Traveling, and travelers, teach us: What's normal all depends on where you're from.
We are in Burnham Park, Chicago, picnicking in our favorite spot—the Promontory Point. The little peninsula stretches into the lake behind the Museum of Science and Industry, the only remnant from the World Columbian Exposition of 1893.
The Point is usually crowded with people: afternoon joggers, sun-tanners, and University of Chicago summer researchers’ barbecuing burgers bought from CVS. Each group occupies an enclave among the shrubs and bushes that shuts out unnecessary intrusions. In our own private enclave, Imge the powerful Turk and I dig out bottles of Sam Adams, while Ashish barbecues some freshly unfrozen meat from the freezer.
Meat that was slaughtered hundreds of miles away, then trucked or flown in from somewhere in the Texan plain, is now simmering on the grill here in the mild Midwestern sun. I imagine how nice it would have been had we been able to bring a live goat into the park. It would have grazed around in the green grass in front of the museum, cleared some of those overgrown prairie grasses. And when it was done, we would have been ready with our Khukri knives to carve out the best piece of meat for the day. The smoked sekuwas, kebabs from their uber-fresh meat, would have been bliss.
Then I wouldn’t have had to settle for thin meat in between slices of bread as my picnic delicacy.
