Summer is upon us. The Solstice of Summer is Saturday, June 21, 2014. That will be the first and longest, if not the hottest, day of summer.

Here, in Texas, August has tended for the past couple years to be the warmest of the months. Nonetheless, around these parts when the temperature is on the rise folks like to say of the day: “It’s hotter than the 4^th of July.” July 4^th is and has long been the traditional standard of comparison for swelter and sweat. I enjoy saying on the day itself: “It’s as hot as the 4^th of July.” I laugh to announce that phrase on the day that is its own comparison.

On the first Fourth, July 4, 1776, the Continental Congress accomplished the incomparable and approved the Declaration of Independence. Two hundred and thirty eight years ago, the separateness of a young nation was documented and declared. July 4^th is recognized as the birthday of the United States of America. For that and for its significant placement in the registry of hot days, July 4^th is widely recognized and jointly felt to be the true start of summer.

It may not be the first or the hottest day of summer, but the Fourth of July is for many the most welcome. Kids are off from school, families are together traveling and pool waters are beckoning. It is a grand day of festivity, fireworks and relaxing.

Here, you see the Red Ball of Summer waiting for the kids to find their way and jump with glee into the cooling, if lukewarm, waters.

 

 

 

 

 

 

To accompany the pool frolics, burgers, dogs and brats will be grilled for the bathing suited throng. This year I again enter the ranks of the backyard chefs. It is a big move. Today, I broke down and purchased a grill for delivery next week. Over the next two weeks, I will practice searing, roasting and burning various foodstuffs to my wife’s amazement in preparation for the grand day.

While I exercise my nascent cooking skills, the crepe myrtles above crinkle their blooms in wary warning to those who dare approach the smoking grill and its gesticulating caretaker. This budding pink beauty overlooks the pool and is ready to drop its blossoms in alarm should I fail to make the culinary grade.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In front, it’s red neighbor turns away with dainty concern and a trace of lofty disdain, wrinkling its petals that my failed grillings may wrongly reflect and sully its true color.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As they say in the circus and among backyard chefs: “The show must go on.” And so it shall. I have the advantage of side dishes, salads and appetizers to buffer, if needs be, a failed entrée. “It’s not the food, it’s the day,” I’ll sing to the crowd and silently pray the burgers aren’t burnt, the dogs aren’t dark as dirt, and the brats behave like bratwursts. And, if by some miracle of fate and fiction I do pull it off, I will regally wave my tongs in the air and humbly bow to the appreciative applause of a satiated and appeased backyard.

Good grilling,

Grandpa Jim