Why I Make Burgers When Life Falls Apart
Sometimes, when everything feels like it’s spiraling—work, relationships, even the weather—I just say screw it and make cheeseburgers and fries at home. Not the fancy kind. Just ground beef, cheese that melts, and fries I cut myself because I need to feel like I’m in control of something.
There’s something weirdly therapeutic about smashing a patty on a hot pan and hearing it sizzle. I pile on way too much cheese, stack it all up, and dunk fries in ketchup like I’m a kid again. For those 20 minutes, it’s just me, the food, and the fact that at least I didn’t burn the house down.
Homemade burgers aren’t going to fix my life, but honestly, they’re a solid start. Anyone else use food as a coping mechanism, or is it just me?
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