Because nobody’s got time for real news right now (it’s a holiday weekend, for the love of America), we recommend you read this essay by Josh Ozersky, where he measures his life out in burger wrappers. Maybe it’ll get you in the mood to grill more, as if you needed prompting this weekend:
My teenage years only led to more dangerous habits of hamburger self-medication. There were the Quarter Pounders that rewarded rowing practice in Atlantic City’s salty, foul back bay; there were bleary-eyed visits to White Castle late at night, the double cheeseburgers as soft and sumptuous as meat petit-fours. There were, for the first time, burgers made at home, of supermarket ground chuck, fried in lumps and clumps in a burning hot pan and then flipped on their sides to receive torn pieces of yellow “square cheese” as the locals called it; and then, with the old familiar impatience, scooped up onto a waiting slice of Wonder Bread and gulped down with a quart of Old Milwaukee. The best, and worse, and most damaging, and most enjoyable, hamburger of my life was handed to me one morning while still reeling — in shock, really — from my mother’s sudden demise. “I’m going to go to McDonald’s,” my aunt told me, in a solemn whisper. “Do you want anything?” Did I ever! I had been hiding inside hamburgers for most of my life; this one swallowed me whole, and it took me years to get out. Maybe I never did.
Read the rest below; preferably at a beach.
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