Yesterday I re-inaugurated my tradition of solo picnic lunches.  There is a wide-branched pine tree on a grassy hillside near my work, just out of view of sidewalks and the road, and I unfold beneath it the giant sarong I won at a raffle one time.  It has tassles and maybe 17 different colors, so I don’t wear it around much. I mostly just recline upon it beneath the shady tree. Last summer there was a guy who practiced his sax solos in a nearby gazebo, but he was in absentia this time so the breeze was the only thing floating in my direction.  I ate some pasta salad, cut up a fresh farmer’s market tomato and salted and peppered it and promptly consumed it, dabbing my mouth afterwards with a cloth napkin.  Once you’ve used a good cloth napkin it’s hard to put up with harsh bleached paper napkins.  I drank my ice water and leaned back with my book for a few minutes, then drifted into dreamland for 20 minutes or so.  Long live the full-hour lunch.