Ambrosia.

I was determined that Will experience the small-town-ness of Glen Ellyn, and there was no better way to do so than 4th of July Fireworks.  SlackDad dropped us off at the high school football field and we bought cokes and popcorn and made our way through the muggy night up the bleachers to find a seat.  The place with packed with blond men and blond women clothed in matching khakis and polo shirts.  Their blond children twirled glowsticks in their sticky popsicle hands.  Will leaned over to me and said

Is Mayor McWhitebread attending the festivities?

We laughed and sat back and I pointed out where my friends and I would swing on the swings by the lake when we'd cut class and where my red-and-black 84' Firebird almost slid donw the hill.  Our conversation was interrupted by the zip! and pop! of a test firework being shot off.

Yes sir! came the voice from behind us.  You can do it!

Does he think the fireworks can hear him? I asked.

Maybe he's a fireworks lifecoach.  They need encouragement, too.

And encouragement they got.  With every zip! every pop! every bang! came the parade of cliches yelled out into the night.

C'mon, higher!

Way to go!

His wife shushed him and he tried to be quiet for a firework or two, but he wasn't able to contain himself.

That's the way daddy likes it!

Show me the money!

We weren't the only ones that noticed; our entire section on the bleachers was laughing openly.   It wasn't malicious, it was just one of those moments where you all were in on the joke, even the one with Patriotic Tourettes.

Bring it home!

As the finale wound down and the last sparkly bits of fire streaked across the sky, he sighed and declared.

Ambrosia!

Will and I walked home through the muggy night holding hands and telling stories about our respective hometowns.  As we walked through the front door into the air-conditioned house I thought

Ambrosia, indeed.