A Picnic in the Park

I was going to write a Destination Dining blog post today to review the restaurant The Front Room at the Hotel Lumen in the Park Cities of Dallas but the experience was so boring that I realized there weren't enough synonyms for the word Yawn in the English language to trash it properly so instead I am going to talk about picnics.

Peel Me A Grape

According to Wikipedia, the first usage of the word picnic is traced to the 1692 edition of Tony Willis, Origines de la Langue Française, which mentions pique-nique as being of recent origin; it marks the first appearance of the word in print. Whether picnic is actually based on the verb piquer which means 'pick' or 'peck' with the rhyming nique meaning "thing of little importance" is doubted; the Oxford English Dictionary says it is of unknown provenance.  Frankly, I am thinking the OED is dead wrong in this case because Gauls throughout history have picked at things of little importance (remember Freedom Fries?) but I am not going to pique a fight about it.  Ce n'est pas ma guerre.

In British and American English, the phrase "no picnic" is used to describe a difficult or trying situation or activity. For example, "Watching other people picnic while you are not picnicking is no picnic."

In Information Technology, a "PICNIC" is an acronym meaning "Problem In Chair, Not In Computer." Help Desk workers use "PICNIC" to refer snottily to a situation where they helped someone fix a problem with their computer where there really was no problem with the computer, but the user was to blame for the problem.  This is also known as PEBKAC (Problem Exists Between Keyboard And Chair.)  Those I.T. people can get pretty haughty if you ask me and probably need to be occassionally stabbed in their mouse hands by one of those corn-on-the-cob holders you use at picnics.


Stoned Soul Picnic

Yesterday we picnicked to celebrate the late April birthdays of two guys named Joe (although oddly, no one brought coffee.) We had reserved a 1930's WPA-constructed shelter twixt a babbling stream and a canopy of ancient pecan trees in White Rock Lake Park.  It would have been a tranquil, prosaic throwback to simpler, gentler times if not for the incessant rap music thumping from a sadistic boom box owner one picnic spot over and the droning chants emanating from what seemed to be a prayer circle of Branch Davidians on our other side.  (I guess if your cult's name starts with the word branch it makes sense to meet and mutter beneath one.)

There is no alcohol allowed in Dallas city parks so we brought sangria punch and spiked lemonade water and beer soft drinks.  I got there first to decorate ( and by "decorate" I mean impaling two HAPPY BIRTHDAY streamers on rusty nails pounded unevenly into the badly-in-need-of-paint ceiling of the shelter and blanketing two picnic tables graffitied with dried bird doo doo with festive plastic tablecloths.)  I neatly displayed the beverages, buns, condiments, salty snacks and deviled eggs in a sort of Great Gatsby motif, fanned out the paper napkins and artfully arranged plastic utensils in a red solo cup.  It was all very Martha Stewart until I noticed the grill was not where it had been four years ago when we had rented this exact shelter. In fact, it was not there at all.  I panicked since I couldn't ask to use one located nearby because I'd already alienated all of our fellow picnickers by shooing them out of our shelter when I arrived, brandishing my rental agreement indignantly and yelling out "I paid for this IN ADVANCE." They gave me a collective stink eye while they gathered their meager belongings to their weary bosoms and scurried over to sparsely grassed, inferior grounds unprotected by our sacred stones.

I dispatched D to a grocery store, urging a speedy retail transaction and swift return with a suitable appliance upon which to grill dozens of brats and burgers while smilingly welcoming the arriving guests.  Stalling for time, I suggested a quick game of bocce ball, but I had no equipment or any idea how to play it so the reception to my idea was tepid at best.  I told a few hilarious jokes and then, dramatically interpreting all of the roles, I acted out the following scene from the 1955 Cinemascope production of the movie Picnic, based on William Inge's Pulitzer Prize-winning play:

Middle-aged schoolteacher Rosemary (Rosalind Russell), who rents a room at the Owens house, has been brought to the picnic by store owner Howard Bevens (Arthur O'Connell). When the band plays dance music, Howard says he can't dance, so Rosemary dances with Millie. Hal and Howard then start dancing together, which nettles Rosemary. She grabs Howard, who then dances with her. Hal tries to show Millie a dance he learned in Los Angeles, but Millie can not quite get the beat. Madge stumbles upon this, begins clapping handily to the beat, and the two begin dancing together. Having been cast aside and ignored by both Rosemary and Hal, Millie sulks off and starts drinking from a whiskey flask hidden in Howard's jacket. Rosemary, drunk from the same whiskey, jealously breaks up the dance between Madge and Hal. Rosemary flings herself at Hal, saying he reminds her of a Roman gladiator. When Hal tries to ward off the schoolteacher, she rips his shirt then bitterly calls him a bum.

Much to the relief of the hopelessly confused, highly embarrassed and now-starving guests, D finally returned with a large cardboard box containing the approximately 540 pieces of a charcoal grill which two of our more gifted friends assembled with a Swiss Army knife and a broken plastic spoon.  As the sun was setting I lurched toward the smoking grill and blearily threw all the food on it and slammed down the lid.  (I guess all that punch had made me a tad light-headed.) 25 minutes later the brats were beautifully blistered, the burgers perfectly browned, and we were lying on the ground comotose from having already eaten three dozen cupcakes and a gallon of artichoke dip.

You might say that putting that picnic together was no picnic.