When driving through Iowa’s flat, long plains and high ceiling skies, we came to a burger joint. The sign read “Best Burger in Iowa.” We ordered four, one for each of us, and happily munched them in our car parked by an old farmhouse. A fence, with covered wagon wheels leaning against it, encircled the place, cutting through the high grass. Later, as we passed through Des Moines, I barfed the “Best Burger in Iowa” out the window of the moving car. Some of the burger blew in the wind and chased itself in liquid streams around islands of chunk stuck to the side of the rental car. How many more states until it would dry? We did not know. But we took bets anyway.