Betty's Picnic
Let me introduce you to the Bettys. We are four friends who, many years ago while getting squiffed together, decided to call each other ‘Betty.’ We are the founding Bettys and if you hang out with us, you are an honorary Betty.
Yes, I know. A very sophomoric constraint, to name ourselves after hot skater girls. But in our defense, we had just put on the middle school carnival. I challenge you to spend six hours in a gym with two hundred tweens and not revert back to those vapid days.
Anyway, my mom Bettys had never gone out with the other Betty in my life – the one with four wheels. So I planned an al fresco evening picnic with five Bettys.
Sweaty Betty, named fifteen years ago by my mother-in-law, is a 1953 Ford F100 with curvaceous hips, an engine built for power, not speed, and a paint job that could have come out of an OPI bottle. What she does not have is a conventional ignition or power steering. She is hard to turn on and even harder to turn. (There’s a filthy metaphor somewhere in that last sentence — I’ll send you a little nifty-gifty if you leave it in the comments.)
On this night, we celebrated the end of summer and the approach of yet another middle school carnival. We once again rehashed the idea of bringing in a tattoo artist. And those of us who no longer have kids in school looked up at the stars and said a prayer of thanks.
My mother-in-law, who hails from Arkansas, loves Sweaty Betty and brags that “Sweaty Betty is always ready!” Ha! On this night, I couldn’t get Sweaty Betty started. It doesn’t help that my feet don’t reach the pedals. The human Bettys were very patient.
Sweaty Betty’s stick shift is “three-on-a-tree.” She has a choke that needs to be eased open. Usually. Unless it’s warm out. Or humid. Or it’s a full moon on the third Thursday. In any case, Sweaty Betty held out on me. I had to text my husband. Then I put the phone to the dashboard and he texted sweet nothings to her. Very very humiliating.
Two of the Bettys riding in the back. It’s a bumpy ride on a wooden bed and gas fumes waft over you, but everyone loves it.
The logo stamped on Betty’s running board, which miraculously, hasn’t rusted. There’s a common myth that the cursive logo, in use since 1903, represents Henry Ford’s actual signature. In fact, a friend of Henry Ford’s designed it, using his grandfather’s circa 1850s elementary school stencil set.
We picnicked in a park that is popular amongst local high schoolers who need a place to party. When the police come, they scramble over the steep bluff, and rarely does an officer follow them.
That’s Lake Michigan in the photo. The lake levels have been rising the past few years and the bluff is eroding rapidly. But that didn’t stop us from laying our blankets right on the edge.
Who’s ready for some rosé? Sadly, not me. I can no longer drink alcohol due to health reasons, but by God do I love to pour it!
I’m pretty sure we were toasting to middle schoolers everywhere, poor pitiful creatures. Judith Betty, on the far right, is the only one still parenting a tween and still putting on a carnival. We love hearing the stories.
Our fabulous charcuterie spread. But the best thing we ate that night isn’t even pictured here: sauteed peaches with basil, topped with mascarpone and honey. Try it for a savory dessert on pound cake. Also delicious on a cracker with cured meats.
Can you see my fake beer? If ever I meet the person who invented non-alcoholic beer, I will plant a big wet kiss right on his or her smacker. It’s so delicious and tastes like the real thing.
Arugula! Asparagus! Brussel sprouts!
In this photo, I’m bragging about how I got those twin turquoise paisley quilts at an estate sale. Same with the copper bucket. “Wow!” say the Bettys.
The police did saunter by in their cruiser. We did not have to go over the side. Because we are mature Bettys.
What you don’t see is the chaotic end of our picnic. Stumbling around in the dark, making sure we didn’t leave anything. Where would we be without the flashlights on our phones? And thank heavens, Sweaty Betty started like an angel.
Photos by Renn Kuhnen.