THE MEMOIR OF A BEEF BURGER
/* unvisited link */ a:link {color: blue !important;} /* visited link */ a:visited {color: purple !important;}/* mouse over link */ a:hover {color: blue !important;}/* selected link */ a:active {color: blue !important;} [ezcol_1half] MY grandfather was a mysterious man. Not much is known for facts but there are certainly many stories about him, speaking of a skinny, humble working-class man often seen in between two slices of bread trying to make a buck or two at food fairs back in the late 1800's. Who his ancestors were and where they came from, is still up to this day, my most intimate wonders. Were they even named a Burger? And whatever stories, legends even, being told about his tale of becoming the untoppled icon of a nation's food-identity, remain exactly that, just stories. But if there is one thing indisputable about those stories, the truth that inspired the myth, or at least so everyone says, it's that he was a fine and proud citizen of America. And that's fine enough by me. Truth is, I was never too held up on who my grandfather was. After all, I'm pretty sure, I am nothing like him. I am
