It has always been my private conviction that any man who pits his intelligence against a fish and loses has it coming. ~John Steinbeck

When Sam announced the class goldfish was up for adoption, I knew I was in trouble. Keeping two-inch long marigold slivers of fate and bubbles alive for more than a few weeks is beyond my capabilities. My first set of fish, won from a Vacation Bible School perfect attendance raffle, lasted the summer until my sister put perfume in the bowl so they’d smell better. Several other fish dodged in an out of my life over the years. I signed the consent, figuring he would be competing with 25 other first-graders for the privilege of being chosen guardian to a Carassius auratus.

Juicebox the Goldfish came home today. He is nervous, flitting around in a bowl we bought for a Beta nearly a decade ago. I saved the bowl and a bag of blue rocks, with an inkling that someday I would need to be prepared for my six-year-old son to exit a school building with a Hefty zip-top bag containing his new best friend.

I will do my best to preserve fin and gill.

We were on a family road trip to Minnesota to attend my dad’s twentieth high school reunion. It was 1981 and my little brother, Brian, was four years old.

Along the way, we stopped at the usual fast food foisters and slashed and buttoned vinyl boothed family restaurants. Brian’s food order never varied. In one breath he’d ask for hamburgerfrenchfrycoke. Hamburgerfrenchfrycoke. Hamburgerfrenchfrycoke.

Hamburgerfrenchfrycoke is a word in our family dictionary.

Hamburgers, grilled by my dad, were a staple on our menu. Topped with home-grown tomatoes and sour-snapped dill pickles jarred by my parents, nothing could beat a burger eaten on the patio on a warm summer night. When I consider the starring role hamburgers played in my childhood diet, it is surprising how little my own children understand the mighty but humble hamburger.

It wasn’t until Aidan was in Kindergarten when she decided to try her first hamburger. She was disappointed and perplexed by the glaring lack of ham on her hamburger. Trying to explain the origins of the name did nothing to stop the incessant “but where is the ham? Can you put ham on my bun?”

Ryley only recently started liking hamburgers. We grilled a batch for dinner last week and he asked me if I could make his “with meat.” That would be like asking me to make sure I included the pasta in a plate of spaghetti, I explained.

Some may argue it is not a bad thing to spare my kids from the gut-clogging horrors of red meat. The days of serving red meat several times a week are long gone in our society. It must be lean, cooked until it is the color and texture of a cheap brown penny loafer, and placed lovingly on a whole wheat bun with a side of air stained apple slices.

Perhaps that’s why my kids generally turn their noses up at hamburgers?

I want mine medium rare—quietly mooing. I want some grease to drip down my chin when I take my first mongo, jaw-splitting Great White Shark bite. I like melted sharp cheddar cheese, flourescent-orange with the corners draped over the meat like a little coverlet. I like snow-white mayo, exotic mustards, tongue-spanking dill pickles, sweet and cold tomatoes, buttery grilled onions, fluffy leafy lettuce, smooth guacamole, occasionally limp chewy bacon. I like the meat to be still sizzling from the grill. I like the bun to be mistaken for a loaf of bread—the luxury of soft wheat, shiny camel-colored topped with embedded onion or sesame or poppyseeds, wrapping the meat and condiments in a tender hug of meldling layered flavors, colors, textures in my eager mitts.

Delight, ham-free, with meat.

Maybe some random day my kids will understand my love affair with a good burger. If not, I hope there is some food I make that will inspire happy memories of summer nights on the patio. Their palattes will swoon, their senses will be starry-eyed, and all will be served with a smile.