¶ Last night, I served cheeseburgers for dinner, Kathleen’s, as usual, without a roll. I wish I could say that I like my cheeseburgers, but I can’t. I don’t. They’re boring.

I dream of the cheeseburgers that we used to consume by the dozen at this bar that we used to go to in law school. We called them “gutbombs.” Greasy and delicious! Or the burgers at Gleason’s, a would-be pub behind the Museum of Natural History, which, back in the early Eighties, was one of the first places to put burgers on English muffins. My favorite part was eating the bottom half of Kathleen’s muffin, which she left unscathed by knife and fork. I had to use a knife and fork to eat it, so saturated was it. 

I cannot reproduce these wonders, although I try everything. Sometimes, I worry that I have simply outgrown burgers. Now, that would be sad.

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