My Kryptonite, the hot dog.
Sunday, April 29, 2007 at 03:17PM Let's go back to the culinary world of 1965. I was not a finicky eater. None of the great pantheon of hated foods bothered me. Brussel sprouts. Broccoli. Liver. Beets. Okay, I did have a problem with the beet. We reluctantly ate the Harvard beet -- which I believe was one part beet and 10 parts candy apple. But not even the presiding fiends of hell could conjure up a more torturous meal than the all-American Hot Dog. This tubular mystery meat was my own personal Kryptonite.
Even clever names like "weenies" couldn't fool my young palate. The beloved hot dog tasted like a 5, no a 13-day old possum carcass with a nice road kill demi-glaze. Goodness knows I tried. I tried every conceivable condiment -- yellow, brown and stone-ground, and pouponed mustard, relish, onions, chili, garlic -- and nothing to mask the taste of the vile meat. My problem? My family was made of fine New England Puritan stock, which meant that Friday night had a label. That was "hot dogs and beans" night. Only two days had names -- Sunday Dinner and Hot dogs and beans night. (HDABN) Not participating in this end of the week ritual was like hating Christmas or kicking the family pet.
It was a heavy burden to swim against the tide in a family of hot dog lovers. My parents would try the old "eat one" and you'll get dessert tricks. But I would not be seduced. (I had a stash of candy bars hidden in case of the no dessert punishment.) I think I've left hundreds of decaying candy bar skeletons in my old domicile. To add a lot of insult to injury, I had to face the flat version of the hot dog -- boloney. It's just a hot dog that met a rolling pin and lost.
Fast forward to today. I've made peace with the hot dog. I can eat one if chased with a nice burger. In fact, the infamous dog became the glue that secured me to my girlfriend's mother. I was visiting her in Las Vegas and noticed that one of the casinos had placed a full-page ad in a magazine with the headline: "Home to the world's largest hot dog." I was amazed that a multi-million dollar casino would market itself as purveyors of a Guiness Book of World Records-sized frankfurter. My future mother in law found that funny and we began sending each other plastic incarnations of the hot dog.
So, if you happen to see a hot dog being rudely tossed from a child's plate, please be kind.
Reader Comments (2)
And I thought you didn't eat chocolate. So what were those candy bars?
Dear Joanne. My allergy to chocolate came later in life when I could actually afford good chocolate. I will tell you my favorite bars -- Reese's Peanut Butter Cup, The Nestle Crunch Bar, Almond Joy and the Frozen Snicker bar.