8/12/05 by oldestgenxer

I would like to apologize for the length of this article. But it is an important topic, and I felt the depth was necessary. Sit back and enjoy a good read, don’t breeze through it. I don’t have the attention span to write a novel; long essays are all I can stand.

All my life, you see, I have like my food plain. Very Plain. I don't like onion in things, chunks of tomato in chili reviles me, didn't like salad in my salad. But it can pretty easily be defined by the great American food staple, the cheeseburger.
I like my cheeseburger plain. The one concession I am willing to make is cheese. Without it, it's just a hamburger, and I really don't understand the purpose of a hamburger. Except that it is an unfinished cheeseburger. But I like the cheeseburger plain. Usually no ketchup, definitely no mustard. Any vegetables are clearly out of the question. Pickles—Here’s the thing about pickles: I like pickles, just not on things. I feel the same way about pecans.
Mayonnaise is completely wrong on many levels. If you like mayonnaise on your burger, you are either a socialist or a sociopath. Either way it’s bad. What can I say about mayonnaise that hasn’t already been said? It’s the leading cause of social problems, above poverty and crime. It causes poverty and crime. It leads to harder drugs. It carries STDs. It is a member of Al Quaida. Canadians love it, and they just legalized gay marriage between heroin addicts. Coincidence?
I have done ketchup, and although I like it, most times I feel it is not worth the effort. Is this too much, is it too little—Either way, it’s going to drip on you in an unpredictable fashion, and instead of adding zest, too often it only masks the flavor of the meat.
So, ordering a cheeseburger plain is not so much of a hassle now, but Lord, back in the day—

Our class was on a field trip, who knows where. Not really even sure what grade it was, but it probably 7th or 8th grade, so it was mid-1970’s. On the way back, we got a real treat, promised conditionally on our behavior. The teachers knew how to control junior high freaks: The bus stopped at that American Mecca of Capitalism in a Styrofoam container, McDonald’s. Yes, we used Styrofoam back then. That’s why you have to wear more sun block now.
Imagine the thrill of the mid-afternoon skeleton crew upon seeing a bus full of hungry middle-schoolers.
We filed in, alternately shushed and prompted to figure out what we wanted. We made a loose crowd of approximately three rows, and I was about three back in one row, not bad. No value meals at that time. You paid full price, and you liked it. Of course, everything was a nickel. Or was that in my Dad’s time? I get them confused. Everyone was saying, “Big Mac, fry, coke,” or “Filet o’ fish, fry coke.” And we all know how those come. There were a few on deck, and the cook spastically throwing on more, in anticipation of our orders.
Then it was my turn. “Double cheeseburger.” Pause, to make sure they hear you, because they really try to ignore this part, to see if they can get away with it. “Plain.” An audible grown from the crowd of kids, as well as a choreographed simultaneous slumping of the shoulders of everyone behind the counter. Traffic outside stopped as well. An angel cried. Not only—not only did a busload of kids drop in on them unexpectedly, dissolving the mid-afternoon sleepy-time lull they were enjoying, but then, to add insult to injury, one of these punks wants a special order. I could see it in their faces, I was used to it. They didn’t try to hide it, either, because for one, I was just a kid and didn’t matter, but mostly because the “customer service” fad hadn’t really caught on yet. But I was undeterred.
And the other kids stared daggers at me, and blamed me for why their food was taking so long. They completely ignored the obvious fact that there were over 30 of us being served my two octogenarians, a recently paroled homeless guy, and a 20-year-old high school drop out.

And so it went throughout my entire life. I’d like to think that I am singly responsible for the operational change fast food restaurants underwent to provide more flexibility and faster service for special orders. It could have been me.
Some years later, I was a stranger in a new town, working at night, going to school during the day, didn’t know a lot of people. But I knew the manager of the McDonald’s I went to everyday. This was mid-80’s, I suppose. No drive-thru, but I wanted to go in and sit down and read by myself and eat in quiet.
So when I came in, she would see me, and call back the grill order before I even got to the counter. She knew what I wanted. I’ve been getting the same thing for years. Quarter Pounder with cheese. Plain. I recall coming in on more than once occasion, and there would be a crowd of people, and she would see me (one of the advantages of being tall, like knowing when it’s raining before anyone else) and call back the grill, and by the time I ordered it, it was ready, just like anyone else. I’m sure they realized, at that point, the feasibility of providing quicker grill order service. Someone probably won an award.
But I still underwent the scrutiny and criticism, and sometimes ridicule, of family and extended family, for not eating more different things, but especially for not putting anything on my burger. Not much is sacred to my dad, but apparently that is. I was practically disowned.
I heard the explanations, the “logic,” the “at least try it,” but could not bring myself to let it pass my lips. Eventually they gave up, and let me be for the most part, with only the occasional plea to join the church of condiments. I remained an atheist in this sense. Then, when I started working at a restaurant that sells ground fresh daily, hand-made burgers, and large ones, I was able to prepare it exactly the way I wanted it. I found I did like ketchup, in the amount I decided, and a very small amount of mustard.
They were, in a word, perfect. Not only were the burgers large (half pound and three-quarter pound), but I had a choice of cheeses, and could cook it however I wanted. Medium is a really good temperature for a burger. Be warned, you can’t do this at any fast food, and at most other restaurants I wouldn’t recommend it. At McDonalds, I have a suspicion they grind the whole cow, hooves and all. I would be concerned about the meat handling procedures in some places as well. But we take the chuck roll, add trim from cutting other steaks, and grind it ourselves, and then pat out the burgers by hand. More like pound them out, but still—way fresh.
But adding ketchup and mustard to them took it to a whole new level of burger enjoyment. It was like eating a burger for the first time. Exciting, a little scary, nervous about how exactly to proceed, but ultimately very satisfying. I thought to myself on that day that later in life, when my doctor recommends I get more roughage in my diet, I’d try the lettuce and tomato. But I didn’t mean it.

At least I thought I didn’t. I have been actively trying to expand my horizons and try new things. One day at work, I thought, “Why not?” Why not, indeed. Worse case scenario, I’d have to spit out one bite, remove the lettuce and tomato. I could handle this, as long as I didn’t think about it too much. I already eat lettuce, having picked up the salad thing shortly after I got married.
Just recently, a co-worker gave me a slice of tomato with cheese on a cracker. With pepper on it. Luckily, she left me alone. In private, I carefully analyzed the situation. I needed to try this. This was my opportunity, and it was dressed up in probably the most appealing manner possible. As long as no one was looking. Thank God for cubicles. I gingerly took a bite. Chewed, swallowed. No harmful affects, no bitterness—I took another bite. Pepper helps everything. This one little cracker, with cheese and a slice of tomato, I ate in about 7 tiny bites.
Not bad.
Armed with this knowledge and experience, I reasoned, I should be able to choke this down, to at least say, yes, I’ve tried it. So I approached the burger carefully, and removed the lid. This is already different. When you eat a burger plain, you never lift the lid. You may pick up a corner to peek, to make sure it’s plain, but never pop it all the way off. The exposed, naked flesh of the burger stared back at me through grill marks, taunting me. I put the lettuce down first, trying fold it nice and neat, trying to keep it on the burger. It kept flopping off defiantly, and refused to stay flat. In a very determined, British manner, I pushed the tomato on top, and used it to hold the lettuce in place.
There.
Then, recalling my previous excursion into the Land of the Tomato, I threw down a layer of pepper for suppression fire. I replaced the lid, picked it up, bit into it.

I wasn’t sure what to think, so I bit again, and again. Chewing and tasting, and wanting more. It was good. It was really good. I wondered, had I been denying myself this whole time, this wondrous, fabulous feast? Nah. I don’t think I was ready until then. But now I was. And in fact, have had a burger practically every day since, in this fashion. That’s how I know it’s not a fluke. That’s how I know this really is something special, something to savor, and spread the word about. I am a changed man. Without being sacrilegious, I feel as though I am born again.
And I really do feel that way, in a religious sense as well. Lost in the glorious fog of eating a burger, and contemplating the wonder of it all, it gave me a new appreciation for all that God has given us, and has confirmed once again that God does exist. Follow my logic if you can.
Evolution plays no part in how a hamburger is going to taste. Hamburger is a processed food, albeit at a very basic level. Animals (and humans) eating the primitive cow had not the tools necessary to grind meat into burger, form a patty, build grill, hook up natural gas, or develop a ventilation system. Similarly, all of the wheats and so forth that we create bread and burger buns from did not go through a natural selection process to become Wonder Bread. These things did happen through the hand of man, however. And did the “missing link” know how to make slices of cheese? I don’t think so. Lastly, the green leaf lettuce and tomato, two very disparate vegetables, nevertheless come together along with these other ingredients to create nature’s most perfect food: the cheeseburger.
This could obviously not have happened without divine intervention. The Lord knew that one day, when my faith would wane and by bowels would need roughage, that I would try this delicacy, and the miracle of belief and taste would coincide in one glorious package, and I would be called to spread the word throughout the land. It truly is the miracle of Intelligent Design.