Stately, plump Robbie Jackson passed the tub of his grandmother’s fried chicken round as we sat around our picnic blanket on the lawn outside Independence Hall on the afternoon of the Fifth. Margaret, in her signature yellow suit, was mixing relieving cocktails of bourbon with chamomile tea (which Robbie took iced, no bourbon). Frank Belloc, combat psychologist, had procured some fantastic, pink-ribboned brisket from Lucy’s. No one talked about politics.
I spent the morning making cipaille, the famed layered meat pie from my homeland, and, how could it be otherwise, poutine. Yeah! Fried potatoes and cheese curds, with brown gravy! Seriously!
Margaret and I exchanged knowing glances; Podesta and Emanuel. The Beanpole Elect was still making the sharp, incisive decisions.
We supped and lolled. The weather was a touch cooler, the skies a little grey, but there was a human electricity that could not be denied; between us friends, between each and every passerby, a connection, and understanding. I was jealous. Even as I was accepted that day, in this moment, for the first time in my adult life I wished I could be a proud American! Nom Dieu!
Bertie Ernesto appeared, coming round the hall from Chestnut Street, striding across the great lawn with a contagious spirit, two giant thugs behind him, between them all sacks of Geno’s cheesesteaks, which they handed out to any and all comers. There were still plenty by the time they got to us.
So much work to be done. But for today…
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