On the Fourth of July, I walk outside and hoist the flag and drive into town to the farmers market, where I buy three fat tomatoes from a man whose accent I can't quite place but whose tent smells fresh and green and whose tomatoes have just the right amount of mottling so that I can tell for certain they have been ripened to that perfect red firmness on the vine. Having found my Holy Grail, I wander around for a few more minutes and end up buying a cantaloupe for $3 from a little boy who is learning from his father what it means to grow and tend and share, a package of blueberries that I suspect are going to actually taste like blueberries and a jar of hot sauce for my friend's daddy's birthday. And then I go to the grocery store and buy a loaf of white bread — Sunbeam Old-Fashioned with the little girl in the blue dress on the package — the first loaf of white bread I've bought since the last time I found perfect tomatoes.