The passing of the picnic

The townspeople have been enjoying picnics lately. Three or five friends, with exquisite lunches, environmentally friendly tableware, etc., find a meadow, spread out the checkered cloth, it can be regarded as a blind date with nature. They spent a lot of money to buy some organic food, and then took out their mobile phones, took pictures of the food and their smiling faces, posted them on the Internet, won a few likes, and then they were satisfied, thinking that this was the true meaning of a picnic.

I don't think that's how a picnic is. When I was a child in the countryside, picnics were the work of peasant women to bring food to their husbands who worked in the fields. The coarse porcelain bowl contains dried pickles and radish, and there are a few black-flour steamed buns lying in the bamboo basket, looking for the shade of an old locust tree, sitting on the ground, hurriedly pulling a few mouthfuls, and then going down to the ground again. The food is naturally not exquisite, and the tableware is not environmentally friendly, but it is forced by livelihood and has to be done.

Today's picnickers carefully prepare rattan baskets, solid wood cutting boards, stainless steel knives and forks, and pay attention to the art of plating. They munch on imported cheese and sip sparkling water, their eyes constantly glancing at the screen of their phones. For them, the picnic is nothing more than a well-planned performance, and naturally it is just a backdrop.

I once saw a few pieces of plastic paper left behind in the grass after a group of picnickers left, shaking in the wind, like a silent mockery. Their eco-friendly tableware can't be worth the waste in their bones after all.

A picnic was once a way to get close to the land, but now it has become a ritual to get away from the land.