Withal, I'm in a good mood. Denied fireworks -- more by our own good sense than governmental decree (I'm shocked, shocked that Tam didn't buy and stockpile any -- OTOH, should be cheaper tomorrow) -- we celebrated with grilled steak a la Roseholme: big, well-marbled filets mignon, cooked on a closed grill over lump hardwood charcoal, treated with a bit of salt and pepper beforehand and with a pat of Irish butter added at the penultimate flip; to which one adds well-baked tatties (in foil, with butter, salt, pepper and garlic -- and I cheated, gave 'em a few rounds in the 'wave beforehand) and a good garden salad with balsamic vinegarette: bliss! Double bliss, washed down with Squirt (grapefruit soda) and Moxie.
Seriously, those steaks...! Cut with a spoon, melt in your mouth, moist, smoky and wonderful. You don't put anything on 'em; they don't need it. (And those are just the mid-grade from Fresh Market. They had some well-aged ones for half again as much; I'd'a bought them but I feared so much joy could be too much.)
I've got fudge in the fridge but some hours after dinner, I'm still too full to contemplate it.