SATURDAY MORNING WITH CRANKY DON JOE | George Washington Would Have Left This Cookout Early

By Cranky Don Joe

My name is Cranky Don Joe. Cranky DJ to a lot of my neighbors.

I am not an expert. Which immediately makes me more qualified than half the people arguing over hamburgers this Fourth of July.

Now listen. If George Washington could see us right now, I honestly believe he would have skipped crossing the icy Delaware, turned the rowboat around, and gone straight back to bed under a warm British blanket. The man survived brutal winters, fought the most powerful military on Earth, and helped build a brand-new nation from scratch. Then, 250 years later, he arrives at an American Independence Day cookout only to discover that a single styrofoam package of supermarket hamburger costs the exact same as a monthly carriage payment.

We fought an entire bloody revolution over taxes on tea. Tea. Today, I paid forty-two dollars for three pounds of ground beef that is eighty percent fat, ten percent gristle, and ten percent desperate prayers. That isn't inflation. That is an armed bank robbery with a refrigerated display case and a barcode scanner.

The Founding Fathers dumped tea into Boston Harbor over significantly less than this. If King George had walked into a modern grocery store and seen today's meat department prices, he probably would have apologized to the colonists, fired parliament, and lowered the price of poultry. Thomas Jefferson would've rewritten the Declaration of Independence on the back of a greasy supermarket receipt: "We hold these truths to be self-evident... that no family should require a small business loan or a second mortgage to buy ribeyes." Benjamin Franklin would've invented manufacturer coupons instead of bifocals, and John Adams would've spent his afternoons screaming at the colonial manager about price comparisons between colonies.

Friends, I stood in front of the beef cooler so long yesterday that an employee in an apron asked whether I needed medical attention or a chair. I said, "No, son. I'm just deciding whether I'm buying dinner or refinancing my apartment."

Then you finally buy the meat. You guard it all the way home in the passenger seat like you're transporting the national gold reserve. You season it, you prepare it, and then you lovingly place it into the hands of somebody's twenty-four-year-old nephew who has watched exactly six barbecue videos on TikTok and now introduces himself to guests as a certified "pitmaster."

Pitmaster? Son, yesterday you burned microwave popcorn so severely the fire department dispatched an engine. Today, you are wearing an apron and giving instructional seminars on brisket airflow.

Then the theatrical performance begins. The grill lid opens every fourteen seconds because apparently the meat cannot physically cook unless it's being photographed for the internet. Nobody watches the food anymore. They're watching themselves watching the food. By the time the social media video is finished, the hamburgers have entered retirement and taste like a discarded work boot.

Then come the hot dogs. Somewhere in America, there is an unwritten law requiring at least one person to completely cremate every hot dog at an Independence Day cookout. You ask for a hot dog, and they hand you something that looks like it was recently recovered from an active archaeological dig. The outside resembles volcanic obsidian rock. The inside has the texture of drywall insulation. You ask politely, "Is this one a little well done?" They say, "That's how I like it." No, sir. That's how charcoal likes it.

Back in my day, we respected the flame. The objective was to cook the food, not to intimidate it. Today, I see people standing over a Weber grill wearing black tactical gloves, dark sunglasses, and an apron that says "License to Grill," while simultaneously losing a wrestling match with a package of Hebrew National franks. And don't get me started on the fellow who insists on flipping every hamburger every eleven seconds. Leave it alone. The hamburger isn't trying to escape, it isn't applying for witness protection, and it isn't trying to flip over to check the weather forecast. It's just trying to become lunch.

Of course, every neighborhood has one self-appointed barbecue consultant. This year, it was Larry. Naturally. Larry spent forty-five minutes explaining "heat zones" to a captive audience by the cooler. This is the exact same man who once needed three separate attempts, a YouTube tutorial, and a neighbor's assistance to assemble a lawn chair that arrived eighty percent assembled. Now, he's discussing smoke profiles, caramelization, and protein chemistry like he's defending a doctoral dissertation. I asked Larry how long he'd been grilling at this elite level. He looked at me and said, "Since Memorial Day." Confidence truly is one of America's greatest renewable resources.

But the absolute peak of this annual conspiracy, the exact moment I knew civilization had wandered completely off the trail, was when Brenda from down the street arrived carrying a massive bowl of kale salad.

Kale. On the Fourth of July.

Brenda, with all due respect, our ancestors endured Valley Forge, crossed frozen rivers, and risked the gallows to build this country. They did not spend freezing winters eating tree bark just so future generations could voluntarily chew ornamental landscaping shrubbery at a backyard barbecue. Kale isn't a salad; it's what your lawn dreams of becoming if it stops taking its vitamins. You don't eat kale, you negotiate with it. I have seen easier chewing contests involving old leather belts and structural lumber.

A proper Independence Day cookout should contain exactly three food groups: meat, more meat, and a dessert that makes your primary care physician slightly uncomfortable. If the side dish has the same texture as a bag of mulch, you've misunderstood the assignment.

Now, before the health enthusiasts send me angry letters, let me clarify. I'm not against vegetables. I simply believe they should know their place on the Fourth of July. The only green thing that deserves center stage at an Independence Day cookout is the lawn underneath the picnic table. Everything else should involve smoke, butter, or questionable nutritional decisions that require an antacid.

My grandson tells me times have changed and people want healthier options. He looked at me and said kale is full of essential vitamins. I told him I was so disappointed. He didn't laugh. Young people rarely appreciate wisdom when it arrives wearing orthopedic shoes and a scowl.

The funny thing is, despite all my complaining, there's still something magical about an American cookout. Kids are running through sprinklers, and neighbors who barely speak all year are suddenly sharing folding chairs and comparing lawn mowers. Grandparents are telling the exact same stories they've told since the Reagan administration. Somebody is setting off fireworks they absolutely should not have purchased across state lines, and the smell of charcoal hangs heavy in the air.

People laugh louder than usual. For a few hours, nobody is in a hurry, nobody is talking about the economy, and nobody is checking their office emails. They're just together.

Maybe that's what the Founding Fathers would recognize most. Not the hamburgers, the prices, or even Brenda's tragic kale salad. They'd recognize families, neighbors, laughter, and the simple joy of gathering freely around the same table. Although I'm still entirely convinced George Washington would've quietly hidden Brenda's kale behind the tool shed when she wasn't looking.

And as for Larry, he informed me that next year he's smoking a brisket for eighteen consecutive hours. I wished him luck. This is the exact same man who once burned boiling water because he forgot he turned the stove on.

Until next time, Cranky DJ

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