If you’ve never read Elizabeth Gilbert’s book, “The Last
American Man”, I suggest you pick it up this Fourth for a bit of
quirky, patriotic fun. It chronicles the true story of a modern day
hero who lives in a teepee in the Appalachian Mountains, eating only
what he himself picks, raises or kills. The guy is an egomaniac and a
genius, and the writing, especially when detailing how he forages in
the woods, is funny and sensitive and page-turningly good.
The only problem with that book is the title. He’s not the last American man. My mother is.
She spends every summer, and most of every fall, wading through rivers
with a fly-fishing rod, and hiking giant, shale-covered mountains to
sleep under the stars. She’s had staring contests with bears and
cougars, weathered lightning storms under scraggly trees, and once
hiked three miles back to her truck with a broken tailbone.
Traditional sangrias are luscious, bold blends of fruits, wine and spirits, often
served in pitchers or punch bowls. But this wonderfully refreshing
summer drink from Spain and Portugal leaves plenty of room for
improvisation.
The Fourth of July—or Independence Day as it is more officially known—has always been a celebratory day in my family. It's partly because my birthday is on the 2nd and the local Barnum Parade always takes place around that date. As a kid I remember getting up early and excitedly readying myself for the party and parade. My cousins would come over and we would spread a blanket on the sidewalk to watch the parade. My mother would stay home to prepare fried chicken and potato salad. My dad would grill hamburgers and hot dogs once we got back. And of course the celebration always ended with a great big birthday cake.
