Some time ago I was making a long trip by car on a summer weekend, and so as I drove I could see a number of families enjoying the nice weather with back yard cookouts. It made me realize something.

We will never know who made (or who ate) the greatest hamburger ever. It may have already been done, or it could happen next year, or decades from now (at least until backyard cookouts are forbidden).

Assume it has already happened. Somewhere, probably in the United States — this isn't chauvinism; we cook more hamburgers here than people do elsewhere — some barbecuing enthusiast made the perfect patty. Maybe he mixed in some salt and pepper and onion powder, perhaps a dash of Worcestershire Sauce. He grilled it just the right amount of time (either from long experience or lucky chance). He probably toasted the bun on the grill beside it (and we know that he spent a little extra to get good buns at the bakery, because this is the perfect hamburger).

The lucky recipient put the toppings on, and again either by skill or chance picked some sliced red onion, a dab of brown mustard, pickles, not too much ketchup, and a thick slice of homegrown tomato.

Did whoever ate that perfect burger even notice? Did he or she thank the barbecue enthusiast? Maybe say, "That was a really good burger!" Perhaps.

But I doubt either the cook or the lucky person who ate it even remembered a few hours later. Years later the person who ate it might reminisce about how good the burgers were at the barbecue enthusiast's place. The barbecue enthusiast who made it might try to replicate his success, but the elements will never be quite right again — the tomatoes won't be perfectly ripe in the yard that morning, the bakery stops making those buns, the fire in the grill is too hot.

Who made that perfect burger? Was it in a suburban back yard, or a hibachi on a city-dweller's balcony, or a portable grill on the beach? We'll never know. Just as we'll never know who made the perfect hot dog, or the best pot of chili ever, or the Platonic ideal of lasagne. Musical performances or athletic events can be recorded, books and paintings endure and can be copied, but food is transitory. The very act of experiencing a perfect meal destroys it.

Someday perhaps I will make something perfect. A batch of meat sauce for pasta, or the ultimate brown cabbage. And no one will ever know.

What are you cooking today?