Hamburger was a greasy, smelly treat the first time down the Pan-American Highway. Cooking it meant we were at least camped somewhere level, with enough money to buy ground beef. Which is why my parents never could understand why I gave it up, along with all other red meat, when I went to college.
Fast forward two decades and it is my birthday. I can’t face another bowl of rice and beans. I am a carnivore again and have Panama to thank for coming to my senses.