When I was a kid, our family vacations were all camping trips. My parents loved to travel and wanted to see the country. And my father early on figured out that investing in a cheap tent and some lumpy sleeping bags from the Army-Navy store would more than pay for itself in saved lodging costs. (I think I have perhaps mentioned his frugal ways once or twice before.) So we “camped.”

Please do not be confused by the terminology. These weren’t the kind of camping trips that Boy Scouts go on, where you breathe clean air, sit around a campfire telling ghost stories, go fishing or take hikes in the woods. When I finally discovered that’s what most people called camping, I was astounded.

Our trips were long highway slogs across many states, punctuated by nights spent in noisy, crowded campgrounds where cars frequently passed by on the gravel road next to the hot canvas tent where I inevitably woke up at 4 a.m. to find my air mattress had deflated and there was a boulder under my spine. Ah, nature.

All of this travel was accomplished in that wonderful pre-SUV invention, the station wagon. With the seat folded down, we kids would be piled into the “way back” as far from the adults in the front seat as could be arranged, behind a wall of all the comforts of home (gas stove and lantern, pillows, extension cords, library books, folding chairs, pots and pans, umbrellas, ice chest, canned food, the scrabble set, more library books and whatever else mom could cram in — all presaging the slightly seedy, crammed-to-the-gills RV that would years later replace the car as my parents’ utterly-embarrassing-to-the-teenage-me travel vehicle of choice).

We covered a lot of ground, but I have only fragmentary memories of the trips (probably because the library books were mine and I never took my nose out of them). I do recall icy water in Maine that was too cold to wade in on the hottest day of the summer, killer swarms of mosquitoes in New Orleans, a wayward air mattress (mine, naturally) blowing off into Lake Mead, a monsoon-like storm that collapsed the tent (onto me, of course) at the Finger Lakes, a can of Hawaiian Punch squashed by a night-roving cousin of Yogi in the Tetons. And of course those great outdoor dinners of “Camper’s Stew” — mom’s favorite concoction of hamburger and Campbell’s vegetable soup. Such good times.

I don’t think it takes a board-certified psychiatrist to figure out why neither I nor any of my sisters owns a tent, and we share a tendency to book spa vacations and plan trips to coincide with the location of luxury accommodations and fine dining.

And I can pretty much guarantee that you won’t find anything that could qualify as a hamburger additive on the shelves of any of our pantries.

It’s also probably no coincidence that I bought the smallest, most impractical car made, without even a vestigial backseat and a trunk just big enough to hold two carryon bags — if neither of them is overstuffed and the wheels retract and I’ve remembered to clear the grocery sacks out first. I adore it. It’s the perfect size for zipping around wine country and popping into the city — and there’s no possible way it can ever be asked to transport a sleeping bag (or anything bigger than a breadbox).

Except, for some reason, this summer all I want to do is get into that little car and hit the highway. Maybe it’s nostalgia, or the sheer annoyance of airline baggage charges, or a reaction to rising gas prices and the dawning realization that our car-centric way of life may be on its way to extinction.

Whatever the cause, I’m indulging it. I’ve crammed my stuff into the trunk and I’m hitting the road this week. By the time you read this, I’ll be on my way to Idaho to visit my sister in Sun Valley.

But no, don’t be silly. Of course I’m not camping. Though Dad tried to keep the knowledge from us all those years, I finally learned about an amazing travel innovation that makes tents obsolete. It’s called a “motel.” And another invention that makes cooking hamburger glop on a gas burner unnecessary, called a “restaurant.”

But I am continuing one childhood vacation tradition. The remaining trunk space is filled with library books — on tape.

I’ll be reading my way across the miles again, but this time I’ll also have a chance to check out the scenery.

Parsi Burgers

Niloufer King, “My Bombay Kitchen”

If you want to find a way to take ground meat and make it sublime, trust me, don’t reach for the Campbell’s vegetable soup. Instead, try this burger variation from Niloufer King’s terrific cookbook “My Bombay Kitchen.” Her basic version is made with ground chicken, but you can substitute ground turkey, lamb, beef or pork — or a combination of meats — and the burgers will be equally good.

Serves 4

1 lb. ground chicken

4 green onions, chopped

6 slices peeled fresh ginger, very finely chopped

2-4 green chilies

About 1/2 cup chopped cilantro leaves

1/4 cup chopped mint leaves

1 egg

Salt and pepper to taste

Combine all the ingredients in a bowl, and form into 4 to 6 flat patties (or more, if you want to make sliders).

Heat a non-stick skillet (or use a cast iron one, with just enough oil to prevent sticking). Fry burgers over medium-high heat until brown on both sides, about 5-10 minutes a side. (Cook them slowly, so that they are thoroughly done inside.)

Serve with or without buns, as you like.

Betty Teller leaves the backyard camping to Eddie, though even he purrs more on a nice comfortable mattress indoors. Reach her at amuse-bouche@sbcglobal.net.