Hamburgers, Loaded

    Due to a certain promise I made several posts ago, I decided that now was the time to dabble in the art of the hamburger. Many people think a hamburger is a rudimentary cooking effort, however, far too many American's also lack the ability to distinguish between a genuine beef burger and a McDouble.  

   To the good people at McDonalds: I would never imply that I consider your products to be anything less than a treat. I love the Big Mac, Mcdouble, and even the nuggets. At the same rate, I do frequently enjoy a Whopper or, the prize of fast food, the Tendercrisp. However, I consider none of these items to be a burger. Delicious, though they may be, in taste, they are another creation.

    A Hamburger takes art. It's recipe must be deep rooted in American culture, and the final presentation cooked by a master grill-er. Since I was a young boy, I observed the art of the grill. Many a time, in the backyards of extended family, I've hovered behind the grilling station, like a fly on the wall, and watched the men stare at their meet as it blackened; occasionally commenting on the process, “Yeah, that looks good,” “Now pick it up and put it down in the same spot. That's nice.”

    Feeling as though I understood the concept, I tried my hand in the sacred tradition of the burger. The burger recipe I chose could very well have been called my own. Most of it was derived from something I read when I was younger. I suspect it was a Walter Dean Myers book. I had a phase in Elementary school. I recalled a description of a hamburger, all thick and meaty, with chunks of green pepper and onion buried inside and protruding from the ends. Perhaps the vision was sent by God, himself.

    For you see, I had a dream. A dream not of flat burgers, cooked mechanically on a griddle by the semi-comatose wielding a spatula. I dreamed of the burgers of old. Large hunks of mostly cow, free of pureed pink slime, and cooked to the risk of disease. The kind of burger that was the staple food of the American 1950's, before people traded living well for living longer. (This is a choice I don't understand. I say, eat up. We have a population problem as is. Well you're at it, light a cigarette. It helps digestion).

    Therein, I set out to create the perfect hamburger. My burger would require plenty of garlic, peppers , onions, salt, some seasoning and about a spoonful of Worcestershire sauce. Oh yeah, it was that serious. Unfortunately, I severely underestimated the amount of ground burger meet I would require to produce an adequate amount of patties, the girth of which I had previously imagined. In fact, 'patty' is to delicate a word for what I've created. I made mounds. 

   The main mound of meat, henceforth referred to as "the mother wad", was of a slightly disappointing quantity. I did what I could with scarce of two pounds of meet. Once the chopped peppers and onion chunks were added, the mother wad took on new dimension. I used 5 or 6 garlic cloves, because garlic is delicious, and a fair amount of McCromic Hamburger Seasoning. It is hard to identify the specific taste of McCormic's seasoning, but whatever it is, the good people at McCormic do it right. A dab of salt later and some Worcestershire sauce to die the motherwad a light brown, and it was ready for rationing. I warn, the following is not a pretty sight:

   Just to think that it used to 'moo'.

  But, alas, I cannot claim hamburger purism. For you see, it was really cold on Friday. The New Hampshire autumn is a bipolar beast, and I am a wimp to the cold. This is an unfortunate trait for a Northerner, but let's not forget the early settlers who were driven to cannibalism by the harsh New England climate. I believe this is only partially due to the lack of fertile soil. Rational thought is impossible in the cold. Any New Englander can testify to the inability of the human mind to finish a thought, say "let's not eat each other", without interrupting itself with, "&@*% it's cold!"

  Not wanting my blog to become an exercise in cyber-doneer-ism, I forsook the grill and cooked inside. Though the motherwad was insufficient in quantity, I managed to carve out four decent sized mounds from it's bulk. I cooked on a PAM soaked, cast-iron pan so as to get that fake grill texture that is far inferior to the real thing, but ascetically pleasing, nonetheless.

   Decent looking mounds, right? Note, a family secret; At the center of each mound, I have made with my thumb, a circumventable indentation. Apparently, this kitchen witchary helps the burger cook through in a lesser time. Kudos to Mamma Maroney for the tip.

   If I do say so, myself, the mounds were excellently cooked. A crunchy layer of black char enveloped the succulent, pink center. In the modern world of pre-made, post-inspection burgers, such a hue would never sell in a consumer outlet. The paranoid would cry disease and the liberals, mistreatment. Every now and then, I find it's healthy to toss social stigma to the wind and enjoy a good burger the way our omnivorous ancestors would.

Here is the finished package ready for assembly:

   The burger is the ultimate meal of the omnivore. It fulfills all cubicles in the food pyramid, or staircase or whatever we have now. Protein-full patties topped in greens and vegetables are packed into fibrous buns. It is no wonder that the burger was the staple-food of the American family in our glory years. The burger is part of American history, it's girth and versatility a parallel to the spirit that makes this country great. The Whooper, the Big Mac, are industrialized outgrowths of this tradition. Thus, though they are not burgers, I love them like a veteran loves the flag. To those who scorn fast food and the burger as a glutinous expression of Western excess: what are you, a communist?          

-EM