When I think of picnics, two come to mind.

It is a very young me, traipsing down a pine needle carpeted path, Norway pines towering overhead, the scent of fir trees carried on a cool breeze as we approach the lake edge. Late morning sunshine is promising warmth to offset the chill of shadows. Chickadees whistle, unseen singers among the branches. I am in charge of the condiments, a paper bag bulging with mustard, mayonnaise, ketchup, barbecue sauce, salt and pepper, pickles, and salad dressings. It is a bag that challenges the strength of my single-digit age.

Behind me, my sisters and cousins tout packages of hot dogs and buns, loaves of bread, cookies and cakes, and the various serving utensils.

The sound of laughter and silliness brings up the rear, as my mother, her sister, my grandma, and an additional horde of cousins and uncles help my grampa haul the Styrofoam coolers of drinks (Kool-Aid for the kids*, something stronger for the grown-ups), salads, baked beans, and hamburger patties. We are a merry group as we seek out the most scenic spot with a grill and fire circle set to go on this Memorial Day, the first picnic of the season. The northern Minnesota lake shimmers with stubborn bits of ice that refuse to succumb to springtime. (It will not prevent us from changing into swimsuits when the proscribed exactly one hour wait after eating has passed, to dive into the still-frigid waters.)

We will feast and play and reacquaint ourselves with relatives not seen all winter, or some not for years. The sun will hang low on the horizon before we pack up our party and head home, sated by food and conversation. Picnics are an undertaking, and thus a celebration; we anticipate, already, the Fourth of July.

The second is a February picnic at Penwood State Park in Bloomfield, Conn. Snow glitters brightly in the midday sun, demanding sunglasses, and puffs up over our boot tops as we step through a deserted picnic area. Life is short behind us and long ahead of us still, my husband and I. City dwellers, we have had it with the dreary winter setting and noise. The winter sun, promising the semblance of warmth, beckons and (“cough, cough”) we take a sick day to make the most of the moment.

The pathway has begun to melt, as eager to be rid of winter as are we. Tree shadows and sun paint tiger stripes across the way to where we claim a picnic table laden with melting piles of snow that must be brushed aside before it can be set for two.

In our backpack is a thermos of hot tea; two cheese sandwiches on thick slices of homemade bread; a bunch of grapes; and tahini honey cookies. It is a feast, affordable on our young salaries, and like all foods, seem to taste even better devoured in the great outdoors.

Saving the cookies to munch as we wander the forest trail that afternoon, we are supremely satisfied with this simple outing — certainly our first picnic of the year!

Picnics can be as elaborate or rustic as you please. But I believe there is a recipe for the perfect picnic:

Food you love.

Drinks you love.

People you love in a

Place you love.

There you have it. Enjoy the gifts of summer.

*My grandma had a penchant for emptying every flavor of Kool-Aid in her cupboard into one big jar of cold water to make enough to satisfy the thirst of numerous youngsters; thus, we all came to think of Kool-Aid as a grayish drink (think lime, grape, and raspberry combined…). But when you’re young and your throat is dry… thanks, is all you can say.

Editor Nancy K. Crevier can be reached at editor@thebee.com.