No Indian food today. Only American. All American. Dad wakes up early in the morning to start smoking

the brisket before the Texas heat swells into the day. He fires up the grill, ready with kinds of Fourth of

July food staples. Hot dogs. Beef patties. Chicken drumsticks smothered in barbecue sauce. Corn on the

cob. Mom wakes up early, but lets her children sleep in as she heads to the kitchen. She ties an apron

around her, knowing that she will need it upon looking at the ingredients in front of her. Granny smith

apples. Cold butter. Brown sugar. Flour. Eggs. Her children rub their eyes as they come from their rooms

about three hours later, following the scent of the fresh-baked apple pie. Mom tells the story of how it was

the first American food she learned to make once coming from Kerala. How her first pie was sour from

not enough sugar and the wrong kind of apples. How she overcooked many pies in her day. How many

times she burned pies and set the house on fire. Her children hold back their giggles, but much like any

good mother, she can see through them easily. Mom lightly slaps the poking fingers heading to her

homemade pie and tells her children to get dressed. She has a fun game for them to play.

Mom takes the kids to the store with her. She turns the shopping list into a scavenger hunt. If they can find

all the items she asks for, they get popsicles. Kids go sprinting down every aisle grabbing items on the

shelves. Red solo cups. Napkins. Paper plates with the orange flowers on them. White sugar. Potato salad.

Peaches. Milk chocolate bars. Graham crackers. Marshmallows. The large yellow bottle of lemon juice.

Crinkle-cut BBQ potato chips in a red bag. They win her game. Mom opens the large freezer door to the

popsicles as her children make their selection: the red, white, and blue striped ones that are shaped like a

rocket. She tells them to wait until lunch to enjoy them to avoid spoiling their appetite.

Mom finds the large pitcher and starts making lemonade. White sugar makes the sour mingle of lemon

juice and water all the more sweeter. She adds her not-so secret ingredient of peach juice along with slices

of the fruit into the pitcher. The last thing she adds is the ice, making the pitcher frosty with cool dew

settling on the surface of the glass. The other aunties who arrived so far ask if they can help her in any way.

She smiles while wiping the sweat off her brow to tell them she has it all under control. Once she brings

the pitcher to the backyard, she summons everyone to gather.

We gather around noon in the backyard. The rich smell of smoked brisket calls to all of us. We say a prayer

before grabbing out plates. Thanking the Lord for giving us a life in this country. For bringing us together

to celebrate what freedoms we possess. Once we say “Amen”, we dig into the barbecued feast. Aunties

wearing sunglasses and striped capri pants while sipping lemonade with their feet in the water. The

teenagers take a break from their phones to make s’mores around the camp fire. Little kids running around

the trees in the backyard with red, white, and blue popsicles melting down their brown skin. As evening

reaches, everyone in town comes together to watch the fireworks in the neighborhood park. Families from

every neighborhood and every background. A vendor passes out sparklers to the crowd and glow sticks to

the kids. Another vendor hands out snow cones to everyone. Children stick out their colorful tongues at

each other, unable to contain their giggles. Dads hold their children on their shoulders so they can see the

show. All of them smile at the sight of exploding colors in the night sky. All of them, no matter the color of

their skin or the sound of their voice. We are all American during this day. The one day we have no doubt

that we belong in this country. We take it in, the feeling of freedom, as we live in our temporary American

Dream.