I was able to grill some chicken, vegetables, hot dogs and burgers between the raindrops for the Fourth. The typical staples that seem to find their way onto America's birthday menu every year.
Throw in some ribs, bratwursts, corn on the cob, ice cream, watermelon
and apple pie, and you have the Top Ten of Americana backyard parties.
In Chicagoland, the celebration usually spills through the garage and
into the alley, where kids wave sparklers, dads light M-80s and roman candles, and the smell of charcoal hangs down the block.
I went with a Shakespeare quote this morning because sometimes tragedy
can become comedy.
My biggest Fourth of July food memory
doesn't include any of those traditional foods.
Sometime in the late 1970s, we had spaghetti for America's birthday. We
didn't have spaghetti because our family was Italian American. We had spaghetti
because of an accident.
My Oldman and Uncle Charlie went shopping together on July 3rd. They
bought everything you would expect for a Fourth of July cookout and packed it
neatly into our big Coleman cooler on the back porch.
There was just one problem. Neither
one of them put any ice in it.
The cooler sat in the summer sun the rest of the afternoon and all night
long. On the morning of the Fourth, my Oldman walked outside expecting to drain
melted ice water and see if he needed to add more ice.
There wasn't any water shooting out of the spout on the bottom of the
cooler. When he opened the lid, he was hit with the smell of spoiled meat.
Every burger, every hot dog, every brat and every package of chicken had
gone bad.
Embarrassed, he walked back into the
house and called Uncle Charlie. Each brother thought the other one had taken
care of the ice. Now they had a backyard party to save.
The first order of business was figuring out what could be salvaged and
what had to be thrown away. The whole time my dad was cleaning out the cooler,
his wife was giving him the full "money doesn't grow on trees"
speech. It was a speech I heard dozens of times growing up. Only this time, it
wasn't coming from my Oldman.
He was getting it from my Step Monster. She threatened to take her kids
and head to a friend's cookout instead. The pressure was on.
My dad wasn't just expecting Uncle Charlie and my cousins. Two of his
railroad buddies were bringing their families over that afternoon.
When my Oldman was frustrated, he usually disappeared to the basement to
cool off and that was exactly what he did.
I could hear him on the phone in the laundry room, working on Plan B
with Uncle Charlie. Somehow these two German, English/Irish guys decided
that the answer to their Fourth of July disaster was an Italian dinner. They
each headed to different grocery stores on a national holiday and somehow
pieced together enough ingredients for a spaghetti feast.
The other two families coming to Oak Park that afternoon were Jewish and
Irish. I guarantee they weren't expecting pasta on the Fourth of July.
When my dad explained how he forgot to ice the cooler, his railroad
buddies busted his balls all afternoon. Honestly, they busted his balls
for serving spaghetti on the Fourth for the rest of his life.
Looking back, I don't remember missing the burgers or the ribs. I
remember the laughter.
I remember everyone giving my Oldman
grief. I remember Uncle Charlie walking through the door carrying another
armful of groceries.
Funny how the mistakes become the memories that last the longest. That
celebration in 1978 became one of the greatest Fourth of July memories my
cousins, my stepbrothers and I ever shared.
Two of my mentors made a mistake and instead of wallowing in it, they
didn't panic. They adapted, they laughed, and they created the best Fourth of
July party of my childhood.
Maybe that is America in a nutshell. Things don't always go according to
plan. Sometimes they fall apart completely, but you gather the people you love,
figure out Plan B, laugh it off, and somehow the story turns out even better
than the one you planned.
That pasta supper is another reason this has always been one of my
favorite holidays.
Parades, fireworks, Uncle Sam, patriotic music...
...and
spaghetti.
It is Sunday Funday, you Chalkheads. Finish this rainy Fourth of July
weekend with gusto and astonishment.
