Big Juicy Cheeseburger

I bite into this “big juicy cheeseburger” as you liked to call them. I’m sitting with my memories of you in the backyard of my parents’ house on summer break. My stomach has been suspicious of red meat ever since one too many episodes of traveler’s belly: street food, raw meat, any country, any animal, I’ll try anything twice. Anyways, my stomach soon recognized my dad’s cooking, and begged for more of that patty from the local butcher with the sesame bun and fresh, crisp lettuce and tomato, and Kraft single slices, and ketchup and mustard and grilled onions. All the elements that make a “big juicy cheeseburger” are there, but let’s be honest, you loved a cheeseburger no matter if it was home cooked on the grill, from a fancy gourmet restaurant, or from McDonalds. You raved about the contrast of the hot meat against the cool toppings and sweet onions while licking ketchup off your fingers and dabbing your napkin in your water to get that mustard stain before it set.

I’m actually not much of a meat eater in my daily life, but what kind of person denied their grandmother their company over her favorite meal? There were two cans of Diet Coke on the table because we were trying not to overindulge, so we didn’t buy Coke by the liter. This was exactly how you felt about wine, that one glass is okay with your medication but probably not more. Except you took medication for dementia so you’d often forget that you’d already had a glass, so my mom, your daughter, had to hide all the wine in the house. She usually did the same with coffee because otherwise you’d drink pot after pot, but coffee isn’t as dangerous when mixed with your medications, so mom sometimes forgot to put up the coffee and before she knew it, you’d have drank three pots and it wasn’t even ten in the morning yet. You felt the same way about wine and coffee that you did about big juicy cheeseburgers in that the quality didn’t matter much. You’d rather save money and drink the boxed wine which likely harkens back to your childhood growing up during the Great Depression and your refusal to waste, which skipped a generation and now my generation is picking it back up again though for different reasons, but who really cares about the reasoning as long as the right thing is being done? Some people like to berate celebrities for taking up causes just for the media attention, but I say who cares as long as it’s bringing awareness to the cause and what are these complainers doing besides trolling the internet, but I digress before I become one of them.

Activists often irritate nonactivists with their stories because the nonactivists feel guilty about their inaction. I wouldn’t call myself an activist, but I do a lot of volunteer work. Activists are usually more conscious of what they're eating and likely wouldn't be reminiscing about their good deeds over a slaughtered animal that contributed to a sizable hole in the ozone while it was alive. You volunteered twice a week in retirement but must not have considered yourself an activist either because I never saw you opt for chicken if red meat was on the table.  

I now eat a burger once a year in your honor remembering the last summer we had together and how we went to get our nails done and how you’d ask me to blow dry your hair which I was more than happy to do. I liked to take care of you for a change in reparation for when I was eighteen and moved in and you never asked any questions. You just gave me a room and made me dinner in the crockpot and asked if I was old enough for a glass of wine yet. I didn’t mind that our conversations never went beyond what was polite because sometimes you need someone who you can just hang out with where it never gets too heavy and you can both decompress together in front of a baseball game on TV and a crossword puzzle and talk about what’s in the fridge that you can throw into the crockpot for dinner. My other grandma was a home economics teacher so I guess I inherited your lack of cooking skills. My husband brought a crockpot to our marriage and it’s the reason he enjoys my cooking. Throw all you’ve got into something and it will turn out at least okay but oftentimes it will be great. I’ve just made up that metaphor for life but I think you would agree.

You died from CoVid during the first wave so now I plan to eat a cheeseburger once a year in your honor, sometimes in a fancy restaurant and sometimes at Five Guys. Maybe I’ll also do the other things you liked to do like go for a power walk and then get a mani/pedi so even in the afterlife you’re giving me reason to treat myself and indulge a little without the guilt, including ordering dessert with that cheeseburger because it’s what you would have done. 

I am halfway through my “big juicy cheeseburger”  in my parents’ backyard when I start on my tater tots which I greatly miss living outside the US and have already decided to go for a second serving because I only get tater tots once a year when I'm home in the summer. The foods I miss and crave when I’m away from home are odd since it’s not like I even rated tater tots when I had complete access to them. If I’m guilty of taking simple tots for granted, imagine what I take for granted that actually matters.  Like my husband who is going away to work for an indefinite amount of time who eats the last of everything in the fridge and is the reason we can’t keep any snacks in the house so I must cook or trudge out even if I want just a half a sandwich. I’ll feel tired and become irritable and resentful when I remember the reason I’m tired is because he was snoring in my ear all night, but instead of starting a fight with a sassy remark, I’ll instead go over and kiss his forehead because he will be gone soon and I feel guilty for imagining him dead over such small infractions.

I try to be more patient in my professional life with my boss who takes her employees for granted. I try to imagine the horrific abuse she must have suffered to be so nasty to her subordinates thinking it’s okay to one day be smiling and acting like chums and then later that same day to be screaming and telling you to apply lipstick because you look homeless. She must work endless hours and not have the time to take herself to therapy to overcome the neglect and manipulation that one can only learn by years of observation. I choose to turn the other cheek even though I’m an atheist and work extra hard to put out double the amount of good that she puts hate into the world. Coming to the end of my cheeseburger, I try not to think about the end of my vacation when I will have to return to my abusive boss and focus instead on the shrieks of my nieces running through the sprinkler. 

The scent of the apple pie came from the cooling rack just above my head on the window sill. You smiled at me and asked me to go fetch the newspaper because you wanted to read it before the day was over. I smiled back and jumped up to go fetch the paper even though you’ve already read it multiple times today. You forgot about the newspaper by the time I sat back down and asked if I wanted to split a burger, but at the same time dad came out with vanilla ice cream asking who wants pie. I panic for a moment but realize that I don’t have to choose and that I should eat both because my family’s love language is food.