By Aimee Wimbush-Bourque
Picnics have always been a favorite outing of mine. I mean, I celebrated my nineteenth birthday with a picnic. That is legal drinking age in British Columbia where I was living at the time, but instead of crashing the local pub with my older siblings, we – well, picnicked.
We raided the greenhouse for cherry tomatoes and baby cucumbers, tucked a load of homemade bread and a pocket knife into a basket, recruited a few friends and set off on a hike. After an hour or so of trekking, we reached the lookout and threw ourselves on the mossy rocks, ravenous. Out of nowhere my sister produced a dark chocolate torte and a few pounds of Montreal smoked meat, an obvious nod to a certain young man back in Quebec who was missing the occasion.
It was the sweetest gesture, and... More...
