Where I’m from, fried chicken is a staple of any summer holiday. Ideally, one makes it oneself from a hallowed, historical recipe that involves soaking in buttermilk and secret spices and particular methods of breading. Every aspect of the methodology is hotly contested. And let’s not get started on the frying. An inch of oil so as to brown each side individually, or a gallon so as to totally submerge the pieces? Peanut oil or sunflower oil or just plain Wesson? Lard? Lid on or lid off? Is the proper oil temperature smoking or just below the smoke point? All methods theoretically lead to a gloriously seasoned, crispy piece of bird that is not the least bit oily. It is equally delicious served piping hot, at room temperature, or as refrigerated left-overs. Appropriate side-dishes include but are not limited to potato salad, three-bean salad, deviled eggs, pickles, and quartered tomatoes sprinkled with salt.

The slackers and other sad, small individuals go to KFC or the local grocery store, where they stand in a line that stretches out to the street and hope that the place doesn’t run out of inferior, mass-produced, greasy fried chicken before it’s their turn. This is the stuff you have to eat hot, because when it cools there’s going to be a film of grease all over it.

You can probably imagine what happened yesterday. I thought about conducting some sort of kitchen hoo-ha for a bit and then proceeded to spend the day alternately holed up in my study with the Chambers and in the living room whining at Mister Husband about the fact that I'd become One of Those People Who Works on Holidays. He scanned negatives all day. When late afternoon rolled around, we were surprised and mildly upset not to have any festive food around. I had thawed out a couple of chicken breasts with the thought of grilling them, but we both decided that did not count a bit. But fried chicken would! No time to marinate the breasts, though, and fried chicken really demands some variety in the chicken parts.

So we contemplated ... Kentucky Fried Chicken. Would there be a line? Would there be any chicken left? What if they ran out of chicken? It was Independence Day, after all. Mister Husband decided to risk it and set off.

He was back in 15 minutes with a full bucket. There had been no line whatsoever. The place was practically deserted. And then it finally dawned on us that of course nobody would have been at KFC. This is Minnesota, with its high ratio of Germans and Swedes and Norwegians. They were all out grilling bratwursts. If I went across the street to the grocery store, I’d bet there wouldn’t be a brat or hot dog to be found.

It never occurs to me to make brats. They exist down South, and I had one every few years or so, but there’s no emphasis on them. It’s not like you go to a cook-out expecting them to be served or anything. If they were, it’d be a novelty: “Oh hey, a bratwurst!” Maybe I should think about them, though, and serve brats and fried chicken.

An aside: It’s been years since I’ve really celebrated the 4th. (10, maybe? ) I went to bed last night before the fireworks, even, and I usually love fireworks. My rationalization is that I’ll see them every night for a week when the state fair is on near my house in September. I haven’t always been this way, though. When I was a kid, my parents hosted a massive 4th of July party every year, with at least 75-100 guests. When they eventually stopped, I quit observing the holiday. It’s compartmentalized in my mind, I guess — that was something we did then, and this is now. Or put another way: If I can’t have 100 people dancing and setting off bottle rockets in my yard, then I don’t want anything.