Budgie and I were driving around the sorrowfully familiar roads. He and my ex were planning their wedding and had just checked out a venue.

“They have a dish. It’s what do call it. Shredded wheat. Shredded wheat with meat.”

“Whaddaya mean with meat? With meat?”

“There’s like, stringy meat on top. No. A crumble. A stewy meat.”

“A crumbly, stewy meat? A beef? Beef stew. Beef brisket?”

“Brisket! Brisket. Beef brisket. A brisket of beef. Served on shredded wheat.”

“Shredded wheat like the cereal shredded wheat,” I declared. “Brisket.”

“There was a barbecue sauce. A savor.”

We rode past the tractor dealer. Green John Deeres all in a row. We 

The dish sounded revolting and it sounded delicious. Just like everything else in America. The dish we’d all consume on the occasion of his wedding to my ex Janie. I imagined the crunch. Vaguely salty shredded wheat and shredded beef on top, a little too sweet from barbecue. It was grotesque and my mouth began to water.