I lovingly held my new “Big City Slider Station” like a proud father. I hollered at my wife and son to come into the kitchen and meet the newest member of our family. My son rolled into the kitchen on his razor scooter. He screeched to a stop, looked at the box, and saw the giant picture of Billy Mays on the front. After he recognized Mays, Murphy said, “Mom says that guy makes junk.” He flipped a U-turn and rolled out of the kitchen.

Then I unwrapped the “Big City Slider Station.” With its five wells and gray metal color, it looked like a muffin pan.  But this was no ordinary cooking pan. It was muffin pan for meat! The “Big City Slider Station” came with a press that had a handle and it aligned perfectly into the five wells.  The idea was that the grill lid would press down on the top of the burger patties and allow for even cooking. No flipping was necessary. The “Big City Slider Station” was so expertly designed it seemed to be the Dyson Vacuum of meat grillers.

The cook book that was included with my purchase featured recipes for a wide variety of Sliders. Some sounded righteously tasty. And others sounded like diarrhea sandwiches. The Billy Burgers, Bacon Cheddar Slider, and Italian Turkey Sliders were no-brainers. They looked awesome. But I decided that the Stroganoff Slider, Egg Slider, and Sloppy Joe Slider were to be avoided. It would be like having Mike Tyson inside my colon. For my ceremonial first use, I decided to make the Original Slider Station Burger.

I mixed the Whole Foods ground beef with steak seasoning and Worcestershire sauce. Then I used the plastic scoop that measured out the perfect amount of meat needed and placed it into each of the five wells. I pressed the lid down, turned the stove burner on to medium, and anxiously waited for my pile of burgers like Wimpy from the Popeye cartoon. 

But the meat magic never happened. The famous grill press that was to allow even cooking didn’t come close to working. The burgers were charred on the bottom and pale on the top. The meat scooper that was supposed to measure out the perfect amount left me with burgers the size of nickels. Nevertheless, I made three rounds of burgers and pounded them down. Murphy and Sarah liked their burgers, too. But we all decided that it wasn’t worth the effort. After I washed the “Big City Slider Station,” I solemnly packed it back into its box. I held the box in my arm for a long minute, a moment of silence for my soon to be dearly departed meat pan. 

Sarah gave me a supportive hug. Murphy plopped off his scooter and joined in on the family hug. As I cradled my “Big City Slider Station,” he was face to face with the picture of Billy Mays on the box.

“Mom said that guy makes junk,” Murphy repeated.