Everything is perfect. It’s a Saturday night. The gin tonics are poured. The afternoon thunderstorm has passed and delicious smells are wafting from the grill.
“Honey, can you bring the buns?”
KABOOOOM! (That was me, crashing back down onto the floor of reality). Because what have I just realized? The bloody buns aren’t cut! And I will now have to cut the buns while the hamburgers are perfectly ready at this very moment, and Noisette will be yelling where the hell are the buns, and I will try and get them cut quickly, and I will smush them because they are nice and soft as they’re supposed to be, just not cut. And I will be even later because I will get out the camera to take pictures of these un-cut buns as a testament to how South Africans just can’t be trusted with a decent hamburger. And I will have to Google if smush is actually a word.
|They totally look like they’re pre-cut. It fools me every single time!|
|And this is what they look afterwards. Smushed. Squished. Whatever the word is.|
South Africa: Please cut your hamburger buns! And please don’t put Boerewors spice into pre-made patties. I doesn’t belong there. And please don’t smother a burger in cheese sauce just because someone asks for a cheeseburger.
Saturday night burgers have become an institution at our house. I make some really mean patties, and Noisette gets all the praise for grilling them to perfection. Almost perfection. They’re always a bit overdone, on account of having to wait for the buns to be cut already.