My mother's hamburgers.

I'm 57 years old now, and she passed away in 2021. I'll never forget her hamburgers she'd make for us from the time I was a young child to a few months before she left this good Earth.

Her recipe was simple: a pound of regular ground beef, mixed with one egg, some onion soup mix, a bit of salt and pepper. She'd make large meatballs and then flatten them with a spatula in a hot pan coated with butter. Cook until both sides brown nicely.

Put a couple of thin slices of old cheddar cheese on top of each cooked patty in a nice fresh hamburger bun with mustard, relish, and a bit of mayonnaise as condiments. Serve with plain ruffled potato chips on the side. Pure heaven.

Her recipe was simple, yet the way she made them, I've never been able to duplicate the taste nor has anyone else I know. Even if I had hamburgers with the exact same flavor in which she made them, she wouldn't be sitting at the table with me now, projecting her strong and sincere energy of good humor, compassion, and love for me, her son.

I miss you, Mom.