Regression: noun, a return to a former or less developed state; a return to an earlier stage of life or a supposed previous life.
TODAY, AS I write this, is National Cheeseburger Day, and it’s high time they were so honored. Last week I read in one of those newspaper throwaways that last year enough cheeseburgers were eaten to go around the world 32 times. Who measured that? I believe it. Cheeseburgers have been, for a century or more, the chateaubriand of the working class. Now it’s not uncommon to see two hedge fund managers eating them on a bench on Wall Street.
According to Cheeseburger.net, the first cheeseburger was created in the mid-1920s by a chef named Lionel Sternberger in Pasadena, California. A passing homeless man suggested Sternberger should add a slice of cheese to his hamburger order, Sternberger then added this to his main menu, and the cheeseburger was born. I love this country.
Cheeseburgers came into my life in my freshman year in high school, exactly the same time as Rosemary DeBranco, she of the one thousand and one pastel-colored Angora sweaters and simple strand of pearls. Our first “date” was right after meeting in Mr. King’s homeroom. After school at the Velvet Freeze Soda Fountain, we had two delicious cheeseburgers, the old-fashioned kind, a patty of pressed cheap ground meat on a Wonder Bread roll with one patty of Velveeta Cheese. We both reached for the catsup at the same time, and our fingers touched. The rest is Cleveland High history.
Those were the days, my friend. Days of Milky Way bars, chocolate malt shakes, french fries, Dr Pepper and chocolate Necco wafers. It’s a wonder I’ve lived so long.
Then one day, as it happens to all of us, my palate underwent a seismic shift to sophistication. I grew older, handsomer, more charming and urban, but not wiser.
I fell into a world of older theater people who dined on filet mignon, steak tartare, and at the end, a brief interlude of quiet evenings with $50 dollar bottles of French wine, imported caviar and English crackers. That was Mimi Bordeau. She and her Parisian tastes lasted about three weeks before I had to choose between Beluga and the rent.
In my 30 years in Maine, I had grown fat and old. Then two years ago, I fell in with a younger crowd given to fast-moving fads: vegetarian, vegan and raw foodists given to exclamations like: “You’re gonna put that in your mouth? Are you crazy? That’s a carb! Is it grass-fed? Free-range? Gluten-free? You wana die?”
I became part of the health crazies, roving through the days and nights, harassing innocent shoppers at the checkout stands, giving dirty shocked looks at frightened diners at nearby tables, reading labels the way lawyers read contracts. I would frighten shoppers away from the fish counter in Hannaford: “That’s farm-raised. You know what they feed fish there?”
I would chase friends away from the canned goods aisle, actually dragging them over to the fresh produce aisle. It should have come as no surprise that people would see me coming, and grab their iPhones, saying, “Hi, J.P. Sorry, I can’t talk. I have to take this. My son is parachuting into Mali at this very moment.”
Yes, I lost 35 pounds and have kept it off, but at what cost?
Then, as it happens to all of us upon reaching very late middle age, I regressed. Enchanted by a strong aroma outside a trendy new burger joint in Augusta, we wandered in, intending to order one of their healthy salads. In a matter of minutes, I found myself sitting before a double patty of beef, barbecue sauce and two slices of bacon on a warm bun, along with a side of baked fries. Oh yes, and a large Dr Pepper.
Memories of the Velvet Freeze clouded my eyes. For a moment, I hallucinated. I saw the zaftig, curly-haired blond Rosemary in her apricot angora sweater. We both reached for the catsup, and as our fingers touched, a loving but more recent, comforting voice said,
“Jerry, put your napkin on, and wipe your mouth. You have barbecue sauce on your upper lip. Oh no! You’ve got some on your sleeve.”
Memories fade, but cheeseburgers are forever.
J.P. Devine is a Waterville writer.
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