I learned … that in my life … the cheeseburger, a thing once taken for granted, has become a disputed territory, a geographical dichotomy, a place at once occupied by two opposing natures … a battle ground.

Since I was a boy, the cheeseburger has been a part of my identity and individuality, a source of national pride on a par with the Grand Canyon or the Smithsonian, an anthem, a lifestyle. Sadly, today this lifestyle is under siege by those evil doers who would usurp my God given right to shredded cow by imposing upon me the cruel domination of eggplant, peas and broccoli … though I resist.

It would have been around 1960 when the hamburger first became part of my personal American experience. There was, is, this place in Salina, Kan., called the Cozy Inn, a six-stool diner that first opened in 1922. They sold these little hamburgers, about the size of a half-dollar, at a price of 20 for a dollar. By the time 1960 rolled around, they were priced at 10 or so for a dollar. But once a year, on their anniversary, they would sell them at the by-gone price of 20 for a dollar. And you can bet your sweet bibby, that at least once a year, my mother, with a baby in each arm and three in tow, would march us into the Cozy Inn to pick up a grease soaked bag of 20 burgers smothered in grilled onions. And this, for me, is when the burger was first understood to be a birthright, an integral part of my heritage … a heritage that is today under attack.

Around 1963, a new sort of hamburger stand opened up in Salina, “Sandy’s” was the first fast food joint I can remember. Their burgers were larger in diameter than those of the Cozy Inn but they were also more flat, rolling pin flat. The onions were uniformly machine chopped, exactly three dill pickle slices on each one, the beef had a mealy texture. Other than in diameter they were generally inferior to those of the Cozy Inn. Sandy’s burgers lacked the most necessary and magical ingredient of a good burger … fat. But what a Sandy’s burger did have to compensate for its lack of beef fat was cheese … good old fashion American cheese … a cheese that has no other use except to be melted into the nooks and crannies of a hamburger patty.

Thus began my relationship with the cheeseburger. Today this relationship is continuously under assault by the forces of epicurean correctness, a despotic nutritional ideology, propaganda, conspiracies and fake news … likely, I suspect, propagated by the Russians.

My doctor, let’s call her … Dr. K … is at the point of this assault. Last time I visited her office she had me stand on the scales … the fake scales. Dr. K looked at the reading on the fake scales and said to me, “Mr. Wares, it appears you are 120 quarter pounders over weight.”

Now, Dr. K comes off as an intelligent and compassionate person but I see right through her cunning. I knew I had not been satisfied by a mere quarter pounder since the summer of 1999 and I said, “Ha! Liar! The fake scales are indicating that I am only 60 half pounders overweight.”

Then she bounds my arm and impales me and collects my blood. I desperately look around for the video camera, they always make videos of this, so I can blink my eyes in Morse Code the letters T-O-R-T-U-R-E.

When the lab results come back, Dr. K puts on her glasses and pretends to be reading, “Red blood cells…good. Platelets are within range. Iron…good.” Then she gasp, “Oh oh!”

At first she seems convincing and I worriedly ask, “What is it Dr. K?”

“You have dangerously elevated cheeseburger.”

I see her game so I play along. “Boohoo, boohoo, what does this mean Dr. K?”

She looks at me over her glasses and says, “It means you are at risk.”

“Uh Huh! At risk for what, Dr. K?”

A long pause, a long sigh, a thousand yard stare, “Everything.”

Dr. K then goes on and tries to convince me that obesity is a man-made phenomenon … But I, being an informed sort of guy because I listen to talk-radio, knows this proposition is nothing more than an elaborate Chinese plot intended to weaken America’s economy and that human obesity naturally fluctuates over time and that there is no correlation between my overweightyness and cheeseburgers.

But Dr. K is a lone wolf. The greatest threat to my cheeseburgers comes from the regulations imposed upon me by the powers that be, namely, Her Royal Highness Princess Wife, or, the HRHPW. At first, I believed the HRHPW could be reasoned with, that there was room for diplomacy. After all, the HRHPW had only two problems with my cheeseburgers. 1) The cheese. 2) The burger. The HRHPW was fine with the onion roll, the tomato, onion and jalapeno. I believed we at least had a starting point for negotiations but the conclusion of the meetings I had with the HRHPW concerning these matters turned into my own personal Treaty of Versailles, a cruel imposition.

The official dictum of the HRHPW stands as thus, 1) I may only procure the ground cow from a HRHPW approved butcher more than an hour drive away. 2) Only one cheeseburger per week. 3) Only one slice of cheese even if the cheeseburger in question is a double. 4) I am allowed to be in the kitchen for 30 minutes per week. And I wonder …what has become of me?

But I am strong. Though wounded I continue the fight. It is because my access to cheeseburger has been severely limited, that I now find it my duty, my calling, to, even though I am only allowed access to the kitchen for 30 minutes a week, I must use those 30 minutes to produce a monument, an edible ode to all I hold dear … the most perfect cheeseburger. This is all I have learned today.

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James Wares lives in Marshalltown and can be reached at whatjimhaslearnedtoday@yahoo.com