“The barbecue was tasty,”

We used to buy punks when I was a kid. They were long and thin and brown. They were as close as we ever got to fireworks. We'd light them and then watch as they flamed to the bottom. I think they also kept the bugs away. Starting a couple of days before the 4th, you would start to hear firecrackers all over the neighborhood. You never saw them: they were ground level and noisy. The next town over always had the real things on July 4th.

Hot dogs and hamburgers are as much a part of the 4th as flags and fireworks. You've also got to have potato salad. No self respecting 4th of July barbecue is official without potato salad. My mother told us she used to have salmon and peas on the 4th. It was traditional. I'm glad I wasn't alive back then.

It's the man's job to cook the meat at a barbecue. I have no idea why. Maybe it hearkens back to the days of the first fires. Maybe back then men felt they were obliged to cook what they'd hunted. My dad always sat outside with a drink in one hand and a fork in the other. He was a believer in lots of fuel to get the charcoal going. I loved watching the whoosh of flames when he started his fire. If it wasn't burning fast enough for him, he'd add more fuel. This made him prone to setting himself on fire. If we heard stomping from the backyard, we knew he was trying to put out his shoe. My mother would ask if he was okay, and he always was. Once even his pant leg caught on fire. I think he used his drink to put out the flame. Somehow, despite everything, my dad always cooked meat to perfection.