By Mary Eileen Gallagher

Independence Day – a birthday bash for our country where all are invited and no presents are required. What could be better?

Growing up as a kid on Winkle Avenue, a close-knit cul-de-sac neighborhood in coastal California, the Fourth of July was a community celebration that started promptly at dawn. Morning cartoons were sacrificed, and instead our band of rugrats congregated in our driveways to decorate our bikes with festive streamers and bells and to chalk up the sidewalk with colorful sketches of flags and fireworks. Then, after speeding up and down the middle of the foggy streets until our legs were jellified, we blew up inflatable inner tubes with the air left in our lungs and splashed into our neighbor’s pool. By mid-afternoon, just as we were about to commence our intense game of whiffle ball under the shady oaks, the adults would finally emerge from their kitchens. I never knew what they spent all morning doing in there, but at that age I hardly gave it another thought. And just as the first home run sailed over the fence, the grill was successfully coaxed to flame, the pasta salads were arranged on the checkered tablecloth and carefully covered to ward off wasps, and the meats, which had been marinating overnight, were brought out to meet their smoky fate.

As a kid on the block, the Fourth of July was certainly not about rolling out pie dough to an even 1/8-inch thickness. And it had nothing to do with grilling corn to perfection – each kernel saturated with a buttery seasoning and branded with crispy grill stripes. It was simply about eating, not preparing.