Feasting the Fourth

There is a saying in this corner of the world that summer doesn’t truly begin until the 4th of July. Until then, it is assumed by pessimistic islanders, sun and warmth are capricious, and that winter sweaters should not be packed away until fireworks and flags are unpacked. This year however, summer is taking even longer to crawl out of bed and get on with her work.

I arose on the morning of July 4th to chilly air and a fine, gray drizzle. It was an utterly depressing prospect. How can one possibly barbecue under cloudy skies? And what about the sundress I wanted to wear? I stared militantly out at the gloom and almost returned to bed. Yet the day lay before me—crammed with shopping, harvesting, and cooking to do—and curling up under covers was not going to tempt the sunshine. So I braved the cold and donned my sundress despite the damp; it was Independence Day, damn it, and I would celebrate whether nature cooperated or not!

The first order of business was to make baps for the burgers. These milk and butter softened rolls originated in Scotland and make a perfect pocket for a juicy beef burger. The dough is simple and fairly quick to make so they are easy to whip up the morning before a big cook out. After ten minutes kneading, during which I inadvertently powdered my pajamas with flour, I set the round of dough in an oiled bowl, covered it with a damp cloth, and had breakfast.

Next I went to town to search for some last minute ingredients. The local grocery sadly did not stock either padrón or shishito peppers so I had to abandon plans of making pan-fried peppers as an appetizer. File that one away for another day.

Then it was on to the café’s garden where I harvested a massive bag each of beets and peas, as well as a small box of the last, lingering strawberries. Finally I dodged the hungry, as yet un-caffeinated hoard inside the shop, grabbed a large cup of drip, and headed home for the kitchen. There, I spent the rest of the morning readying the vegetables—washing the beets and greens, peeling and chopping carrots, husking corn.

A large part of this time was spent shelling the peas I’d picked earlier. I must say, the laborious process of extricating the sweet, green spheres from their pods gave me a profound appreciation for this diminutive vegetable. It took great effort on my part not to eat every single pea straight from the pod—so bursting with succulent flavor; so utterly and essentially refreshing! Peas are in fact one of those vegetables that freeze so well we rarely bother to buy them fresh. But after gorging myself on this year’s crop, the mere thought of frozen peas is frankly uninspiring. That said, fresh peas take work, and after a good 30 minutes during which both my mom and I sat shelling peas together while watching a 70’s British sit com, our combined efforts only yielded a small bowlful.

The afternoon passed in a flurry of further activity: I made a honeyed butter laced with smoky paprika and chili, finished organizing things, and then abruptly suffered an attack of kitchen fever. This malady is similar to cabin fever, but is caused by too long spent by the stove. It is assails me often when preparing for an elaborate feast. All of a sudden the heat of the oven, the mounds of produce and bowls of concoctions will overwhelm my senses so that I feel as though I am suffocating under their weight.

Over the years I have learned how best to deal with kitchen fever. It used to overtake me and I would find that by mid afternoon I was sweaty, irritable, and heartily sick of cooking. By the time guests were due to arrive I would be positively glowering. Now however, I remedy the situation with a short sharp dose of fresh air. Swapping apron for running shorts, I attacked the street breathing in the warm, humid air with satisfaction. This ritual has become a savior; reviving my spirits and freeing my mind from a culinary fog that can often be sufficient to sour even my voracious passion for cooking.

I jogged up the road a couple miles and then dropped into the woods. The air was cooler there, yet still humid and rich with that potent vegetative smell of soil and growing things. I drank in the aroma, and, as I turned towards home, the air began to tinge smoky with the scent of a hundred barbecues and the stillness rent with the first experimental blasts of exploding fireworks. I felt my fever dissolve to be replaced with a deep sense of satisfaction and anticipation—all the food was ready to roll, and now I had an entire evening of fire, feasting, and friends to look forward to. Perhaps it was merely a case of runner’s high, but as I trotted home I thought to myself, as I so often do before a feast: This is it! Right here, right now.