The Fourth of July has always been, quite literally, a less-than-sober affair for me. Since high school (sorry, Mom), I’ve associated fireworks on the beach with debauchery in many forms—and lots (and lots) of alcohol. My friends and I would bring cases of beer, bottles of vodka, an assortment of juices (to water down the vodka), lots of ice, and a few bags of potato chips—oh, and some sandwiches, if we were lucky enough to remember. I would have a few beers for lunch, a little “sex-on-the-beach” (the cocktail) for an afternoon snack, and maybe a few chips for dinner, followed by more beer. This was the ultimate carefree holiday of my formative years, the one that I looked forward to more than Christmas or New Year’s (well, unless I flew someplace warm). The sun, the beach, my friends, and a LOT to drink—it was the folly of my youth and I was more than aware that it would not last forever.
And then I had kids.
When they were still babes in Snuglis, I simply stopped celebrating the Fourth of July. It seemed ironic to celebrate Independence Day when my life revolved around the multifarious needs of these tiny human beings. No outdoor fireworks display for us; our little ones fell asleep by 8 p.m. No alcohol, no beach, and no debauchery of any kind. After putting the kids to bed, my husband and I would sit in front of the television to watch a few minutes of the fireworks, which were extremely boring since the magnitude of such a spectacle didn’t translate well to the small screen. And then we crawled into bed with the air conditioners blasting, drowning out any sounds of revelry from the world outside.
But as the kids got older, the Fourth of July became fun again—in a different, more wholesome way, of course. And I’ve gotten back into the swing of packing a day’s worth of provisions, this time focusing on feeding four hungry people.
This year, we are heading to a local beach and intend to spend the entire day there. Here is what I am going to bring:
