It was finals week when I saw it. I came home late one night from the library, and there it was staring at me from my mailbox: Bobby Flay’s “Nacho Burger” on the cover of Food & Wine’s January issue. My mouth began watering as I debated going to Wegmans the next day to get the ingredients to make it. That idea was quickly dismissed and replaced with the notion that my mom would make a much better burger while I was home for winter break. I stored the issue on my desk so I could stare at it during mealtimes while I ate some of the only groceries left in the house: Progresso chicken noodle soup and, of course, eggs.
When I arrived home for break, I shared the recipe with my mom, who didn’t seem as eager to cook the burgers as I was to eat them. It occurred to me that, since I’d soon be living on my own and I enjoy food so much, I should begin honing my cooking skills. I offered to cook the burgers for dinner the next night, expecting my Italian mother to give the same answer I’ve heard for years: “There’s only room for one of us in this kitchen.” But I realized that having me around the house so much must be starting to drive her crazy, because she agreed to let me take a shot at it.
There are three parts to this outrageously enticing recipe: the burger, the cheese sauce, and topping of tortilla chips and homemade salsa. I laid out the ingredients and read the instructions four times before getting started. I was going to have my own kitchen one day, and this burger symbolized my entry into adulthood. It had to be perfect.
After half an hour, I had grated the cheese. I looked past my huge pile of Monterey jack—which I had been taste-testing throughout the process—and realized that my impatient mother had already prepared the burgers and salsa. “Stop eating the cheese! We need every bit of that,” she scolded, as my father walked by and grabbed a handful when she turned away. I started to surrender to the idea that I just wasn’t cut out for cooking.
As it turned out, the burgers were fantastic; my whole family enjoyed them. Although it was mildly rewarding to know that I contributed the cheese sauce, I’ll let my mom win the battle of the kitchen. Yes, I’ll have my own one day—but until then, bring on the eggs.
— Erin Keene ’12