"I grow old, I shall wear my trousers rolled..."
T’is the season when magazines are full of summertime living articles......the perfect cool drink (mixed carefully, of course, with exotic flavors that most people have never heard of)...the perfect barbeque with coals of really rare and hard to find hardwoods from a distant mountain valley on the other side of the world (whichever side you happen t’be on, it’s on the other side)...the perfect burger, ground beef from handfed steers raised only in a secluded glen 'n gently, oh so gently, sacrificed by the light of a blue moon......
I just read an article on the perfect ‘burger (sighh)...
I just want’a say that Dagwood Bumsteads perfect sandwich is the perfect gastronomic nightmare for anywhere normal people and the perfect burger is whatever satisfies your p’tick’lar palate...no more, no less and one man’s garnishment is apt t’be another man’s poison......
S’funny, when I was a boy we never had barbeques in our neck of the woods....what we had was ‘weenie roasts’... that’s where you put a weenie (weiner for absolutists) on a stick, hold it in the flames as long as you dare ‘til it’s charred black on the outside ‘n relatively untouched on the inside, put it in the cheapest hot dog buns that y’could buy, scrape on some mustard (ketchup for the weak of heart) ‘n devour it while standing back from the bonfire.....ah well, golden youth flies ‘n it’s prob’ly a good thing for our stomachs.....
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