the brown Pinto wagon?
I may be misremembering but I think he cut his hand on a can years before I was born. It got infected, and the antibiotic they gave him actually fed the infection, which subsequently spread all the way to his shoulder. They were worried they might have to amputate his arm. A different antibiotic contained the infection to his little finger, which couldn’t be saved, so they amputated it.
Looks like I need to spend more time hanging around airport terminals. 😉
Firstly, I love deviled eggs. And, I’m glad you posted this, because I was planning a trip to local grocer’s and try to make some.
However, today, I’ve not been feeling well. I must have eaten something that turned out questionable and I’m almost willing to bet it was from a jar of pickles, oddly enough.
Anyway, in my life there was only 1 other time I went off eggs. I was on a boat ride across the channel to France. It was lovely outside, the water was fine, the breakfast we had on land prior to the voyage was lovely. The stench of eggs on the boat, however, for the full ride to France, was not. My system refused eggs for several years after that. It just turned my stomach upside-down just thinking about them. Yet, I’ll eat breads, pancakes, etc., made with eggs, just not eggs themselves. But I did cure myself of this!
This morning, as part of the you-are-not-feeling-well encoded dream from unhappy stomach to the self-concious, I dreamed I bought an ordinary dozen of egglands best eggs. By the time they made it to the kitchen, they had all cracked themselves open and started rising like muffins, shells cracking from the expansion, oozing raw egg, yet keeping their spacing like a pan of muffins.
Nobody likes a bad egg dream!
Hope you’re feeling better. And when you are, bon appétit!