Shutting down again under the shade of bending
palms and cypress, she took out Jackie's idea of a picnic.
There was
Pouilly-Fuisse in paper cups, and cracked crab to be dug out with plastic
forks,
and tiny Swiss meringues, white and glossy.
and tiny Swiss meringues, white and glossy.
Loving Jack
_______________________
https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=133571
THE PARISIAN PICNIC: IT’S AN ART FORM!
The Parisian Picnic is a Fine Art.
Not to be taken lightly, it takes the right amount of preparation,
thought and planning to Master the Perfect Picnic like the Parisians
manage every time.
thought and planning to Master the Perfect Picnic like the Parisians
manage every time.
_______________________
He flipped open the lid of the hamper, took out the blanket folded on
top. She helped him spread it open, then sat on it cross-legged.
“What’s on the menu?”
He pulled out a bottle of champagne snugged in a cold sleeve. Surprised, touched, she laughed.
“That’s a hell of a start—and you just don’t miss a trick.”
“You said champagne picnic. For our entrée, we have the traditional fried chicken à la Marg.”
“Best there is.”
“I’m told you favor thighs. I’m a breast man myself.”
“I’ve never known a man who isn’t.” She began to unload. “Oh, yeah, her red potato and green
bean salad, and look at this cheese, the bread. We’ve got berries, deviled eggs. Fudge cake! Marg gave us damn near half of one of her fudge cakes.” She glanced up. “Maybe she’s in love with you.”
“I can only hope.” He popped the cork. “Hold out your glass.”
She reached for it, then caught the label on the bottle. “Dom Pérignon. Iron Man’s car and
James Bond’s champagne.”
“I have heroic taste. Hold out the glass, Rowan.” He filled it, then his own. “To wilderness
picnics.”
“All right.” She tapped, sipped. “Jesus, this is not cheap tequila at Get a Rope. I see why 007
goes for it.”
Chasing Fire
top. She helped him spread it open, then sat on it cross-legged.
“What’s on the menu?”
He pulled out a bottle of champagne snugged in a cold sleeve. Surprised, touched, she laughed.
“That’s a hell of a start—and you just don’t miss a trick.”
“You said champagne picnic. For our entrée, we have the traditional fried chicken à la Marg.”
“Best there is.”
“I’m told you favor thighs. I’m a breast man myself.”
“I’ve never known a man who isn’t.” She began to unload. “Oh, yeah, her red potato and green
bean salad, and look at this cheese, the bread. We’ve got berries, deviled eggs. Fudge cake! Marg gave us damn near half of one of her fudge cakes.” She glanced up. “Maybe she’s in love with you.”
“I can only hope.” He popped the cork. “Hold out your glass.”
She reached for it, then caught the label on the bottle. “Dom Pérignon. Iron Man’s car and
James Bond’s champagne.”
“I have heroic taste. Hold out the glass, Rowan.” He filled it, then his own. “To wilderness
picnics.”
“All right.” She tapped, sipped. “Jesus, this is not cheap tequila at Get a Rope. I see why 007
goes for it.”
Chasing Fire