Dining al fresco is a true joy of summer
Camping and eating outdoors are opportunities to ditch the phone and ‘touch grass’
“All I wanted was a hot dog,” my partner sighed.
He said this as my attempt at cooking potatoes over a fire dragged on. The sun was disappearing behind the trees. It was the summer of 2016 and we were in Tobermory on the Bruce Peninsula. By this point we had been together for a year and were confident that being alone in the woods together wouldn’t end in a slasher “Friday the 13th” situation. (In reality, we were in a very popular provincial park with hundreds of campsites available to be booked months in advance.)
I wanted everything to look perfect. Not for him but for the photos I’d post to social media later. This was during the height of the Instagram esthetic where every food shot looked like it was professionally styled for a cookbook cover, and I was trying to make a name for myself in the personality-driven food writing world. I brought enamelled steel camping plates (that I never used again), citronella candles in terra-cotta dishes and, as if I couldn’t have been anymore insufferable, a set of circular wicker placemats for the picnic table.
We finally ate the potatoes, halfcooked and with the crunch of Styrofoam, in silence around the fire. The plates rested on our laps instead of the wicker placemats because, by then, it was dark and chilly. I thought, if a bear walked right into our campsite, I wouldn’t blame my partner if he grabbed the bottle of honey I brought for morning pancakes and drizzled it on my head.
I realized I was trying to impress a digital audience I’ll never meet and who, let’s be honest, does not care about me personally and ignored the one person who was actually right there with me, who drove the four hours north from Toronto and put up with my road-trip playlist only lasted an hour (it was how I learned he did not like the Go-Go’s). He was sitting an arm’s length away, face illuminated by the flames we proudly ignited together as clueless amateur campers, and now showing regret that the guy he’s camping with is more preoccupied with what’s on his camera than with him.
I think of an Ontario summer as an acquaintance setting me up with a potential new best friend by doing its darndest to create the ideal setting for socializing. The chirping orioles and rustling trees fill in gaps between conversations. Extended stretches of blue-raspberry skies make it easy to extend a meal for another hour or two (though it’s still not enough time to learn how to build a fire and cook potatoes from scratch). A breeze brushing against your arm is a reassuring nudge that you’re going to be OK, even in the most awkward of situations. But cloudless skies and clear lake waters can only do so much if my eyes are glued to a phone.
I didn’t change overnight, but his defeated sighs stuck with me. Over the years, whenever summer rolls along, I found myself less and less attached to my digital devices (a certain CEO has made the process much easier over the last months). Instead, I started making the most of the province’s short-lived summers and the people I chose to spend it with. Backyard barbecues now largely exist in my memory rather than my phone’s storage, which wouldn’t be able to capture the sweetness of charred zucchini or the aroma of the lilacs I planted last year anyway. Outdoor meals are savoured immediately before the ice cream melts, the salad greens wilt, and of course, people’s patience run dry.
It’s why I believe summer camps like the one the Star’s Fresh Air Fund supports are vital not only in developing long-lasting friendships but also have the ability to get kids to build memories that will outlive an internet trend. It’s easy to forget that there’s a whole world beyond a phone screen and it seems like I’m not the only one trying to remind myself of it. I mean, there’s a reason why the phrase “touch grass” came up in recent years as a response to someone spending too much time online. But I guess in my case, my “touch grass” would be also mean, “just grill a hot dog.”