The funk of the junk
If home cooked beef burgers are Iron Maiden, those salt infested abominations available in the sickly, neon kingdoms are Bryan Adams. Popular and safe to show your mother but quite unremarkable in both taste and looks (still we love Bri eh?) Generic patties, all marching to the same beat on a giant conveyor belt into the jelly stomachs of unfussy masses.
When you put away the wallet/purse and cook your own beef burgers, you will see, and more importantly TASTE the difference. Sure a visit to MacFrankenstein is easier and it keeps the kids happy (which is depressing in itself) but easy rarely makes way for quality.
Home is where heart (and belly) is. Everyone remembers fondly, the home cooked burger that mum always made. Nothing else was like it, unique in every way. Ah the memories! (Something else the neon sh!thouses seldom throw up). You might not get a 'free' toy with a meal at home but mum doesn't need to fob you off with plastic bribes ~ her burgers is plenty.
See me up there in the photo with my convenient, greasy scrumpings? What you can't see is the boredom in my eyes, and a soul so utterly bored with fastfood. I love food but there's nothing to love about a branded zombie burger. Uniformed. Grub shouldn't look, smell and taste the same, and it shouldn't be manhandled by a skinny teenager on job placement before handing over your coin.
