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Friday Food And Drink Post: Keep Calm and Picnic On
“Hold hard a minute, then!” said the Rat. He looped the painter through a ring in his landing-stage, climbed up into his hole above, and after a short interval reappeared staggering under a fat, wicker luncheon-basket.
“Shove that under your feet,” he observed to the Mole, as he passed it down into the boat. Then he untied the painter and took the sculls again.
“What’s inside it?” asked the Mole, wriggling with curiosity.
“There’s cold chicken inside it,” replied the Rat briefly; “coldtonguecoldhamcoldbeefpickledgherkinssaladfrenchrolls cresssandwichespottedmeatgingerbeerlemonadesodawater—-“
“O stop, stop,” cried the Mole in ecstasies: “This is too much!”
“Do you really think so?” inquired the Rat seriously. “It’s only what I always take on these little excursions; and the other animals are always telling me that I’m a mean beast and cut it VERY fine!”
–Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows
When I was a little girl, the above description spoke of home to me. Of the English woods, the English countryside, the English way of life, and above all, of summer picnics with Granny and Grandpa.
More specifically, of picnics on our excursions from Birmingham (Warwickshire) to Mousehole (say it correctly, please, Muzzle) in Cornwall (think, Poldark country). About 250 miles, but we started before dawn, and we arrived, in the old 1947 Rover, sometime after supper. Along the way, we stopped numerous times by the side of the road (little country roads, this was pre-Motorway) for sandwiches, pressed meats, hard-boiled eggs, cake, pickled walnuts, and other spoils from a picnic basket the equal of, or better, than anything Ratty ever managed to produce. Tablecloths, napkins, china plates and cups, silverware. Bottomless Thermoses of tea. Not a bit of paper or plastic in sight. It was elegant. The young me absolutely loved it. It was such fun. Well, except for those occasional quick trips into the bushes, in the course of which some part of me always seemed to come into close contact with a nettle patch. Ouch.
I was thinking about our family picnics here recently, probably just reaching for a comforting family memory, as knitting no longer serves that purpose for me, now that I’ve been made to understand that I’m too white, too unwoke, too privileged, and too oblivious of the sufferings of all those who are different from me (particularly the “BIPOC”), to allow myself to wallow in it any more. After my last few go-rounds on Ravelry (I’ve had my fingers firmly slapped and I’m honored to be in “Account Restriction,”) I was reminded of that post I wrote several months ago when I got the servile letter from the designer of the “Mukluks” boots pattern, announcing that she was sorry she’d caused offense to the indigenous community. A portion of her letter went as follows:
We’ve changed this pattern’s name Mukluks to Dogwood Slippers.
We are sorry for the hurt our pattern has caused. We are not part of the indigenous peoples from whom the word Mukluks originates nor are we part of the First Nations whose knitting traditions inspired the design.
A portion of the letter I wrote in response went like this:
Someone should remind “First Nations” that their “knitting tradition” was appropriated from the white settlers, and was given to them in the nineteenth century by the Sisters of St. Ann Missionaries when the Europeans introduced wool sheep into their lives.
I don’t see anyone complaining about that bit of historical revisionism and cultural appropriation
And it is equally absurd to claim that somehow, using the word “mukluks” in your pattern, or incorporating a design that looks like some sort of butterfly, or perhaps a snowflake, or even a flower, in the leg of your slipper is any sort of insult or offensive gesture or thought towards any culture or race.
I wonder how much of the campaign of abuse directed against you by those members of “First Nations” triggered by your harmless, and very nice knitting pattern, was conducted through email? Since, as far as I’m aware, there is no “First Nations email tradition,” and no member of “First Nations” invented email, I choose to be offended that they have culturally appropriated my own culture’s “email tradition,” and I suggest they return to a form of communication that is more organically associated with their own history: smoke signals.
But, I digress. Ommmmm. Picnic. Let’s look at the origin of the word, starting with the definition from Merriam Webster (this should be a pretty innocuous little exercise):
Picnic, (n): an excursion or outing with food usually provided by members of the group and eaten in the open, also: the food provided for a picnic
That’s nice. Sounds about right. Uh oh. What have we here? A story about the nasty origins of the word “picnic” which was widely believed, for quite some time, to have had horrible, racist, overtones, tying into, and inextricably linked with, an appalling chapter in history. Is yet another of my few remaining fond family recollections about to be memory-holed as insensitive and triggering? Am I not going to be allowed to say “picnic” anymore? Thankfully not. Surprisingly, Snopes (language warning) has come to the rescue debunking this particular story, and directing the reader to the real origins of the word, the seventeenth-century French word, piquenique, used to describe restaurant meals where the patrons came with their own wine–an early version of BYOB. Gradually, it came to mean a meal, sometimes with wine, eaten outdoors, to which each guest brought something to eat, consumed in a pot luck style. The word itself, and its association with outdoor eating, came to England in about 1750.
I only wish I could find the follow up to the first article again, about how the fellow in Florida making a fuss wanted to change the description of the event from “picnic” to “outing,” but that idea had to be nixed because the homosexuals who would be participating in the event found the suggested new name even more threatening than the first one.
Glory be. Sometimes it really does seem like a stupid time to be alive. Not messing.
If you belong to a family of picnickers (not everyone does, I understand), please share some of your experiences. It’s all good. You’re safe here.
Published in General
My friend, the office clown, told the story of king Henry VIII judging a number of steak sauces at a fair: It occurred just after the wine tasting competition. Picking up one bottle that he found particularly appealing, the slightly sloshed monarch said “Hey, wuss dis here sauce?” The name stuck.
[unsolicited spotted dick joke]
I thought about it.
Did you had a proper picnic with cloth tablecloths, napkins, china plates and cups, and silverware? Or did you celebrate Independence Day on the 4th or perhaps this weekend, with food on paper plates and any poured beverages in Dixie cups? Was the ice cream store bought or homemade?
This is in the July series on how to “Chill Out!” Do click the link and sign up to share your own cool post.
Oh, thank you! There’s nothing better I like than talking about spotted dick, but bringing it up spontaneously, or soliciting the jokes myself can rather give the wrong impression.
I’m sorry to say that the current iteration of spotted dick is but a pale and gentrified imitation of the real thing, as it’s become a light, sponge-y, cake-y. pudding, gently steamed in a bowl, rather than a meaningful sausage-shaped piece of thick and flaccid suet pastry, with a few raisins sprinkled throughout, which has been rolled in a floured cloth, tied up tightly, put into a pot of boiling water, and left there vigorously bubbling away for four hours (as my early twentieth century cookbook recommends.)
That’s the spotted dick I remember from boarding school. Served with lumpy cold custard with a thick skin on top (another much-loved staple of British cooking that’s sadly passed from the face of the earth, except at Chez She when I decide to resurrect it). It was gastronomic heaven after a few hours playing lacrosse or field hockey in damp and chilly weather on the games pitch (itself over a mile away from the school, said mile accomplished, rain or shine, at a swift clip somewhere between an energetic jog and a flat-out run). When you’re eleven or twelve, you can do that sort of thing. And eat that sort of thing. With no adverse consequences.
Yes, spotted dick. Not exactly good picnic fare which, in granny’s hands tended more to cucumber and watercress sandwiches, nice pieces of ham, and dainty fairy cakes.
But delicious, nonetheless.
(I went looking to see if I could find a photo of the image that pops to mind when I think of spotted dick, and the most similar I could find was, I discovered to my horror, of “gluten free spotted dick.” How woke is that?
Still, it probably doesn’t rise much, which would give it something in common with the spotted dick of my childhood.)
Mmm mmm mmm. Now that’s eating!
(I am halfway convinced of the argument that the British Empire was not the result of “a fit of absence of mind” as John Robert Seeley had it, but rather from adventurous people just looking for something to eat that wasn’t called “spotted dick” or “bubble-and-squeak.”)
The words “I hereby claim this land in the name of her Majesty the Queen” might be intoned, but it probably came after an answer had been obtained to the question “what’s for lunch?”
Don’t forget toad-in-the-hole.
I can’t, despite years of therapy.
Now what kind of people would name a food “spotted dick”? Do you also have a side dish called striped bum? How about polka dot testicle?
Is it any wonder English food is the Aunt Sally of the world?
Don’t give them ideas.
People with a sense of humor? Of course, the implication over there isn’t the same as it is over here. Just like the expression “clever dick,” which translates to something like “smarty pants,” doesn’t carry any other baggage along. Two countries divided by a common language, indeed.
I like the idea of “striped bum.” Let me think what that might apply to, and what that might be.
lol
Oh, and there’s always “knickerbocker glory.”
Modern cooks. Hmph!
I have a cookbook with the title of Lobscouse and Spotted Dog, featuring the recipes for foods mentioned in the Aubrey-Maturin series. No Spotted Dick, though. Maybe O’Brian was too genteel.
Here are some pictures from a picnic in Buffalo, TX. I would usually cook meat over a wood fire, but we decided to go bougie; so wifey whipped up a paella, as one does, in Buffalo, TX. Cheers.
That looks spectacular! Thanks.
Pickled walnuts? I’ve never had a pickled walnut and I’m having a hard imaging what it tastes like.
We had a Scotch cooler when I was a kid and it played a prominent role in each and every one of our family picnics.
It may be an acquired taste. Here’s a recipe that sounds as if it would produce something similar to the product most Brits by at the shop, but it gives you an idea of what they’re about. I like the description that, “Wow. It was a bit like eating solid steak sauce, with a little floral aroma and a zephyr of bitterness that just barely let you notice it.”
I have several black walnut trees, and keep thinking that I really MUST do this, early in the Spring before they ripen, but haven’t got round to it yet.
The product that we buy looks like this, and can be had on Amazon:
Another good condiment is Branston Pickle, which is much more like a chutney or relish.