Taste of Summer

Summer.

Fire rages, fueled by a seemingly endless supply of gas. Within metal housing, the flames heat everything surrounding it. Soon the air is two hundred, three hundred, four hundred degrees. Unable to escape, the molecules speed up, faster and faster they accelerate. After a time, the roof is removed—it doesn’t collapse like in a normal fire, but rather swings away, still visible from below. The metal floor is unbearable—all life on it has extinguished as the fires burn.

Suddenly, a collection of metal tines bundled tightly hits the floor, aggressively scraping back and forth against the heated grates, breaking loose debris. It falls down to the depths below—an unspeakable collection of burnt flesh and fats, never to be found again. The floor is surprisingly clean; it emanates heat enough to cook anything that enters. From the open roof a slab of meat unknown hits the floor. It sizzles against the metal. Above and off in the distance a voice can be heard, calling out to even further off, “You want medium rare?” It speaks with a confidence from repeated and prolonged practice.

The voice is that of a man. He plops another five burgers on the grill, followed by corn wrapped in tin foil. The smells of the frozen burger defrosting and cooking fills his driveway and filters into the garage. The neighbor across the street sees him and waves. The response, cordial and customary, is a wave with half of a hand as he holds a beer.

Beef.

It encompasses all the other smells, which appear faint and are only distinguishable by taste. Mayonnaise sits on the table next to the mustard and ketchup, waiting to be used by the man and his family as they eat. The man’s wife brings out a plate—one they have consistently with this meal.

Burgers.

The man has cooked it dozens of times. He brags to his friends that he makes a mean burger, but it is usually slightly over-cooked.

The man’s wife walks by with the plate—his family called it a Happy Plate—filled with colorful toppings for added flavor. He stared longingly at it and the woman as she walked by, not that he could smell the toppings, but the colors reminded him of previous summers—filled with laughter and fun, culminating in a juicy, smoky burger before bedtime. His wife passes by and sets down the Happy Plate, anticipating the burgers’ being finished soon. She calls to the children—three girls and a boy, all laughing and playing in the yard on their playhouses. They line up with plates in hand. The smoke from the barbecue rises into the air; bellies rumble and lips are licked. The man flips the burgers and gives a smile to the children as he puts cheese across the patties. He dares not undercook the food, despite his wife specifically requesting a rare burger.

The burgers finish on the grill. He scoops them quickly, landing on the serving plate beside him. Walking to his back yard, the kids follow in tow, happily singing about their food.

Dinner.

He sits with his family, a rare circumstance while working late most days, building his burger rather quickly. Bun, ketchup, burger, cheese, lettuce, ketchup, mayonnaise, bun again. He takes a bite and revels in it: the taste of Summer.

There is no bickering amongst children, no disagreements, and no complaints. Smiles cross the faces of the parents as the children give ketchup-smeared grins. For a brief moment, the quiet munching of food is the only sound, until the cricket and katydids’ sounds fill the air. The sun is beginning to set, and the sky turns a beautiful pink and orange—the perfect end to a perfect summer day.