Burger

My brother and sister-in-law were flying in for the holidays late December 23—as in, they got on the last plane that left before the airport in Florida closed for the night, and arrived as the last flight before the airport in Detroit closed for the night.  This was before my wife and I had kids, so it was a pretty easy Yes when my parents asked if we could make a midnight airport run.

The drive home was remarkably animated, in part because my brother is naturally animated, in part because we hadn’t seen each other for quite a while, and in part because, even though the early hour was trying to masquerade it, this was the start of Christmas Eve.  We delighted in talking about all kinds of little things, a conversation which undoubtedly included my brother’s story of when he came home from college one holiday with a deep disdain for white Christmas lights—only to discover Dad had abandoned his long-standing practice of using those huge, World War II colored lights for something more modern and, well, white.  It just wasn’t Christmas without that story.

It was about 3 in the morning when we pulled up my parent’s driveway, but you sure couldn’t tell that by their house.  It was lit up like a hilltop church on Christmas Eve, and while we never made it to the family room, I wouldn’t put it past Mom and Dad to have lit the tree for the occasion.  Both parents were in their bathrobes—a seasonal reminder that my early-rising mother and always-dressed father actually had bathrobes—and they were positively gushing.  With hugs all around and Mom taking outerwear like the coatchecker at Joe Muer’s, I was glad this wasn’t a day later, since Santa would likely get one earful of the ruckus and say “Yeah, maybe next year”.

It took a while, but things finally started to settle down, as everyone’s psyche remembered they had last been to bed about 21 hours earlier.  I thought Mom was going to launch into the start of her standard winter farewell—“Do you have enough gas?  Where’s your hat?!”—when she offered up an unexpected salvo.

“Are you hungry?”

The only person who is really hungry at 3 AM is an ironworker on the night shift, so I was about to decline what I thought was surely a question offered out of politeness.  But one look at Mom, and I knew it was more.  She was in full Mom mode, and it would absolutely delight every fiber of her being to make me something to eat.

“You want a hamburger?”

I smirked and looked at the floor, and that was enough to launch Mom into action.

Most high-end chefs will tell you the best burgers are made in skillets.  The seasoning of the skillet lends flavor, as does the grease from the burger.  Cooked in its own fat, the burger can’t help but be incredibly juicy.

I ate that 3AM hamburger probably twenty years ago, but it still stands as the best burger I’ve ever eaten.  The fancy chefs may be right, since Mom made it in a skillet.  Still, I’m inclined to think it was my memory of everything I’d ever eaten from that skillet, and the delight the powder-blue-robed chef showed in making it, that made the taste so memorable. I’m pretty sure her Christmas dinner was good that year, but to be honest, I’d already had my feast 36 hours earlier.

May your holidays find you at peace, and with those who cherish your company.

Ode to a Penguin (For My Gem)

It involves a gentle slip
From one venue to another.
No boastful splash–
Look at me!
There’s somewhere else to be
So you get there
With the elegance shown
Before the journey
And after you arrive.
Inspiring transitions
To be sure.

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