I love hamburgers.
The best–most memorable, anyway–meal I ever served housemates was way back in 2000, when McDonald’s had Big Macs on sale for ninety-nine cents. We sat down at the table that night, and my housemates looked at the absence of any evidence of kitchen use except for the pot of peas on the table and wondered to themselves, “Is this all?” That’s when I hopped up, opened the oven door, and presented them each with the crown jewel of Mickey-D’s.
For many years I swore by Burger King’s Whopper. Four years before I served my housemates the Big Macs, I learned that the Whopper was on sale for the same ninety-nine cents. At least once I bought a couple on my way to work and had brunch there in the darkroom at the newspaper office.
Much later, I talked my family into celebrating my mom’s sixtieth birthday by all going out to Five Guys, my all-time favorite burger establishment. She may be to blame for my love of ground beef; when we moved back when I was ten to civilization after two years in mountainous hinterlands, she found with glee that we could actually see golden arches from our front porch.
The ongoing availability of quality burgers on dollar menus is thrilling. I surprised M after her most recent choral concert by taking a little stab at some cheeseburgers. She noted my uncanny ability to give her gifts that I know I would most appreciate receiving. To be fair, though, I’ll add that I’d invited some special guests along, so it wasn’t all about the meat.
As much as I love burgers, however, I should be clear that even before being married to my dear M of vegetarian leanings, I was not and still am not a frequent patron of fast food restaurants, or even Five Guys. It wouldn’t be accurate at all to claim for myself the saying on the plaque my principal received as a farewell gift from some of his coworkers: “If you are what you eat, I am fast, easy, and cheap.”
And we buy meat so rarely that I’ve never mastered the art of making burgers.
A few years ago for Christmas my kind sister-in-law G and her husband gave me a “Build a Better Burger” book which I looked at for supper ideas and then promptly did my own thing, ending up with dry, blackened-brown styrofoam-like discs and a kitchen whose windows could’ve given Paul the idea “for now we see in a mirror, dimly.”
This week M and I have been at G’s house taking care of her (and our) kids while she is having reconstructive surgery after having cancer that very well could have come from eating those charred, carcinogenic patties way back then. Before they left, though, as they are generous people, G’s husband M took me on a tour of their freezers: pounds and pounds of bacon, pre-shaped beef patties, steaks…you get the picture.
I dubbed tonight, as the evening before Sunday, “Saturday night,” when it is appropriate to go all out with the grill and bag of potato chips. As I am generally concerned about food safety and specifically, tonight, worried that the raw meat would not be cooked well enough so that ebola and Somalia and other bad things wouldn’t be served to the seething horde, I loaded the grill with enough charcoal to satisfy Satan herself. The resulting leather circles, dry-crunchy weenies, blackened Boca burgers, and charred bacon flakes were, unfortunately, not enough to quiet the tired youngsters in need of an early bedtime, but I dutifully plowed through and ate a minimal portion.
I am not despairing, however, as on our day-long return trip home I’ll be cashing in the coupon M gave me for Father’s Day–for burgers at a joint of my choice.
Peeling Garlic
Snow Days: A Report
Tuesday I pedaled home from school with no dog interference and excited about supper. I’d planned to–and did–bake three pounds of burger into patties. We ate some of them for supper that night:
But that meal wasn’t the only item on the excitement agenda for the week. Last week I’d heard rumors of a storm that was guaranteed to hit us, and Wednesday morning played out nature’s goodness that let me sleep in, mosey about for a while, do a little house remodeling work, and delve into renewing our home owners’ insurance which, I found under “Perils We Insure Against,” does not cover anything related to pretty much anything homeowner related.
For example: “We do not pay for loss caused by any of the following: … faulty, inadequate, or defective: a) planning, zoning, development, surveying, siting; b) design, specifications, workmanship, repair, construction, renovation, remodeling, grading, compaction; c) materials used in repair, construction, renovation, or remodeling; or d) maintenance; of part or all of any property on or off the residence premises.”
What’s left to lose, pray tell?
While doing my “office work,” I also called our credit card company to see if our card could be made eligible for any of the benefits–cash back, etc.–that are so politely advertised by other cards. No dice.
Since cancellation of school today was announced last night, M and I stayed up “late” to watch Zorba the Greek, who is responsible for some great lines: “You have to admit, boss. It is big. But she shakes it well”; “Listen. God, who is a clever devil, today put in your hands a gift from paradise”; and, “They say that age kills the fire inside of a man. That he hears death coming. He opens the door and says, ‘Come in. Give me rest.’ That is a pack of old damn lies! I’ve got enough fight in me to devour the world. So I fight.”
Today, then, found me burning the year’s brush pile, ordering a shock collar with remote for our dear but disorderly dog, and making supper: a few more of the burgers specially placed to bottom out our mashed potatoes (I made plenty, ’cause I wanted extra…not sure I exactly wanted five quarts of leftovers):
Now, with school already called off for tomorrow, I think M and I will finish off the peach cobbler she made, and then maybe I’ll stay up late (until 9:30?) working on the letter I’m writing to my so-typical insurance provider pleading for reimbursement for our planned home birth this summer.
Shameless Commerce: The Slow Cooker
Yesterday was destined to be full of struggles meriting exclamatory retaliation. I guess because I subconsciously knew I would need a preventative mouth-washing, I accidentally put A and D ointment (that’s what we use for diaper cream around here) on my morning toothbrush.
But the day turned out much better than that, and even when I hit my finger with a hammer (with some good help, I made a lot of progress on the shed I’m building out of free materials) the A and D kept my language utterly pure.
Besides the construction work, I cleaned the chimney and wood stove, harvested Japanese and June beetles, made a killer apricot crisp for dessert, and finally pulled out our new Hamilton Beach 7-quart slow cooker encased in smudge-proof stainless steel.
I’d been given the slow cooker to review by an online store that also sells tons of other stuff, too. (I had to write a teaser post that included a link to whatever particular store they’re promoting and then I got to choose an item to review. They give me this “unique opportunity,” I guess, to boost their standing in internet search results listings and get “grassroots” promotion.)
Anyway, to test the new slow cooker’s prowess, I decided I needed to work it, baby, so with our after-church lunch just 20 hours away, I got busy.
First, I sizzled nearly two and a half pounds of salted and peppered ground beef along with several onions, lots of minced garlic, and a generous splash of olive oil. Once the meat was all browned, I stirred in about two and a half pounds of spaghetti sauce and several sliced zucchinis, and then, in the slow cooker crock, layered that with almost a whole box of raw lasagna noodles, just over a pound of grated mozzarella cheese, and a pound of cottage cheese. The slow cooker is a seven-quart monster, but my lasagna conglomeration filled it to less than an inch from the top.
We’re talking some heavy serious business, here. I put it in the refrigerator.
At 5:10 this morning I awoke and pulled the crock from the refrigerator and let it warm up on the counter. At 6:40, I dropped it into the cooker and turned it on “high.” As the smell of burning newness merged with and then was overcome by the smell of lasagna cooking, I went about my other business of the day. At 9:00, then, I loaded my culinary offering in a corner of the trunk, the cooker lid (with its okay-to-grab-when-hot-knobby-handle) strapped on by the convenient bungee-cord thing designed for keeping things intact en route. (At church one lady said, “Oh, that strap is so convenient!” It works, too.)
At church I plugged the cooker in, set it on “low,” and listened to the morning service; then, during Sunday school, I switched it back to “keep warm.” (Total cook time: two hours on high, two hours on low.)
Then we had lunch. The noodles were a bit mushy, but our friend DC made appreciative gestures over the lasagna and even though our church is small and there was plenty of other foods to eat, too, now I have just a little lasagna left, maybe enough for our supper tonight, if we eat light.
The bottom line: The slow cooker with its simple temperature selections, handles that allow it to be lifted, and a handy bungee thing, works as a it should. And I make a solid lasagna.
Before actually going out and purchasing any goodbadi-reviewed item, please email goodbadiblog@gmail.com to confirm that the reviewed item’s features include longevity.
