There’s a poem I love called “The Hermit Thrush” by Amy Clampitt. Recalling a picnic of cucumber sandwiches and “sea-air-sanctified” Fig Newtons™, eaten on the longest day of the year, the poet says: “Little is certain, other than the tide that circumscribes us that still sets its term to every picnic -- today we stayed too long again, and got our feet wet.”

This poem is on my mind as we are undoubtedly on the far side of summer, with uncertain seasons to navigate before we arrive again at the possibility of picnics. I’m feeling the call to eat outside while we still have a sliver of sun to warm us.

So yesterday morning, I made a pie to take later in the day to a “plein air” picnic with friends I met while traveling in Spain. Each of us agreed to bring something reminiscent of our trip together. I carefully rolled out a pie crust, filled it with pastry cream and cherry preserves, and baked it to a lovely golden brown — a Gateau Basque that would have been respectable even in the bakeries of San Sebastian. Never mind that as I tipped the cake out of the pan to cool on a rack, it bled out all over the counter like a surgery gone bad. I had just enough time and cherries to start over, as long as the hastily constructed cake was left to cool in the back seat of my car as I sped up Route One in the late afternoon. An hour later, I was seated at a grand picnic table on a mountain overlooking gardens, orchards and, in the distance, the ocean and islands beyond. Drinking an aperitif, eating paella, wrapped in the comfort of conversation — in no hurry for dessert but knowing it would come.

There have been so many pleasurable picnics that have stayed with me over time — eaten in the golden hour as the sun tips towards evening. Sometimes these have amounted to the most simple fare — hardly a proper meal — spread on a blanket of green grass under branches laced with moonlight. A homemade birthday cake served with sparklers in the yard. Lunch on my father’s screened porch, most likely tomato sandwiches. Sandy peanut butter and jelly eaten on a beach towel.

I have an early memory of family swims in the lake at my sister’s place when our children were young. We weren’t opposed to skinny dipping — having been introduced at an early age to the Matisse painting Luxe, Calme et Volupt. But still we waited for the cover of darkness to leave our clothes on the rocky beach. I remember wading in to waist level, braving the uncertainty of the dark water, finally putting my head under to swim the last few lengths to the dock, climbing the ladder and plunging back in. The children would make their presence known with lots of happy shrieking and splashing, but every time they resurfaced after a jump they would feel the need to call “I’m okay!” Reassuring themselves as much as their parents. We’d stay in the water as long as we could stand the cold, then make a bonfire and toast marshmallows, eating them with one hand while clutching towels around our shivering bodies with the other. A perfect repast.

When we are lucky, there’s sometimes an improbable empty afternoon near the end of summer— none of our neighbors in the cove have guests, there’s no camp schedule, no lawn to mow. We know not to let these opportunities pass. Recognizing the moment, we quickly pack up boxes of hot dogs and cans of beans, along with anything left from the previous night’s dinner table. We find tents and sleeping bags. Throw them in the boat with an odd lot of neighbor kids. Making our way to a nearby island with room for just two tiny campsites, we tie up the boat, lug the supplies up the hill, unpack everything, put up the tents, search for firewood, unwrap the food. The ratio of time to prepare for the experience to the time it takes to consume it should have put us off this plan. Do you know how fast a hungry kid can put away a pack of hot dogs and a box of doughnuts? We are undeterred by logic. LIfe is short.

In September, there’s still time and sunlight to have lobster rolls on the dock at Robinson’s or at the Lobster Wharf; or to stop at the East Boothbay General Store for wrapped sandwiches and potato chips that will be eaten on the rocks at Ocean Point. (You’ve seen the Hitckcock classic “The Birds,” right? Hold on to your chips.) One recent evening we had the most beautiful woodfired pizza at the picnic tables of Odd Alewives in Waldoboro — peach and basil, with ricotta, mozzarella, provolone, and a drizzle of hot honey. There’s time to cross the Sheepscot to Five Islands for a picnic and a walk up the hill to visit artist studios. Don’t plan ahead — see where whim and wind takes you.

Of course, there’s also beauty in packing a perfect picnic basket before setting out, and I intend to do that at least once more before the boat is put to bed for the winter. I’ll take the time to line a wicker hamper with pretty linens, and use real china and silver. I’ll chill a bottle of sparkling wine. I will make hand pies — savory ones filled with tomatoes or sweet ones with blueberries, maybe both. I will lay out a board of hard cheeses, cured meats, fig jam, nuts, and olives. And pack fresh oysters in ice. I’ll bring a vase of flowers and then realize later how impractical that is on a moving boat. I’m thinking Renoir “Luncheon of a Boating Party."

In this way, summer after summer, I have collected a pile of cherished memories like so many tiny jewels of sea glass. Enough to feed my cravings through the winter.

Tomato Hand Pies

Prepare a butter pie crust. Cut pastry into 3-inch squares and refrigerate. Slow roast cherry tomatoes for several hours at 250 degrees. Saute Vidalia onions and herbs of your choice. Let tomatoes rest on a paper towel for 20 minutes. Mound tomatoes, onions, feta cheese, and olives at the center of half of the pastry squares, brushing the edges with egg wash. Top with the remaining squares, using a fork to seal the pies. Bake for 20 minutes at 350 degrees.