Seré Halverson - The Underside of Joy

There was an old photograph at the Elbow Inn of a group, the women wearing high-necked dresses with long skirts, the men wearing hats and suspenders and trousers, everyone relaxing on a huge blanket — or looking like they were trying to relax as much as possible in those getups — with a spread of food out before them.

The store had once offered ‘Everything Italia’… before the wartime paranoia set in. But now, all these decades later, everyone adored Italian everything — art, food, wine, lifestyle. Dining alfresco, outdoors. Using the freshest ingredients. Growing your own garden. Slow food as opposed to fast food. The whole slower food and farm-to-table way of eating that I believed in had even sprung from Italy, jumped an ocean and a continent, and landed in Sonoma County. I knew the rest of the country would eventually catch on, but so many people in Elbow, and the surrounding communities like Sebastopol, which people referred to as Berkeley North, already ate organic foods and supported local farmers.

And then I saw it. I saw the store, the same, but different, and wholly formed. I could even hear the bell on the creaky door, ringing on and on, as a steady line of customers came and left with full arms, full baskets, the chiming becoming incessant, like blessed church bells, clamouring on about resurrection and new life.

‘Holy shit!’ I shouted. That might just be the answer. I dropped the lid on the bin, pulled off my gloves, and ran up to the house. It was a crazy idea. But it might just work. I needed to call David. I needed to call Lucy. I probably needed to call a psychiatrist.

‘“Life’s a Picnic”? Isn’t that a bit ironic, considering the circumstances?’ Lucy stood at my kitchen counter, pouring a glass of wine each for David and me, a smooth pinot noir from her vineyard in Sebastopol. The label now had a black Scotty terrier catching a red Frisbee against a white background. I loved the label. Wineries were getting so creative all of a sudden. So why shouldn’t grocery stores too?

David said, ‘Another lemonade-out-of-lemons story?’

‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘Only we’ve got sandwiches to go with that lemonade, and salads and spreads… all made from local organic vegetables, of course, and gorgeous picnic baskets and maps and blankets.’ I sounded like an overly zealous radio announcer, but I needed both of them to think it could work. And I needed David to help me make it work.

Lucy and David were my closest friends. Long before I met them, they’d attempted to sleep together. They were in high school, back when David was still trying to convince himself he was straight. He told me all his doubts had been erased that night; if Lucy couldn’t do it for him, with her long black lashes, alabaster skin, and downright amazing breasts, no woman could. Lucy, on the other hand, told me she planned to stay single until George Clooney proposed to her.

Lucy sat on the couch and said, ‘Before I forget, you both have to come see the vineyard again. It’s magical right now. Absolutely… Okay, Ella, you were saying? Lemons?’

David swirled the pinot noir in his glass and raised it to the light. ‘A crisp, vibrant mouthfeel. Blackberries and rhubarb lingering in a long finish. Yes. The vanilla and spices add lovely complexity. Exceptional, really, Lucy.’

‘Oh God,’ I said. He could be such a lovable snob.

‘I feel more comfortable if you just call me David.’ He spread his fingers, examining his nails. ‘I can almost see this… picnics in the orchards, the vineyards, the redwoods, by the river, along the coast, we have it all. We team up with other businesses, inviting weekenders to come up and stay at the Elbow Inn, have a family-style dinner at Pascal’s or Scalini’s, and have an incredible picnic in the natural setting of your choice. It’s not just about going wine tasting anymore… But it’s a long shot, El. And it sounds expensive.’

I had called them, spilling over with ideas to transform Capozzi’s Market into a store that catered mostly to tourists, a place they could stop and get all the fixings for an incredible picnic. We’d carry things you couldn’t get at the box stores. Local artisan organic everything. Heavy on the Italian, but not locked into it; I could also see California cuisine and Pacific Asian influences. We’d have an olive bar and some of Marcella’s stuffed sandwiches and salads — from baby beet with orange zest and dandelion greens to old-fashioned potato — that were perfect for picnicking. Bread from the bakery in Freestone, of course. A kick-ass wine selection, with a weekly featured winery hosting tastings on the store premises on Saturdays and Sundays. Lucy’s would be the first. I hoped David might be interested in taking on the role of full-time chef. And we’d have detailed, beautifully illustrated maps to the best local picnic spots, by our local recluse artist, Clem Silver, which might take some doing, but I was willing to try.

Yes, the store would be called Life’s a Picnic — perhaps a bit tongue in cheek, perhaps a sort of middle finger to fate. Widowhood be damned. Lacking life insurance policy be damned. Collection notices be damned. I was going to figure out a way to do this. Plus, I was afraid to go off to a job when Paige was lurking around every corner. I needed to be able to work and have the kids close. Saving the store felt necessary in so many ways, some of which I was afraid to articulate to myself, let alone to Lucy and David.

He stared at his empty wineglass. As I reached for the bottle to pour him more, he said, ‘I get it. Earthy sophistication. What this area’s known for. Fine wine. Hemp picnic blankets. Caviar and alfalfa sprouts. But I don’t know… I’m not really big into starvation. Do you think it would actually make, you know, money ?’ he asked. ‘Oops.’

I followed his gaze out of the window to see a mouse dashing across the porch railing. In broad daylight.

‘You need a kitty cat.’

‘David. I do not need a cat right now. It’s one little mouse.’

‘Honey, they multiply.’ He stared at me, but I didn’t respond. He sighed. ‘The knowledge of which seems to do nothing beneficial for us today but provides the perfect segue: We’ll need to talk numbers.’ David and Lucy were both good with numbers. Lucy had just bought a vineyard with a boutique winery. David had been a media buyer for an ad agency in San Francisco. But Gil had sold his dot-com company, happily retired, and now volunteered at the animal shelter. They’d bought a beautiful house up the river. David quickly grew tired of the two-hour commute, quit his job, and was looking for something local, but it wasn’t like the area was teeming with ad agencies.

Everyone knew he needed something to do. At Easter, Gil had pulled me aside and said, ‘I’ve gained nine pounds this month. He’s cooking three gourmet meals followed by dessert — yes, dessert even after breakfast — every fucking day. The man needs a job.’ Now I had just the job for the man. If I could convince him it was a good idea.

I smiled, trying to exude confidence. ‘Yes, we can make money. You’ve got connections. You could have us in every wine and foodie rag on the West Coast.’

He nodded. Swirled his glass. ‘You know Joe. He was such a purist about that store. He hated anything touristy.’

‘I know. But that attitude was making us pure broke.’

Lucy said, ‘She’s got a point.’

‘And this would be classy, David, not tacky — but not uppity, either. The food would be local and from scratch. With a big nod to what Grandpa Sergio started. Joe would like that.’

Lucy stood. ‘Unfortunately, I’m tapped out money-wise right now with the vineyard. But I think this idea is spot-on. And I want to help every other way I can.’ She came over and hugged me.