This may seem inconceivable to you. You are lucky. You probably live within five miles of any number of burger joints that can satisfy your cravings for the “All-American Meal” any time of the day or night. Not me. Not even a fast food burger. The nearest fast food restaurant is eighty miles away.
I have been doing a really good job of not obsessing about burgers until this morning when I heard this comedy bit on the radio by Jim Gaffigan:
And then, on top of this, the Huffington Post ran this illustrated piece today, “Hamburger Heaven: A Taxonomy of the Different Species of Hamburgers.”
Admittedly, fast food burgers aren’t the best things for you. They’re evil. But they do have the advantage of having been developed with scientific flavor additives, focus groups, and any number of other tricks to make you care not that you’re clogging your arteries with fat—sort of like how even the worst American cars have really great sounding radios and CD players.
Last summer Kosmic Kathy closed down her roadside stand in town, went on a long vacation, and when she returned began tending bar at the Starlight instead of rising every morning at the crack of dawn to prepare for a long workday that sometimes didn’t even make her enough to cover expenses (the joys of self-employment!). Besides The Grub Shack, Kathy’s Kosmic Kowgirl Kafe was the only other place within twenty miles where you could get a great hamburger. She would even make them for me rare.
Thankfully The Grub Shack will reopen soon. Jerry and Eva have literally sunk a small fortune into the ground paying for the new septic system, and Jerry is hooking up a mop sink and a water tank today—the last items on the long punch list of requirements imposed on them by our oh-so-helpful state health department inspector (a guy named Jeff, who I hope will suffer from dysentery, botulism, or some other form of cosmic retribution for depriving us of our favorite community meeting place—and burgers—for so long).
Jerry has been tormenting me all along with the promise of introducing his secret-recipe “Jerry Burger” when The Grub Shack reopens. One night he and Eva invited me and some others over for a meatball dinner, through which they tried out the new burger recipe on us. I almost wish they hadn’t included me in their little focus group. You can’t crave a flavor you’ve never tasted—but alas, I have partaken and have been living in a state of deprivation ever since.
Today Eva told me the end of the long hiatus is near. She has painted a sign that says “Burgerlicious” on an old satellite dish that she and Jerry will move down to The Grub Shack soon. The final countdown begins.
Groove of the Day