Tight times, loose meat

I have never eaten a loose meat sandwich, but I have long had a bizarre fascination with them. You know, it's the same reason people buy Inquirers and lined up to see the Goat Lady at old-timey freak shows.

As far as I know, my first exposure to a loose meat sandwich, which best as I can tell is really just a dry sloppy joe, was via Roseanne and the Landford Lunchbox. Now, I loved Roseanne and Jackie, but even in my youth, I knew there was something wrong with serving broken hamburgers and expecting to turn a profit.

A few years after the Lunchbox shuttered its doors, my family drove through a small town. We were hungry. A restaurant appeared on the left. Krumbly Burger, the sign proclaimed. I'll never forget it. It had white, peeling paint and the sorry state of the building assured me the burgers were not the only things krumbling [sic] in there. My mind raced as my face squished into a look of abject horror. How could anyone face a mouth full of dry, crumbly beef AND a glaring spelling error? It was too much to bear.

Now, living in Iowa, loose meat sandwiches still lurk in the background of my life, disturbing me. Iowans love a local fast food chain that serves the "best" loose meat around. Or so I'm told. I refuse to go. Hubs, also not a native Iowan, likes to threaten me with dates to these unholy sanctums of crumbling meat. We are both adventurous eaters, but I have to draw a line here.

I'm sorry; I really needed to get this off my chest. Now, I can go on with my St. Pat's party prep a lighter and more carefree individual. Thanks.