Noah Webster defined “picnic” a couple of centuries ago as coming from the French “piquenique” which he wrote, was a “casual event where people ate trifles.
I’m sure that’s no longer accurate today and neither is one modern definition: “A pleasure outing at which a meal is served outdoors.” Some published definitions add the misleading phrase, “An easy task.”
Somewhere along the way we lost the original idea. Now we leave our air-conditioned homes with modern kitchens to sit in the broiling sun cooking questionable meals on crude stoves for family, friends and squadrons of blood-thirsty mosquitoes.
I remember my last picnic and I fervently hope it was my last. We were sitting around old Uncle Otto’s backyard swapping stories and swatting various winged things. The food had been served and I was chewing on something that was either an overdone sausage or an underdone charcoal briquet.
We were telling lies about having a good time on a nice warm (96F) day and how it was too bad Uncle Otto had collapsed onto his chaise lounge. “It’s most likely just a Budweiser overdose,” I said, pointing to the empty bottles. We decided, if and when it got cooler, we’d try to carry Uncle Otto into his house.
A short time later the temperature plummeted and so did one big oak. We ran to the house dodging lightning bolts, carrying rain-revived Uncle Otto and changed our outing to an inning. It was actually a lot like being outdoors because each of us had dragged in several pounds of backyard mud.
Imagine That 