Ode to the Hamburger

O hamburger, you beautiful democratic mess— you are the food that doesn't care who's eating it. Billionaires eat you. Little Leaguers eat you. Presidents eat you when the cameras are watching because you are the universal symbol for "I'm just like you." You are architecture: bun, lettuce, tomato, patty, cheese, maybe onion if we're being brave, pickle if we're being honest about what we really want. Ketchup or mustard is a question that has ended more friendships than politics. You are not health food. You have never pretended to be. Salads lie. Salads say "I'm a meal" when they are clearly a suggestion. But you, hamburger— you are a commitment. You require two hands and full attention. You cannot be eaten while doing anything else without consequence. You demand presence. You are, in this way, the most mindful food. I love you at backyard cookouts where the dad has opinions about charcoal versus gas and those opinions are the strongest beliefs he will ever hold. I love you at 2 AM from a drive-through window where you taste like mercy, like forgiveness, like the world saying: "You survived today. Here. Eat." O hamburger. You are not gourmet. You are not artisan. You are not "elevated" or "deconstructed." You are perfect the way you are— messy, honest, dripping down my wrist like a handshake from joy itself.