HOTDOGS

Baseball, hotdogs, apple pie and Chevrolet. So the saying goes. If you read my work, you know I love baseball like one loves a child, and apple pie ain’t my thing…something about warm, squishy apples just doesn’t get me all giddy. And Chevrolet? Hey, I own one, and have owned a few in my day. But hotdogs, that’s a whole conversation in and of itself.

Ever watch a kid eat a hotdog? It’s really a personal thing. Kids, especially girls, eat hotdogs in their own special way. And when girls are young, its really quite an individual thing. And since it’s the end of the fourth of July weekend, I thought I’d give some thoughts on this amazing American standard.

Hannah, is seven. She might be the pickiest kid there is, when it comes to food anyway. Every day I ask her what she wants for dinner and every day she says either Macaroni and Cheese, or Pizza. Cheese pizza. And many times I just go for what I know she’ll eat and do one of these highly (non) nutritious meals. But sometimes I’ll try and mix things up and suggest a hotdog. If I don’t do this too often, she’ll acquiesce and we’ll have some hotdogs. The funny thing about Hannah and her hotdogs is that for a kid who would live on bread alone if given the chance, she won’t eat a hotdog on a bun. I mean, jeez, the kid eats hotdog buns plain, every day, just the plain bun! But she will not, absolutely not, eat the damn hotdog on a bun. This seven year old of mine needs to have a hotdog, on a plate with a huge puddle of ketchup, not touching it. She slices the ends off, puts them ON THE TABLE next to the plate, then has to slice pieces off the dog, dip each into the ketchup with her fingers (don’t tell grandma about the fingers part) and do this till she’s finished. I mean, can’t ya use a fork? Uggh. But since the girl rarely eats meat at all, I acquiesce and allow it. We’re working on the fork. One time recently, we were at some function, (I can’t remember where) and her mother sliced the dog into bites and put it in a bowl and covered it in ketchup. It was like a hotdog-and-ketchup-slice-soup. Hannah was practically in tears, and ya know what? I don’t blame her. That’s kinda gross.

Sarah is three, and she’s my meat eater. She’ll eat chicken and pork and salmon and sausages and hotdogs too. But when I give her a hotdog, she needs it whole, with a set of kid-style knife and fork so she can cut it herself. First, she cuts the ends off, and eats them first, and every time she says, “look daddee, I nub these endsz”. And then she’ll cut it in half and grab each half and either cut it one more time or just start shovin’ it in. God bless her. The kid’s a meateater. And tonight at the 4^th of July fireworks, she would break one in half, give it to the dog on the next blanket, and just shove the other half in her mouth. And just when I think she’s about to choke, damned if she doesn’t just make a big swallow and keep on chewin. Bless her. We went through this exercise 4 times tonight, so at least I know she (and the dog too) had a full belly when she passed out in her underwear (no foreshadowing there for later in life), (I hope). The kid will not eat ketchup. Hates it.

And watching other kids at the Fireworks-Cookout Fourth of July festival tonight, I realized that hotdog eating is as individual as snowflakes. One kid would drown it in ketchup, on the bun, take a big bite leaving almost a bun pocket on both sides, chew, swallow and repeat till gone. Another would do ketchup and mustard, turn it on it’s side, smash it a little, and take measured bites till it was gone. Another slid the dog all the way to one side of the bun, trying to keep the meat-to-bun ratio in check. When the dog was gone, and two more bites of only bun remained, the bun was tossed. No need to eat empty bun.

And so it goes. Maybe you’re wondering how I am when it comes to Matters-of-the-dog? I center the dog in the bun. I cover it in mustard, yellow only, I don’t like brown, spicy or fancy mustard on regular hotdogs. Then I put one single stripe of ketchup through the yellow mustard. I am a smasher, and a turner. So I close it all up, keeping condiments inside the bread, turn it on it’s side and go bite by bite, till its gone. Even if there’s a bun-without-dog bite in the front or on the end, I’m a finisher. And the beat rolls on. It’s a perfectly constructed, no waste sandwich for the ages.

And I know that YOU like your hotdog a certain way. You may change it from time to time. It’s ok, this is America. You can have your hotdog as many ways as you want. And you can do it the same or different every time. Hotdogs are about as American as you can get. What the hell else is gonna say AMERICA more than kids eating hotdogs on July 4^th while watching fireworks? Nothing. End game. The end. I watched my girls eat hotdogs tonight, and I said to myself “that’s America right there, America!”. Then I sprayed some more bug spray and wished for air conditioning. God Bless us everyone.