Special to Slashfood from Kat KinsmanWith all due respect to yoga, psychotherapy, and the pharmaceutical industry, some days all I need to achieve inner peace is a great big greasy hamburger. It's a primal experience -- wrapping both hands around a pillow-soft potato roll loaded with a thick, dripping, grill-seared slab of grade-A American beef, opening my mouth, sinking my teeth in and CONSUMING. There's no room left for job angst, calorie fret or relationship woes -- just me and meat, a soft potato roll (no chewy kaiser rolls for me) and, if there's some on hand, a hefty slab of cheese -- the sharper the better.
Once fed, I can more calmly and sanely address the issues at hand, but while the burger's still got at least a bite left, problems just magically melt away.
I take my burgers the same way every time: rare to the point of mooing, with cheese, mustard and, as my pal Lissa liked to say, "an embarrassment of pickles." It's my recipe for tranquility, and for the most part, I'm sticking to it.
Sometimes, though, the exact ingredients just aren't on hand. C'est la vie. There's plenty of joy to be found in a sack of savory, onion-studded White Castle sliders, or a sloppy road-trip Whopper with cheese from the essential pit stop at Burger King (NOT McDonald's, thank you very much). This is food that's meant to be eaten with gusto -- and with your hands. I abandon all notions of daintiness when I burn rubber from the Las Vegas airport to the In-N-Out Burger on Industrial Road. The chain hasn't reached my neck of the woods, and the meaty mustard ooze down my fingers as I savor Double-Double Animal Style feast at a parking-lot picnic table is what tells me that for right now, the rules don't apply. I'm on vacation. I'm free.
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