Archive for August 2011

Look, ma! I ate a burger!

[Note: since writing this post, I've been told everything I've ever known about this story is a lie. However, this is how I remember it, so this is the story you're getting]

It all started when I was two years old.

My mom had cooked a delicious meal for her, my father, and me. As she went to feed me a bite of the meal, I immediately spit it out, probably made that awful face a child makes when they don’t like something, and cried. It was my first burger.

This, combined with several other childhood tantrums, got me pegged as a picky eater. My mom got into a habit of telling me that I didn’t like things because she didn’t want to deal with my fits and because she, too, is a picky eater.

At family functions, I was teased because I’d never eat a burger. When it was burger night, we had to buy hot dogs because I wouldn’t even go close to a burger. When my dad was first dating my stepmom, she didn’t know I was adamantly anti-burgers and brought home 3 burgers one night. I didn’t eat anything for dinner that night and ignored her for a week.

It got so ridiculous that it even became family folklore. My parents would tease me about my distaste for burgers and it even became a joke that if I found a man that could convince me to eat a burger, I should marry him.

One night, in college, I was buying steaks for my boyfriend and myself and had to call my mom to ask her what the different types of cuts meant because I only knew of one – venison. My dad was a hunter, so all I’d known was deer steak. I didn’t know that steaks were made from cows and I definitely didn’t know what a Ribeye was because that doesn’t sound very deer-like. I was traumatized because I didn’t know that cows were steak – I associated them with burgers, therefore, they were disgusting.

This long-standing hatred of burgers lasted so long that it just became a thing. I’d randomly tell the story over the years and people wouldn’t believe me. Family, friends, boyfriends all tried to get me to eat a burger, but I just didn’t see the point. I’d lived that long without it, why did I need it now?

I lasted 23 years without another bite of burger.

Until Saturday, July 23rd.

It’d been in the works for months now. I promised myself that I was going to stop out of my comfort zone this year, do things I’d never thought I’d do. So, I ate a burger.

A delicious, medium-well, bacon and cheese and lettuce and tomato and onion covered burger. See! There’s even evidence:

Does this mean I’m converted to the world of ground beef eaters? Probably not. Meat isn’t really a big part of my diet and I’ve lived so long without a burger that I don’t feel the need for it. But it was delicious.

I apologize if, over the past few months, I’ve promised you I’d get a burger with you. I specifically chose people I knew wouldn’t judge me if I publicly vomited and wouldn’t make a big deal about my burger cherry being popped. Now that I know I won’t make a scene, I’m more than happy to get a burger with (almost) anyone, (almost) any time.