Postpartum in a pandemic and the birth of a bar

January 2022: Here’s the scene: I’m a new mom, recently moved to very cold Minnesota during another covid winter.  We are on an endless loop of daycare germs, which always strike on Fridays, resulting in canceling social plans and staying locked inside.  The transition into being a parent is hard. It’s disorienting and isolating, especially when you are living in a new place and working remotely. And cold and tired. One night I said to Kitz “I am disappearing”.  Although I didn’t know it at the time, that was the moment Picnic officially began.

I’ve wanted to own my own place for as long as I can remember, realistically since high school. Sure, I’ve always loved food. As I’ve gotten older and had the chance to travel and taste more things, I found a deep appreciation for whiskey and a curiosity for wine. But why can’t I just go out to dinner and be done with it. Why do I have this itch I have to scratch?  

It’s always been in my bones. I grew up in a family who is serious about food, and more than the food, the hospitality.  My best family memories all revolve around food.  Upon further reflection, mostly food outside: Barbecue, roasted oysters, seafood boils, and pizza on the beach.  Picnics you might call them. But really, it’s the power of gathering around the excuse of food. Staying up all night with my dad and uncle to cook whole pigs (eastern NC style, of course) and feeding 100 people just for fun.  

When you are at my parents house for dinner, you feel at ease but you can’t put your finger on exactly why that is.  Your wine glass is full, but your heart is overflowing. Through my moves over the last few years, I have shed most hard copy books but there is one cookbook I have on my mantle. It’s called See you Sunday, by Sam SIfton.  He tells a nice story about burning chickens, unfussy Sunday family meals and how congregating around food is a religious practice of its own.  He writes, “People are lonely. They want to be a part of something, even when they can’t identify that longing as a need. They show up. Feed them. It isn’t more complicated than that.”

In that long first winter of parenthood, even when I couldn’t yet put my finger on it, I knew Picnic would be the antidote. To feel at home, at ease.  But not to return to my own parents’ house, but rather to create that feeling of true hospitality within my own community.  And to create that for everyone else with that nagging feeling that something is missing. 

When you walk in the front door, you’ll hear laughter; the inviting kind that you are already a part of.  You might hear someone crying and hopefully it's a baby, but I can’t guarantee it.  My hope is you will hear the sound of your own voice again when you walk back out that door.