Aftermath250
Back to the workweek after America's 250th Birthday. All of the eats, the meats, and the ambivert greets. Fried pie follow-ups.
Dearest Gentle Reader,
I don’t know about you, but the summer workweek following a July 4th weekend is always a bit unsettling for me. Independence Day weekend often feels like a second summertime kick-off, with the starting gun having originally fired during Memorial Day weekend (especially if it has been a warm spring). July 4th is a clear sign that summer has already arrived in full force, and there’s building pressure to enjoy the s&^% out of it before we noticeably start losing daylight in roughly eight weeks.
Fine. Blame my goddamn anxiety. Whatever. New England summers are wicked short, people. Unlike much of the country, we actually earn our summers by braving harsh winters. I’ll see you down at the beach, guy.
This year, especially with our country in a state of disarray, it was admittedly more of an emotional mixed bag surrounding America’s 250th birthday. Even before entering this past weekend, some of us were already feeling mildly blue (you know, the color of a failed reflecting pool liner) about how the country didn’t really pull itself together to properly celebrate as one.
In my mind, such things stood in sharp contrast to the genuinely awesome Bicentennial some fifty years ago, when both Watergate and the end of the Vietnam War were both still fresh in America’s collective mind. Meanwhile, apparently people still knew how to have a great time. (I certainly did; you can see me trying to learn how to wave an American flag here.) This year, the intentionally politicized Freedom250 intentionally undercut the bipartisan America250, which was a major dumb-ass move. Yet, like pretty much everyone else, I couldn’t look away from the developing story of the deteriorating Triumphal Arch model, presented at a national embarrassment of what appeared to be the the jankiest and low-rent version of a World’s Fair (minus the participation of many US states and all other countries). The whole affair seemed to symbolize some seriously distilled American rot. Hell, in a nation that cares little for soccer, there appeared to be far more excitement over hosting the World Cup than any sense of shared history and national pride. I don’t know about you, but that spoke loudly to me.
The only truly major item of note here in the Northeast, seemed to be the celebration of the end of an unprecedented and record-breaking heat wave, that finally broke on the night of July 4th. My car tires reached 41 and 42 psi while driving in 102ºF heat on the superheated roadways (33 cold psi is normal for my P-car). Car-wise, that’s a sure sign that it was way too hot for us here in New England.
But even on an average year and at my local level, I find Independence Day weekend a typically high-octane crescendo of upshifting thrills. This year was no exception. Typically, it involves a day of party prep, cooking, making and consuming way too much food and drink, hanging with dear friends, more food, swimming in a brackish river, more food, bocce tournaments (too hot this year) with plenty of smack talk, more food, chilling out on oversized Chinese floats manufactured by a questionable company with brand name of Funboy™, fireworks, late night snacks, a major lack of sleep, and then a massive clean-up. Yet again, I enjoyed all the thrills. It was awesome.
But after such great fun, my engine is sputtering out midweek, leaving me idling in a quiet, lukewarm driveway of reality and grocery shopping at the Market Basket. Phooey!
Food-wise, this year’s shindig was pretty much a huge portion of everything. We’re talking all of the meats.
ALL of them.
There was a mess of traditional BBQ, that included brisket, pulled pork, various sausages, St. Louis ribs, baby back ribs, and smoked wings that had been first marinaded. There were three dozen unshucked oysters donated by a pro chef, who wasn’t going to use them up in time. There were fresh quahog clams that were literally just dug up from the brackish riverbed. There were all of the hot dogs, hamburgers, and cheeseburgers (using my special Food Biker seasoning that I’m still developing) that one could gorge on. There were grilled chicken breasts and special gluten-free treats for the GF peeps. There was freshly grilled corn on the cob. I whipped up a pot of my Food Biker drunken baked beans, and a monster-sized bowl of potato salad. There was key lime pie, s’mores pie, and a traditional flag cake. We didn’t even get around to smoking the roughly 5# of Buffalo wings, as there simply wasn’t enough room in the smoker. (Someone else will have to use the pint of sauce I had made up.) There was even more, if you can believe it.
It was about 12 hours of eating insanity.
I’ll be eating plenty of various salads this week.
But now, I’m still stuck with that strange and heavy sensation that follows a massive feast. You know the one I’m talking about. It’s the feeling of being slightly too full after sampling everything, in addition to staring in disbelief at repeatedly empty paper plates. Mistakes were made. There’s a weird buzz of sensory overload of the holiday weekend, knowing that the delicious smells of hickory and gunpowder smoke will soon give way to the unwanted smells of an upcoming summertime city trash night.
This week, all feels sluggish and getting back to work seems harder than usual. There’s the feeling that as an adult, the endless summers of our childhood may have actually been the stuff of myth and dreams. My internal engine struggles to turn over in the slowly returning heat and humidity. Instead of listening to the sputters of fat hitting overheated grill elements, things feel quietly dull. The gears are back to grinding through the mundane, although it is indeed summertime for those of us who are stuck in town and are attempting in vain to to focus and responsibly adult. I at least consider myself thankful, in that I’m not stuck in the painfully unwanted and overheated summertime NYC commutes that plagued me decades ago.
It is ^%$#ing unsettling, isn’t it? It sucks when the bright colors of America’s 250th faded after 50 years of waiting for this past weekend. Hell, I personally spent so much energy redlining my emotions and catching up with my dear friends, that I now find myself requiring extra afternoon naps to recharge. Thankfully, I’ve laid in a few pints of emergency ice cream at the ready if needed.
On the evening before the fete, I enjoyed a fancy dinner out with besties encompassing a few raw oysters on the half shell, tuna tartare, and grilled tuna. Following this, we took a dinghy to a luxury boat moored mid-river, to stretch out on plein air deck cushions and watch competing fireworks shows under sparkling starry skies. Man, did I feel spoiled AF!
I can neither confirm nor deny that on July 4th, that I may have helped launch highly illegal fireworks just as thunderstorms were rolling in. I can also neither confirm nor deny, that one flew sideways and blew up right near the lot of us down by the dock (although there may be some photo evidence at the very end of this article). I was busy chasing those perfect and shimmering moments while trying to live in the moment in a fog of DEET. The sudden drop back to the baseline this week feels like a mechanical failure; a heavy, rhythmic slog.
Meanwhile, one unexpected thing that happened over the weekend, was that I finally and comfortably set some solid boundaries for myself regarding sensory overload at such parties. For decades, I always thought that I was a bit of an extrovert and could socially keep up with everyone else. Maybe I’m simply getting old and cranky, and my needs are changing. But only more recently, did I learn of a newer term called being an “ambivert,” which combines the extremes of enjoying extrovert fun, while also requiring ample alone time to recharge and manage one’s anxiety. Yup, that’s me. As I myself never came with an instruction manual, I finally realized what I was going on in my head and finally took action. As many of my friends are extroverts, I enjoyed heavily socializing with them with much loud laughter. Meanwhile, I neither wanted nor needed the volume level to remain at 11 all weekend long. At a few moments when the party was at full tilt, I set aside some quiet time to chill out by myself in a different room and reset. Instead of always needing to be around others as in my college days, I consciously found a sense of balance and avoided the overstimulation from my past. It’s not all-or-nothing, people.
One amazing Substacky thing did happen in the middle of all of this fun. After my 2-part series about McDonald’s limited-time FRIED Hot Apple Pie run, a few of my Substack besties and members of the Road Feast posse, spread across America, ducked out to go grab some fried pies and sent me selfies without my even asking. You should have seen the smile on my face upon receiving them. My friends shared my insane joy of apple-flavored hot lava, encapsulated by a wonton-crispy crust. Apparently, the promotion will continue, albeit more as a “while supplies last situation.” We’ll see what I can still score here in Boston this week.
Road Feast posse member Lorraine Schuchart made sure to grab hers during her vacation. (Lakeside, OH). She’s a personal branding genius and squarely knows her stuff. If you have your own Substack, you’d be foolish to not pay attention to her and learn a thing or two. Plus, Lorraine is a double threat given that she writes about other cool topics as well. You’ll see what I mean.
Road Feast posse member Dr. Heather England specifically went for a drive with her daughter to grab theirs, and they enjoyed a serious bonding moment together. (Kansas City, KS) Another double threat here, both as a sexual therapist and a talented writer writing about midlife changes, it’s no surprise that Heather’s Substack subscriber numbers have been skyrocketing like a Class B (1.3G Display) Firework overnight. TBH, I haven’t seen anything quite like it. Trust me. You’ll get it.
Closer to home here in New England, Road Feast posse member Chef Silvia Bianco of Worth Chewing On grabbed a few pies that three genererations squarely enjoyed. (Hartford, CT) Silvia is a third double threat, both as one of the most modest professional chefs I’ve ever met, and also a writer who continually offers deep reflections and has a new book coming out this year. Given that she’s relatively nearby, I’m probably going to have to drive down from Boston to sous for her one of these days. As you know that Jamie Schler is my “French Connection,” Sylvia clearly has me covered when it comes to both traditional Italian cuisine and fusion. Mangia!
Even my sister Lauren M Barkan got into the act, when my nephew brought some of these home upon my recommendation. (Delray Beach, FL) Yes, her nail polish game is totally next level and matches the box.
So, last Thursday before the weekend’s activities, I went back to the McDonald’s in my previous article, and ordered 14 to freeze. They only had 9, so I asked for 8 and they refunded me the rest.
I got home with the 8, and opened the first box.
They were BAKED! WTF?
I marched right back, and got a full refund of the remaining 8 without issue with the help of the store manager, especially as they originally told me that they were fried.
In retrospect, I think I may have an idea what went horribly wrong here. Upon examination, the item in question was likely the correct base product as shipped to that McD’s. The baked ones have an open lattice on the rounded top side, which was missing in the picture below. So, these seemed like they were either accidentally baked, or woefully under-fried. Who knows.
I’ll be looking around this week to see if anyone has any left of the OG fried ones. I still need a frozen stash for my more desperate moments, of which I expect there to be many.
Anyhow, let’s look at this specific workweek through a different lens, my dear readers. Every great meal requires a period of digestion, right? In my case, I’ll probably need a few more days to regroup. Like every Road Feast trip, every long-distance haul I make requires a steady, rhythmic cruise to balance out my frantic sprints (especially if I’m running late in my travels). This weekday comedown is not a total breakdown; it is just a necessary internal recalibration of my internal mental components. I’ll get there. We’ll get there.
After all, life isn’t a party every weekend. If such was like this all of the time, I’d be fried as a Hot Apple Pie. Maybe I just need to let the sediment from the muddy riverbed settle a bit, so I can gain some clarity. (I’m just glad I brought my water shoes this past weekend. Ocean State Job Lot FTW!)
So, if you’re engine is idling a little rough after all the feels this past weekend, or your spirit feels a bit heavy and unseasoned, don’t sweat it. Hang in there with me along with my Road Feast posse, and we’ll have some fun this summer. Navigating the transition between the big time events and the quiet everyday journeys may take a lifetime to master, but we’ll do it together. Y’dig?
After all, the road is still in front of us, and the next feast is just a few miles down the road.
- Seth ✦
Seth, what a great article (and not just because you included me in it). Your writing makes me feel like I'm hanging out with you. And I love that!
Well as someone who didn't get to do much celebrating of the 4th (I spent mine in the ER), this felt a bit like I still got to enjoy it. Truly this article was visceral. Reminded me of all the fourth of July's past when I was in Texas eating brisket and corn on the cob. I must admit I have not tried McDonald's apple pie haha. Lovely piece, Seth. And those firework pictures are insane!