A cheeseburger. That's what Aunt Pam wants for dinner.

You can make a cheeseburger.

Aunt Pam can't make a cheeseburger; she's been lying in that bed for weeks. She can barely sit up to eat a pudding cup. But now she wants a cheeseburger, and by all the ancient gods, you're going to make it for her.

Not only can you make a cheeseburger, but you can make the best cheeseburger. You've been all over the country, tasted a global buffet of exotic cuisine, and picked up plenty of tricks from gourmet chefs and grubby line-cooks alike.

You can get the good buns, the kind with grains and that perfect, chewy crust. You buy good meat, lean and robust. Your cheese is rich and tangy-sweet.

Most importantly, you know the secrets of spices, and you have them all at hand. You've been here long enough to fill Aunt Pam's kitchen with the food you've come to know and love. There's plenty of room for your food, since Aunt Pam never learned--never bothered--to experiment with the subtlety of flavors and textures that could turn her regular down-home-cooking into a royal feast.

Uncle Harry liked your cooking, once he finally deigned to try it. Too bad he wasn't around long enough to enjoy more than a couple of meals.

But that was months ago, and tonight, Aunt Pam wants a cheeseburger.

You could make her a cheeseburger the likes of which no one in this backwater rural county--certainly not Aunt Pam--has ever dreamed.

You could send her to heaven.

But Aunt Pam only wants what she wants. She only wants what she knows. White bread, yellow cheese, greasy meat. Mayonnaise. Ketchup. That's enough for Aunt Pam.

Aunt Pam doesn't want to go to heaven.

In fact, despite the doctors' weekly assurances that she won't last much longer, it's beginning to seem like Aunt Pam isn't going anywhere.

Maybe...maybe just a little pepper.

It worked on Uncle Harry.

     

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