Well, that was all the motivation I needed. Fueled by a surge of feminist resolve, I decided there was no reason I couldn’t take charge and whip up some simple burgers.
Let’s be honest: I didn’t even know how to turn on the grill outside. Seriously.
But I was determined. Armed with the essentials for a modern woman— a gas stove, a cast-iron grill pan, and of course, Google—I prepped myself for this culinary adventure. After scouring the web for tips on how to use a cast-iron grill pan and figuring out how to judge when a hamburger is cooked, I felt ready to tackle this task. I also stumbled across several warnings about grease fires and flare-ups, so I made sure the fire extinguisher was nearby (but cleverly tucked away under the sink, so my kids wouldn’t sense any uncertainty about my grilling prowess).
Before I began, I set a few basic objectives for Operation Burger. Unlike most tactical missions, these were things I wanted to avoid rather than achieve:
- Burning the house down.
- Poisoning the kids with salmonella.
- Creating hockey pucks instead of burgers.
- Burning myself in any way.
I know I repeated the whole “burning the house down” bit, but it felt significant enough to mention twice.
As I gathered the ingredients and began forming the beef patties, I reflected on how my parenting goals had shifted since I was first thrilled to discover I was expecting. My husband and I faced challenges in conceiving, so when we finally learned we were having twin boys, I was overwhelmed with gratitude and vowed to be the perfect mother. I was serious! I planned to breastfeed for at least two years, use cloth diapers, make homemade baby food, teach my kids to read by three, eliminate all screen time, and engage in daily arts and crafts. I envisioned a spotless house filled with organic foods, homegrown veggies, and a mother who whistled while she worked.
Fast forward nine years and one unexpected little girl later. All those grand plans? Completely out the window. I managed just six weeks of breastfeeding with each child, the cloth diaper dream was a bust, and jarred baby food became my go-to. My boys learned to read at six and were glued to Baby Einstein from a young age. The state of my house? Let’s just say it looks like a tornado hit. Arts and crafts? A messy nightmare! My attempt at gardening ended with two dead tomato plants due to neglect. By bedtime, I was just happy to have them settle down, leaving little energy for reading. I now volunteer once a week in my boys’ classes, but it took me years to get there, and I often count the minutes until I can escape.
So here I stood in front of the stove, ready to cook burgers with my only goals being to keep the house intact, avoid any injuries, and ensure my kids didn’t end up in the emergency room. If I could manage those three things, I’d consider it a massive win.
Aside from a brief panic when flames erupted after flipping a burger, dinner prep went smoothly. The fire extinguisher remained safely under the counter, and to my surprise, the burgers received a thumbs up from my under-10 food critics. Everyone went to bed without any smoke alarms blaring or any incidents of projectile vomiting.
A resounding success, I say!
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In summary, despite my initial fears, Operation Burger turned into a delightful success. I learned that sometimes, it’s not about perfection but rather about enjoying the moment and keeping everyone safe and happy in the chaos of family life.