Bed Picnic

I love 'em, he hates 'em. I know why I love picnics in bed, though. I grew up in a one-bedroom apartment on the upper east side and my parents' bedroom was in the living room. They ate in bed all the time, really complex meals like hot dogs, french fries, and baked beans, while watching Miss America, the Yankees, or dad's favorite Entertainment Tonight. When my brother and I got to eat dinner in their bed it was the kind of fun that only emerges from something you know you're not supposed to be doing - eating in bed. My mother would lay out towels so we wouldn't spill on their sheets and I don't remember what we did with our glasses, but I do remember fighting with my brother over the fries and the feeling that while our living situation might have been less than ideal, we were a family that loved each other and managed not to kill one another even though we shared one bathroom and gave little thought to modesty.

So now I live in a much bigger apartment in a much worse neighborhood and we still manage to eat all our meals in bed. The living room is both uncomfortable and un-airconditioned, and there's no real table to speak of suitable for plates - also that table is more of a storage piece than a dining piece. We're getting a new couch in a couple of weeks and, its comfort pending, I might be convinced to eat more meals out of bed, but sitting cross-legged across from the man I love seems more intimate than sitting side by side on a couch hunched over a coffee table.

Friday afternoon I was craving something luxurious, I almost wanted to go out to dinner save for the fact that Friday at 3 is no time to go searching for Friday at 8 reservations and I hadn't taken a shower and I was wearing jeans, an Old Navy T, and flip flops. So instead I decided we'd have the Catalan tomato sandwiches from Figs Olives Wine. Whole Foods, for those keeping score, does not carry Serrano ham. After a couple of phone calls, however, it was determined that Citarella did and so I took the subway two stops during a late lunch break to pick up provisions including, the ham, the bread (a pugliese), and some unthought of delicacies. I thought there should be some variety so I bought a St. Marcellin cheese and a small hunk of foie gras.

So that evening, we spread out on our bed and started slicing bread. I had a box of unusual dark red, almost purple, larger than cherry, smaller than plum tomatoes leftover from Wednesday's market, and we destroyed those utterly as we ground them into our bread. The taste was perfect, and the foie and cheese were nice alternates as well - not as good as the oozing-with-unctuous-yellow-fat foie I had in France when last I visited (it was the only time I think I have ever played the "guest" card with my friends and took them up on their offer to finish up the last of the foie grsa).

We drank an absolutely fantastic rose which, obviously, I can now not find. A 2006 vin gris from producer Robert Sinskey which was so light in color as to be an almost yellow/peach color, and which was a perfect accompaniment to our sandwiches.



We were relaxed, we were looking forward to a weekend of few responsibilities, it was a good picnic.

And I didn't have two bratty kids trying to steal all the good food. Sorry mom and dad!