I’m always writing creative pieces through a fictional scope, or on an imagined perspective, but I think it’s about time I share a story actually about myself.

Let’s start out with this… do you remember the first time you ate your favorite food? A moment with family, laughing around a table? A haven alone, daring to snack on some stolen goods? I can’t.

Just kidding! Good golly, that would be depressing. No, but my favorite food is a hamburger. Simple, sure, but I find ways to make it more than that. My best mate tells me it’s more of a meatloaf in the way I prepare it. I’m not sharing that recipe yet, though! That’s a top secret article right there.

The first time I ate one, though?

I was with my family,

on a summer’s eve, about to thank our good graces for the meal, and my father was beyond excited.

“What’s this?” I readied my tableware menacingly in an attempt at interrogation.

“You’ll like it, trust me.”

I was among the faithless four-year-olds who questioned the world and trusted only their own distaste for the different. The next few minutes would show my persistence I inherited from my father.

“No, I don’t trust you. You’re gone heavens knows where most of the day, and never bring back any proof you were at an office– whatever that even means. For all I know, this is made of those adorable animals we met at the farm!”

“No, really, you’ll love it.”

“Are you sure? No, wait, but what is it made of?”

“Just try it.”

Irritated beyond discussion, I started to raise my voice at the dinner table.

“No! You won’t even tell me what it’s made of! For all I know, it’s poisoned!”

“Why would I poison my own son? Look, you wouldn’t like the answer.”

Of course I wouldn’t like the answer. The answer was to trust my own family, despite my inquisitive nature being scorned. It was all I would be permitted to eat that night, of course. What kind of family lets their kids determine their palate? Lifting the juicy, grill-scarred patty to my mouth, once I got past the fake bite I took…

“See? There? You happy! I hope you…”

“Well, are you happy?”

“No, I hate it! I hate this! I hate how good this tastes!”

If there’s one thing about me that my family hated and loved, it’s how honest I could be.