Like I said before, I do not proclaim to be a vegetarian, although I am trying to minimize the meat-eating and doing a pretty good job most of the time. Still, once a week or so I sink my teeth into some animal flesh, and I make sure it’s something I really, really want. The latest selection was tonight’s old-fashioned, juicy, home-grilled cheeseburger, and I only wish I’d taken a photo to show you before I enjoyed its all-American goodness. This burger was tall, well-dressed, and very photogenic.
Tonight’s slab of cow owes a lot of its exceptional deliciousness to the fact that our grill is falling apart. We keep intending to go pick out a new one and then we just don’t get around to it, which is the way we do almost everything. The grilling surface is actually disintegrating and falling gradually off in little chunks, so Brad has had to adapt and place a piece of foil down on it before applying the burger patties. Well, in addition to preventing our burgers from plunging to their (second) deaths, this has the bonus effect of preventing a lot of the juices from dripping out of the meat, so instead of the char-grilled variety that sometimes turns out a little on the dry and crunchy side (not that there’s anything wrong with that), our burgers are more like the kind that Arnold, or later Al, might cook up for you if you lived inside the 70s TV show Happy Days–juicy, succulent, heavenly, nostalgic, with some nice American “pasteurized processed cheese food” slices on top and cheap, store-brand buns. I enjoyed the living daylights out of it. I enjoyed its brains out. I have ketchup on my shirt.
Sorry, purists. I don’t regret it. Maybe I’ll gradually start lengthening the stretches between carnivorous episodes, but right now I’m satisfied with the way I’m doing things.