Picnic history is more dramatic than anyone warned. The garden is coming in, the grill is fired up, and somebody already forgot the bottle opener. The cooler has a questionable ice situation, the ants RSVP’d without being asked, and a mosquito just found the one person who forgot bug spray.
It’s picnic season. We do this every year like it’s our civic duty.
But here’s what nobody tells you — we didn’t invent this. Not even close.
Medieval royalty was already eating outside during hunting parties — feasting on cold veal, pigeon pie, and sausages spread on cloths on the ground. Basically a Tudor tailgate.
The word picnic comes from the French piquer — to pick at food — and niquer — a silly, insignificant thing. The French called it insignificant and then made it an art form. Naturally.
Picnics actually became a moral issue in the 18th and 19th centuries — portrayed as both wholesome AND scandalous depending on who was telling the story. Manet painted a nude picnicker in 1862 and the Victorians never recovered. Over a blanket, people.
The Southern picnic grew out of the 1800s — tied to church gatherings, political rallies, and community events, built around fried chicken, buttermilk biscuits, ribs, cornbread, and sweet potato pie. They nailed it on the first try and we’ve been chasing it ever since.
Those deviled eggs that appear at every single summer gathering? Ancient Rome. Served to the wealthy as a first course. Your Aunt Debbie’s deviled egg plate has a 2,000-year legacy. Act accordingly.
President Roosevelt once handed the King of England his very first hot dog at a picnic. No apologies. No explanation. Just a hot dog. Peak America.
Every era has its picnic casualties. Ambrosia salad — canned pineapple, mandarin oranges, coconut, and marshmallows folded into whipped cream — was once the undisputed star of the summer spread. It’s had a rough few decades. There was also a Jell-O cabbage salad situation in the mid-century era and we’ve collectively agreed not to discuss it.
One of my earliest memories is of a picnic.
I am the baby of six. We grew up in very rural Oklahoma — about five miles from the nearest paved road. The nearest town to shop in was about 30 miles. The town with actual options, more like 60. Going anywhere was an ordeal within itself.
I remember so little, and the details are sparse, but the feelings, the emotions are 100%. It was the late 60s — ’68 or ’69. We were at Pine Creek Lake in SE Oklahoma. It must have been a family reunion. Cousins we barely ever saw were there. I remember feeling bashful around all the older ones. I can still feel the heat on my ears.
We were so excited to go somewhere, anywhere. I know we were swimming. I remember STARVING — I could have eaten a horse! The smell of grilling hotdogs, chips, watermelon Kool-Aid and paper plates. Then, all of a sudden, the smell of the grill changed to the smell of rain. I remember the large cold drops hitting my back. Us kids, the smaller ones, were grabbing our hotdogs and running to hide under the tailgate of my Papaw’s pickup. We were already wet, that wasn’t the issue — but our lunch, the hotdogs, were not. And honestly, who wants soggy hotdogs?
Watching from our dry spot under the pickup, we could see the adults grabbing food from the picnic table and rushing with armloads to the vehicles. I can still see my mamaw’s skirt swirling as she moved food to safety.
I don’t remember much more, but I’m pretty sure I fell asleep in the car on the way home that day.
It’s the spirit — not the food — that makes this meal special. It always has been. It always will be.
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Close your eyes for a second. What’s your earliest food memory? We have a feeling it has nothing to do with the food.