Crock’s Thoughts

Well, this is a tough one since I love Christmas, too; however, there’s nothing more fun than celebrating the birth of our Republic by staring directly at explosions while clutching a paper plate that is slowly losing its structural integrity to coleslaw juice. The 4th of July is my absolute favorite because it’s the one day a year where we can collectively pretend that wearing a star-spangled vest is a legitimate fashion choice and not just a clever way to hide mustard stains.

I’m also a massive sucker for the history of our founding, though I’m fairly certain Thomas Jefferson didn’t envision “Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of the perfect char-line on a bratwurst” when he was dipping his quill. But the history of our founding is an absolute beautiful miracle of freedom that I love to celebrate!

Speaking of the founding, my personal contribution to our national heritage is my performance at the grill, which is… ummm… kinda less “culinary excellence” and more… well, “unintentional smoke signal.” Lol! Now, I like to walk around with the confidence of a five-star chef, but my actual technique involves poking a hot dog until declaring, “it’s not burnt, it’s just a little toasty” to my skeptical family.

There is a primal joy in standing over a bed of coals in 95-degree heat, sweating enough to solve a local drought, while wearing a “Grill Master” apron that is doing a lot of heavy lifting for my reputation. I approach a burger with the tactical precision of a general, yet somehow I always end up serving something that has the texture of a hockey puck and the structural integrity of a brick.

By the time the sun goes down, I’m… well, usually three parts amber ale and one part mosquito bite, ready to watch the local fireworks display. There’s something truly poetic about the fact that we honor the signing of a profound historical document by blowing up small sections of the sky and hoping the neighbor’s roof doesn’t catch fire. It’s loud, it’s messy, and it smells like sulfur and victory. If that doesn’t capture the true spirit of 1776—and the undeniable glory of a well-timed nap in a lawn chair—I don’t know what does.