About four hours into our drive, we were ready to stop for lunch. Meals are one of the only things that you have to punctuate a timeless existence on the road, so you must do them right.
That could mean pulling over, or turning your car into a mobile cafeteria if you didn’t want to lose momentum. Sometimes Sonja just slapped together a Nutella sandwich from the passenger’s seat, balancing a small tray on her knees and awkwardly spreading the sweet brown goo with her good hand, using her broken arm like a wall to keep the piece of bread from sliding off the plate.
Today, though, we wanted a slice of life outside the car cabin. And we had lunch salads to contend with, too difficult to eat from behind the wheel.
Halfway through Kansas, we were on the lookout for a rest stop. We had taken State Route 54 to get from Joplin to Cimarron National Grasslands, cutting southwest below Dodge City, when we saw a sign—seven miles ahead. It was hard to envision this promise coming to fruition. All around us there was nothing but space, flat lands and one lonely road. Traffic was scarce, and when we did pass another car we could see it approaching from far in the distance.
At the end of seven miles we saw a small building with a concrete picnic shelter off to the side. We exited the highway and took our pick of parking spots in an empty lot.
Bathrooms to start. We had been wary of public restrooms, especially in the more conservative parts of the country where folks were less likely to mask. Neither of us had gotten sick yet, and the vaccines were still months away. We were young and in good health, but best not to take any chances. When bathrooms were crowded, we were happy to pee behind a bush or a dumpster instead. But since not a soul was in sight, we enjoyed the luxury of toilets and hand soap.
Then lunch. Sonja, always eager to demonstrate a contribution despite her broken arm, gathered our lunch things from the car one armload at a time. Not just the food itself, but the accessories necessary for a nice table setting. Ambience is important in a road trip lunch. Simple popping a squat on a bare bench and chowing down on a sandwich in the interest of time would not do. The table cloth goes down first, then the food.
We selected a picnic table that faced the empty road and the open fields to the south. With one hand, Sonja whipped open a blue and white mud cloth and I made a move to help her straighten its position on the table. But just as I reached a hand out to grab a corner, the fabric whipped wildly in the wind, smacking against Sonja’s torso, burying half her face and her broken arm. I took the opposite end of the cloth in both hands and we forced it down onto the table, laughing. With nothing in the way for miles, the wind had built momentum and would not heed to our lunchtime picnic. We anchored the corners with purses and water bottles and unpacked the lunch. Lentil salads in miniature dutch oven pots. A Tupperware container of cut vegetables set atop a wooden tray. We slid a hand-dyed tea towel underneath the heaviest water bottle and sat down to eat.
Which was difficult. Our long hairs whipped into our faces, and our loose summer clothing blew tight against our bodies, outlining our curves with sharp detail. I brought a bandanna out of my bag and tied it around my head and hair. If it didn’t help, at least it looked charming. We sat in the wind and sun and ate the salads we’d packed days before. This was the last of our prepared food. Tomorrow we would have to make an anxious run inside of a grocery store. We would have to forage for fresh fruit amongst the colorful packages that lined the gas station aisles. For now, we were enjoying a picnic in the middle of nowhere, savoring the last of a soggy salad that came from my very own kitchen a very long way away.
Lovely, Katrina.