The small coffee can filled with bacon grease that sat on back of Grandma’s old gas stove always lent the kitchen the smell that breakfast could be right around the corner. She’d begin every meal with a teaspoon of it thrown into a black cast iron skillet, and the two-bedroom house would come alive as if it were dawn’s first light even if the sun had set an hour before. I sat on the glittery vinyl chair by the yellow linoleum table and watched her, my legs swinging back and forth giving them something to do. After raising her own five children, she knew what she was doing in front of that stove, and she moved with a graceful assurance that was lost in the rest of her day.
“I’m gonna fix you up some dinner. You didn’t eat, did you?” I shook my head. Her and Grandpa had already finished with supper, and Grandpa was in the living room watching one of his programs. I never much liked what he chose to watch; my tastes were more refined than Gunsmoke or Hee Haw, plus if there was something that rubbed him the wrong way, whether it was something on the TV or a sound in the house like me letting out a loud crack of bubble gum, all hell would break loose, and he’d scream a cussing streak that made Grandma bunch her mouth up and duck. Both Grandma and I knew that the kitchen was the safest place to be.
My dad had dropped me off for the night; either my mom was in the hospital and he wanted to go out and “explore,” or else she might’ve been having one of her spells of crying or screaming or both. I didn’t mind spending the night at my grandparents’ house even though the spare bedroom didn’t have its own television. It smelled of old linen and lavender, and had a desk taller than me with a secret compartment in it where I could hide my gum on a moment’s notice if I needed to.
While the grease was coating the bottom of the skillet, Grandma grabbed a bag of Jay’s potato chips and put them on the table in front of me. I started to eat them, one at a time just as I saw people do on television, savoring each one with multiple chews until there was nothing in my mouth but air and the memory. She grabbed the handle of the refrigerator, pulled it down to open it up, her hand around a package of ground beef wrapped in white butcher paper. “I got the good kind today, the kind you like.” She said this with gentle pride.
I watched her scoop a handful of the red meat into her hands, pounding it back and forth into a thick patty. She threw it into the skillet, sharp hot sparks of grease popped all around her, and she shook her hand as a hot drop landed on it. Her face scowled while she wiped her hand on her terry-cloth apron then took the spatula and with all of her might, she smashed it down on top of the meat until that thick patty became a round red circle, the skillet angry again. She covered it with a sheet metal lid that was too big for the skillet, letting it cook while she dove back into the fridge to grab the Velveeta that was wrapped up with a piece of tin foil. With a large butcher knife, she cut off an inch thick piece of the shiny yellow cheese and let it sit on the chopping board.
Condiments were the most important ingredient of any meal as far as I could see, and I scooted off the chair to collect the ketchup, mustard, relish, and to me the classiest of them all, mayonnaise. I carefully laid them out near my empty plate in the order that I’d use them.
“Get yourself a napkin,” Grandma said, and I pulled a sheet from the roll of paper towels. “This is going to be a good one.” She always said that, and each time she was right, even if each time they tasted the same. She pulled the lid off the skillet with her bare fingers. It must have burned her because she shook her hand again, shook away the burn. Grandma flipped over the burger sending the grease into a loud roar, and flattened the patty with the spatula. What was once almost a round ball of meat was now as flat as a pancake, and the top of it was burnt and hard.
I sat on the chair in my shorts, my legs glued to the plastic seat. The kitchen was hot now; the smoke from the cooking meat creating a cloud that hovered over Grandma, wafting up to the ceiling. She pressed down on the patty one more time before carefully laying the cheese on top, and then the top went back on. This was my favorite part––the cheese melting down over the edges of the patty and into the grease.
“You need some tomato with that.” She looked over at my condiment soldiers standing in formation. Reaching up on top of the fridge, she took a large yellow tomato and put it on the chopping board. Taking the knife she used for the cheese out of the sink, she sliced three thick pieces from the tomato and put them on a small white plate. “There,” she said after dropping them from her fingers. I arranged them correctly, fanning them out like magazines on a rich man’s coffee table.
By the time she took the lid off the skillet for the last time, I was absolutely bugged-eyed with hunger. I couldn’t wait to have that hamburger in front of me, on my plate, ready to be dressed. I took a bun from the plastic bag and opened it up into a white pillowy bed.
“Okay, bring me over your plate.” I peeled myself off the chair and held my plate in front of me. She dug the spatula underneath the burger, letting it hang over the skillet for a moment to drain off any extra grease, and gently placed the cheese-covered patty onto my bun. “Looks good, Grandma.”
“Oh. Let me get you some sweet pickles for that,” she said as I sat down. She brought out a jar and sliced a few of the pickles into slivers. She placed them on the plate along side the main course. My plate looked professional, something that might be served in a fine restaurant, or the centerfold for Burger Magazine.
I carefully coated the top of the melted cheese with ketchup, letting the coolness of it start to bring down the temperature of my meal, making it almost immediately edible. Next, I carefully spread the mustard on the bun then coated that with relish. Finally, I took a spoon and scooped out a little bit of mayonnaise, just enough to toss on (in the middle of the ketchup) top of the burger to give accent to the ketchup, a white yolk on a fried red egg. After placing a handful of potato chips just so on the plate, I looked down at what was most certainly the most stylish meal I’d ever seen.
Grandma sat down across the table from me, watching my first bite. She wiggled her nose, sniffing off to the side just as a rabbit would. It was a habit she’d always had, something to keep her face busy. An involuntary smile spread out across my face, and she asked, “What’s wrong with it? Did I burn it?”
“No, Grandma, it’s great.”
“Are you sure?”
“It’s just how I like it.” She settled back in her chair, and just kept watch me over me, her nose giving another twitch of satisfaction.