I write this on the Fourth of July, a day of brassy salutes and rude explosions to terrify the dogs.
I am thoughtful, kind of.
I’m wondering how to cook the cute, brightly colored potato nibbles I just bought in a bag. They’re the smallest potatoes I’ve ever seen, and maybe I should just chomp on them as they are. They don’t have eyes as standard potatoes do. They won’t see me coming.
Something in my crooked soul also yearns for backyard fireworks. Once, I almost bought sparklers in an illicit fireworks store – until I saw the clerk’s missing fingers. Did he sacrifice for the Fourth?
Truth is, we never celebrated July 4 when I was growing up. We were iconoclasts. My Russian grandpa went to jail rather than be drafted by the czar.
But my Irish dad would’ve loved the little potatoes. He had a favorite ditty, “And I met her in the garden/Where the praties grow,” and I know we’d all hoof around the kitchen pelting each other with the wee ones.
That would be a Glorious Fourth.
