My Midwestern family has what I call an adversarial relationship with meat: Cook that stuff completely or we may all die. “How would you like that done?” Done? Yes, please.
I survived to adulthood to discover medium rare and (gasp) rare are delights, not death sentences. I have become perhaps unreasonably insistent that a real burger must be hand-pattied, thick, seared, juicy, and leaning toward the red side of pink on the inside. (I do not discount the dangers of undercooked meats, but I also firmly believe that if you have a reliable source and clean preparation/storage, you have little to fear.)
