KFC

It wasn't a surprise that the fried chicken went over well. We had a thing for KFC. Approximately every two years, we really needed to do a picnic with a bucket of chicken, fries and that horrific neon green 'coleslaw'. If Hillary was feeling particularly decadent, she'd also get a potato salad.

The first one I remember was at Andrew Haydon Park in Ottawa. The conversation likely went something like this:

"It's so terrible, but I loved KFC. So greasy. So delicious."

"Wait, you liked KFC? As in we're not being funny and making heart attack jokes?"

"We are doing a KFC picnic today."

In Burnaby, we had a KFC picnic at Caribou Park. I brought a growler, casual drinking in public, I was living on the edge in those days. Isaac ate fries. So many fries.

We did one up at Burnaby Mountain Park. Something about the spectacular view of Vancouver just went well with rivers of delicious grease and crunchy breading.

Our last one was in the back yard here, sometime in the summer of 2017.

It wasn't a craving we had often, as is probably evident by it being an event for the odd numbered years. But every time it started to get close, we'd both look forward to it. Eventually, the KFC cup would run dry and our dinner plan for the evening would be dumped in favour of fried chicken and a picnic.

Then we'd be good for a couple more years.