Ever get that feeling that deja blogged feeling? I’m just so hot I can’t be bothered going through my archives to see what I’ve already said on the subject of July 4. My position (as sole non-American, head cook and bottle-washer at tomorrow’s celebration) is that I’m okay about it. We had a tiff, about independence and stuff, you won and flounced out. It happens when kids grow up. And for a young country you’re doing very well. If any of you happen to float along the Rio Nuovo tomorrow you’ll see the Stars and Stripes flying from the Fitzpatrick residence.

My catering got off on the wrong foot because the bag of pecans in my store cupboard, which I had visualised as a large bag, turned out to be a small bag. So instead of nibbling on my friend Lesley’s Damned Fine Spiced Pecans we’ll be having them chopped up and stirred into Laurie’s Pretty Damned Fine Brownies. Which I will be baking by the dawn’s early light.

The chicken thighs – funny, I never think of chickens as having thighs until I see them on the butcher’s slab – are tucked up in their marinade. The potatoes are now cooling in olive oil and apple vinegar. I’ve seen better starts to a potato salad but I’m hoping the mayo and cornichons will save it. And Liesl’s bringing an American dessert. Will it be Apple Crisp? Will it be Peach Cobbler? Che sara, sara. 

I kind of hope she doesn’t go to the trouble of Flag Cake, as pictured above. Precision fruit placement. Who needs that when it’s 80 in the shade?