When I was a little girl, any time I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in my hand, and I was outside, it was a picnic.
We lived on the water. On warm evenings, my mother made sandwiches, tuna or peanut butter and jelly, and lemonade. We’d have a picnic on the deck, overlooking the water. We didn’t have outdoor furniture. We sat in a row on the edge of the deck with our feet swinging back and forth. We were entertained by the slight change in routine so the usual childhood complaints (“She’s looking at me, make her stop. His sandwich is cut in half; mine has one big side and a little side, I want one that’s in half. The big kids always get a big glass of lemonade, why can’t we have a big glass like they do?”) were left behind at the kitchen table and we were good.
Today, after the chores, I had a peanut butter sandwich and a glass of orange juice outside. It tasted a lot better than it would have in the kitchen.