June 14, 2026

When I was growing up in Oakland, summer heat meant one thing in our household: a picnic in the hills. Not a blanket-on-the-grass affair, but something closer to a portable dinner, packed in a cardboard box, to be served at one of the picnic tables that filled the meadow where we would enjoy our evening.

Mom would spend the afternoon in the kitchen while us kids buzzed around her, more excited than helpful. When Dad walked in the door from work, we were ready. The six of us piled into his ’57 Chevy, and off we went.

The road to Redwood Regional Park wound through the Oakland Hills and delivered us, almost by surprise, into another world. Tall redwoods. Green grass. Cool breezes coming off the San Francisco Bay. It was an unlikely oasis, only fifteen minutes from the asphalt and sidewalks of home, and it felt like a miracle every time.

Mom’s cooking was hearty, filling and uninspired — she fed four hungry kids, which was the point. Imagination wasn’t really part of the brief. But we cleared our plates. Mostly. Unless she was in a passive-aggressive mood and produced something like eggplant, in which case we pushed it around our plates and plotted a late-night raid on the kitchen for peanut butter sandwiches.

What made those evenings memorable wasn’t the food. It was the escape. The trees. The long light. The raucous call of the blue jays. The sense that summer was generous, and we were lucky to be in it.

I’ve been chasing that feeling ever since, just with better food.