Wednesday, September 7, 2011

An Open Letter to Hamburger

Dear Mr. Hamburger:

I hope it’s okay that I address you as Mr. ‘Sir’ seemed a bit stuffy, though I am told that your juiciness alone could potentially warrant knighthood.
Let me start by saying that I have heard many good things about you. Gushing, really. Anytime you are in the conversation, words like “savory” and “delicious” are frequently applied. I myself have never experienced anything that fits that description, so let’s just say I’m intrigued. Call me epicurious.
A little about me: I’m 11 months, blue eyes, hate hats, love mango. I recently came into contact with something called a kiwi; if you have the means, I highly suggest picking one up.
Now I realize that some might consider my complete lack of teeth an impediment to our relationship, but I like to see it as more of a “challenge.” And believe me friend (can I call you friend?), I am ready to step up to that challenge.
Therefore I’d like to humbly request a proper introduction between you and my belly. I presume my mouth will be an acceptable facilitator for this rendezvous? I can insert you directly by myself, assuming you are broken into manageable pieces. I can have one of my benefactors arrange this, as my fine motor skills only extend so far, you understand.
So when would be a good time for you? The best times for me are normally between 9 a.m. and 7 p.m. I normally succumb to the Sandman, I’m afraid, between 11 and 12 and then again between 3 and 4. But any other time within that window would be most satisfactory.
But I have another favor to ask, if I might. Perhaps I am getting ahead of my little self a bit, but can I ask your opinion of Mr. Tofu? I can only assume the two of you do not see eye to eye; cordial rivals at best. Indeed I’ve been introduced to him on a number of hapless occasions, and every time he has succeeded in offending my sensibilities. He worms his way into my oatmeal, interfaces with my sweet potato and violates my sweet mango. This is simply unacceptable; I’m afraid our only recourse can be total annihilation. Down with this soy-based oppressor! Meat is neat! Are you with me, Mr. Burger?
Do think it over, won’t you? If we can’t work together professionally, so be it. But I look ever so forward to our gastronomical marriage, at your earliest convenience.
Deepest respect,

Master Bub


  1. Dear Bub,

    You've hurt my feelings. I thought we were friends. Your mother is not going to be happy about this.

    Cordially yours,

  2. I remember well trying to disguise putting tofu into my vegetarian son's food. Of course my son was 12 years old at the time, not 11 months old as your son Bub. I tried to put it into his oatmeal, french toast, and spaghetti sauce. Before eating his food he would sometimes suspiciously ask me if there was tofu in it. I would usually tell him the truth. But as long as Bub is only 11 months old, I think you can get away with trying a white lie with him. Good luck in his later years.