While growing up in the heart of L.A.’s Koreatown — also known to us locals quaintly as “K-town” — I had only two true loves: the Western Bacon Cheeseburger at Carl’s Jr. and the savory gratification of eating one all by myself. And I did, every Saturday afternoon, from the age of 4 until some obscure time before moving to a snot-nosed suburb and entering the first grade.

This is probably the only memory I have of my childhood in Los Angeles: Walking to the nearby burger sanctuary on the corner of Fairfax and Olympic, and strictly insisting to my mother, to the point of tears, that I do so alone. Then ordering always only two things, and proceeding to devour, ever so meticulously, the hand-held perfection on a bun in complete solitude. Deeply satisfied, I would walk my 4- or 5-year-old stomach back to my parents’ grocery store to deliver my mom’s small creamed coffee with two packets of raw sugar in a bag. You see, my mom and I had an arrangement. In exchange for her permission to take my potentially dangerous yet vital ego-boosting display of independence, I would return bearing hot coffee — a rather wicked steal of a deal on my part, I thought. But in retrospect, maybe I was the one ending up with the shorter straw.

A rather disturbing memory struck me only last week. Somehow, she very cunningly wedged an amendment into the contract without my consent. Using her God-given motherly powers that, of course, transcended any clout I carried in our deal, she had her employee escort me across the street before sending me on my way. Tricky, tricky. His name was Eduardo, I think. Nice guy.

Although it was a clear infringement on my independence, her gesture remains appreciated. She gave me a sort-of guided freedom, limiting yet always patient. It all sprung from an obvious case of youngest child syndrome.

I have always craved the chance to prove myself worthy, able and all grown up. And I would do nearly anything to reverse the years of being discounted as “too young” to be right, heard or appreciated for anything more than the family’s free source for comic relief.

I don’t know if she understands why I so adamantly demanded that I buy my cheeseburger alone each weekend all those years ago, or if she even remembers. If anything, at least I remember.

Speaking of remembering, before flying off to college, I actually went back to my childhood Carl’s Jr. More than a decade after retiring my weekly ritual, I had no need to glance at the menu to know what I wanted to order. It was somewhat of a sacrament. I would have been shattering decades of history and tradition if I had looked. I confidently sashayed my way to the counter and before I could utter my two-item combo, the vaguely familiar man behind the register beat me to it.