In my picnic basket I put……
apples and strawberries and cream that I spread on scones and wash with lemonade.
Scotch eggs, salad cream, ham and lettuce that all lay in a nice duvet of bread.
Juice boxes of elderflower and turkish coffee that envelopes my nose.
Chocolate cake with thick buttery icing that serenades my taste buds.
Plates to pile it all on, cutlery to scoop it all up with and a blanket to blubber out on afterwards.
But lets not forget…..
bread for the ducks, slug repellent for the kids and a fly trap for Uncle Gerald.
A bird cage for the rats, a potted plant for melted ice cream and a spanner to throw at the mushrooms that look at me funny.
Showing posts with label Picnic Basket. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Picnic Basket. Show all posts
Tuesday, 15 May 2012
Monday, 14 May 2012
Picnic Basket by Sam Smith
Picnic baskets were just a gateway addiction for Yogi Bear. Every day he would beg, borrow and steal himself a picnic basket and would gorge himself on what he found inside.
But soon, he started to grow a resistance to towering stacks of BLT sandwiches and bags of unidentifiable treats that it just wasn’t enough. He started to take the picnic blanket along with the basket. He would line the food up along the middle of the blanket, roll it up and smoke it like an oversized, checkerboard spliff, just to get the stolen swag into his system faster. After taking a large drag from a PBNJ, cocktail sausage and Pringle doobie, Yogi once coughed so hard that a few speckles of blood dripped from his mouth onto his tie, which he had neglected to iron. This gave him an idea.
A couple walked into Jellystone Park one Tuesday evening. Yogi watched them carry their picnic basket to a secluded area where they ate until they could do nothing but watch the sun set and fall asleep leaning on each other. Yogi had contained himself by grinding down and snorting a Scotch egg, but even then his hands were shaking and he walked out of the bushes. He loomed over the man and starred at his skin. Inside the man, Yogi knew all the picnic molecules were swimming around in his human blood, just waiting to be poached. Yogi pulled out the needle that he found in a cave that was frequently used as a crack den and held it to the sleeping man’s forearm.
Yogi thought to himself, “Is this what I’ve become?”
But soon, he started to grow a resistance to towering stacks of BLT sandwiches and bags of unidentifiable treats that it just wasn’t enough. He started to take the picnic blanket along with the basket. He would line the food up along the middle of the blanket, roll it up and smoke it like an oversized, checkerboard spliff, just to get the stolen swag into his system faster. After taking a large drag from a PBNJ, cocktail sausage and Pringle doobie, Yogi once coughed so hard that a few speckles of blood dripped from his mouth onto his tie, which he had neglected to iron. This gave him an idea.
A couple walked into Jellystone Park one Tuesday evening. Yogi watched them carry their picnic basket to a secluded area where they ate until they could do nothing but watch the sun set and fall asleep leaning on each other. Yogi had contained himself by grinding down and snorting a Scotch egg, but even then his hands were shaking and he walked out of the bushes. He loomed over the man and starred at his skin. Inside the man, Yogi knew all the picnic molecules were swimming around in his human blood, just waiting to be poached. Yogi pulled out the needle that he found in a cave that was frequently used as a crack den and held it to the sleeping man’s forearm.
Yogi thought to himself, “Is this what I’ve become?”
Picnic Basket by Emily Chadwick
The picnic basket was packed for two.
Neatly cut sandwiches nestled in cling-film squares, alongside tiny pots of jam and honey, packets of crisps and shiny red apples. Home-made cakes were packed in rows, complete with swirled icing and chocolate drops, next to crumbling flapjack and shortbread biscuits. A large flask of hot water and a bag of teabags completed the ensemble.
The only thing I lacked was someone to go with.
My husband’s chair stood empty, and would remain so now, ever since that night I returned home from the hospital alone. Sometimes, I forgot that.
Letting out a breath, I started to unpack the basket again.
Neatly cut sandwiches nestled in cling-film squares, alongside tiny pots of jam and honey, packets of crisps and shiny red apples. Home-made cakes were packed in rows, complete with swirled icing and chocolate drops, next to crumbling flapjack and shortbread biscuits. A large flask of hot water and a bag of teabags completed the ensemble.
The only thing I lacked was someone to go with.
My husband’s chair stood empty, and would remain so now, ever since that night I returned home from the hospital alone. Sometimes, I forgot that.
Letting out a breath, I started to unpack the basket again.
Picnic Basket by Lesley Whyte
Why do people like picnics? What is the appeal of eating outside? There are ants and wasps and small children with sticky fingers and faces. There is wind, often sand, always dirt. Even if the food started warm, it ends up cold. And, let's face it, it'll probably rain.
And for that matter, why do people like fancy restaurants? Why pay through the nose for a tiny portion of something that doesn't taste all that good anyway? You'll just end up waking up hungry in the middle of the night and raiding the fridge. And that's if you don't stop at the drive-through on the way home.
No, I've come to the conclusion that any meal that cannot be eaten in your pyjamas in your living room probably isn't worth having. And yet, there's still a picnic basket in the cupboard. It's a nifty Ikea one, though, which makes it okay.
And for that matter, why do people like fancy restaurants? Why pay through the nose for a tiny portion of something that doesn't taste all that good anyway? You'll just end up waking up hungry in the middle of the night and raiding the fridge. And that's if you don't stop at the drive-through on the way home.
No, I've come to the conclusion that any meal that cannot be eaten in your pyjamas in your living room probably isn't worth having. And yet, there's still a picnic basket in the cupboard. It's a nifty Ikea one, though, which makes it okay.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)