Dinner Possible

I love burgers. Love them. Daughter said Tuesday morning that there would be burgers for dinner. Ground beef marinated with buffalo chicken wing sauce, fried with mushrooms and onions, topped with crumbled bleu cheese and served on a whole wheat bun.

Oh goody.

I thought about my burger all day. A light lunch of a pb&j (apple) sandwich and a glass of skim milk barely kept me going. I did manage to survive until check out time, by which I was more than ready for that burger. The train ride and long walk home seemed to take longer than usual, nearly too long.

One step inside our vestibule however dashed all hopes of a hot, dripping with juices burger, spicily sauced and surrounded by steak fries, sour cream, salsa and extra bleu cheese, for I was met by the unmistakable stench of burnt beef. Damn. I moped up the steps, un-did the locks, entered the unit and said a less than hearty hello to all the fur babies. Daughter, who was coming from the kitchen, was treated to my mournful expression. The question scorched the lips but refused to be spoken. She said emphatically, “I don’t want to talk about it!”

Damn. I couldn’t chide her. I know how these things happen. I’d had an unfortunate run-in with some green beans a few days ago, and some grits days before that. It has been a burned beyond recognition festival around here lately. What’s going on? Heck if I know.

It wasn’t a total disaster. She was able to salvage some of the dinner. It wasn’t bad, but certainly wasn’t what I’d been salivating about for the better part of a day.

Rumor has it she’ll try again today. I’m trying hard not to think about outcomes, good or bad.

Bon Appetit.