Ghetto Burgers

I get so nostalgic when I think about my childhood in Montreal. Writing about ghetto pops made me think of my mom's hamburgers. When we were young, before we moved to the US and my parents bought the restaurant, we never ate out. That's probably why we always wanted to go to McDonald's. But every time we begged to go there, my mother would make us burgers and tell us they were better than McDonald's. Nik, you remember? We never believed her, but in hindsight, I'm glad she never let us eat that crap. I remember that her burgers were HUGE. I was a big girl and even I couldn't make a dent in one. She would make a big plate of fries and put lemon juice and oregano on them, which are delicious, but all we ever wanted were sad, limp, greasy little McDonald's fries.

One day two of my cousins, my two sisters and I were dropped off at the pediatrician all together. The oldest was probably 12 or 13. I was the youngest at 7. I don't remember why my parents dropped us off. My mother didn't work, but I guess she had something important to do, because it was very unlike my parents to do this. The doctor's office wasn't far from our house, but it was on a major road and so my parents gave us money for a taxi along with strict instructions on getting home right after we were done at the doctor's. Being the five mischievous little girls that we were, we decided to screw the taxi and use the money to go to McDonald's instead. We were having so much fun that we forgot all about the time and by the time we made our way home, my parents were out of their minds with worry. We tried to convince them that we had just finished at the doctor's office, but they had called the pediatrician hours ago and knew we were lying. The beating the five of us received from my father is in the list of top five beatings of all time.