Which one would you prefer?
No, not the latest method of playground guerrilla warfare. But simply a question: a picnic or a BBQ, which one would you prefer?
I’m going to hazard a guess that, for the male readers out there, the answer has been quick and easy: a BBQ.
For the females out there, I can’t say. If they’re anything like me, they will umm and aaahhh, and ponder and wonder, and probably end up writing a blog about it in order to understand their feelings on the matter. Such is the heavy burden carried by the cogitative sex.
The Boy, being a boy, without any hesitation or deviation, but with ardent repetition, maintains that nothing beats a BBQ. The taste of blackened, charcoal-licked flesh, crispy and tender, juices flowing into the soft, billowing dough around it, or onto the zesty, crunchy salad beneath, is enough to send him into a euphoric trance, and one from which I can only rouse with the offer of more meat from the BBQ dear?
When asked what exactly it was about BBQs that gave him such pleasure, considering that the same blackened taste can be achieved in the home, or that such meat can be prepared in advance and taken on a picnic, he didn’t know.
I think I do. (Surprise, surprise). I think it’s the fire aspect of a BBQ. Men stand in front of a fire pit, flames licking sturdy iron bars, hot coals glowing menacingly but lovingly, sizzling and crackling joints of meat, popping and hissing. All very hunter-gatherer. Not that women can’t, don’t or don’t want to BBQ. Just that, more so than slicing and dicing and sautéing and simmering in the kitchen, a BBQ taps into some primordial urge within men.
I’m not going to try and stop that urge. Just last night whilst He feasted on sausages, I feasted on smoky, fat fingers of aubergine and charcoaled portabello mushrooms. Ka. Ching.
As for picnics, The Boy claims he wouldn’t know where to begin. It would all be bought from a supermarket, eaten on scratchy grass, with plastic cutlery that snaps simply trying to pierce an olive, and warm fluids drunk from paper cups that quickly disintegrate and leak their insides out.
Put like that, I too would ask for a BBQ over a picnic every time.
But, oh what innocent delights and enjoyment can be gleaned from the punctilious preparation and ebullient eating of a proper picnic. Crafty schemes to ‘carry’ or encase food using another foodstuff, ingenious ways to transport a salad and dressing without mixing them until required, creatively combined toothpicks of amuse bouche, all eaten on a soft rug, off vibrantly coloured melamine plates, sipping chilled liquids from glass or plastic vessels, the bottles carefully stowed away from the sun’s heat in a cool box.
A loaf of bread turned into a portable panzanella salad: its insides removed, cubed and toasted, then mixed with tomatoes, cucumber, perhaps olives, maybe capers or anchovies, but definitely with grassy, fruity olive oil.
All manner of ‘wraps’, but, the real question is wrapped in what? Lettuce leaves, chapatis, pittas, slices of courgette, spring roll wrappers. Let your imagination run wild.
Jam jars turned into individual layered salads, the dressing poured in first so as not to render the ingredients flabby and limp, ready to be shaken and eaten, no stirring required.
Salads in general present a myriad of possibilities, and get me flapping my arms just thinking about what can be done with a salad. Broad bean, mint and ricotta salata. Courgette carpaccio with lemon, pecorino and parsley. Butternut squash, chilli and rocket. Cumin and coriander roasted cauliflower and chickpeas. Watercress, grapefruit and cucumber. Apple, hazelnut, sorrel and blue or goats’ cheese. Oh lord I could go on.
But wait. Did somebody say cocktail sticks?!!?
Fig, basil and prosciutto. Manchego, grape and cucumber. Smoked duck, cherry and cornichon. Smoked salmon, caper-berry and celery. All woven and threaded onto short wooden picks, no cutlery or napkin required. Down in one.
Focaccia – the ultimate plate for juicy olives, soft and glistening onions, or to ‘dress’ with cured meats or shaved cheeses, or, even for plunging into dips.
Dips, ah dips. Another passion of mine. Soft-boiled eggs, mash with olive oil, parmesan and herbs. Smoky aubergine dip, perhaps fortified with white bean purée, perhaps not. Homemade mackerel paté, enlivened with horseradish and lemon – outrageously much better than shop-bought.
And dippers for said pots of pleasure? The stalwart favourites of grissini, celery, cucumber, peppers and carrot for sure, but forget not the lurid pink radishes (also delicious dipped in butter and celery salt), raw asparagus (trust me on this one, when eaten raw, the taste is so very much more intense. Best with the thinner, younger stems), and little gem lettuce leaves.
And for the nibbles on the side, nuts, olives, cherry tomatoes, grapes, summer fruits, melon, apple, pear, fresh bread, crackers – anything goes. But whatever has gone must have a decent blanket underneath it all. And a decent set of plates and cutlery. Paper cups are forbidden. Plastic is fine (the brighter the better).
Just as the fire aspect of a BBQ taps into something within men (according to my opinion that is), so too the craft, invention and creation behind a picnic’s preparation taps into me. It is like a logical problem to solve – how best to put this in that, and get that to there without that being flabby. A culinary sudoko.
What both of them share is the al fresco eating, something we sorely lack the opportunity for living in the gloriously grey UK. However these past few weeks, and hopefully one or two more to come, have blessed us all with such opportunities. Whether it’s fiery meat and punchy Pimms, or a repast eaten on some green; be it one or two sausages, or a few boxes of shop-bought salad; BBQs and picnics are something to be enjoyed. A few adventurous ants and whips of smoke are a small price to pay for such abundant delight.
