I love hot dogs. I think they are one of the best food products ever invented. And no, I do not want to know what it is them, but thank you for asking.
Hot dogs are seriously delicious. And, despite the mish mash that makes them up, I have only ever had one bag hot dog incident in my life and I can honestly say that it may have been more the result of the 3 pitchers of Long Island Iced Teas (they were small pitchers and it was over the course of a few hours….and um, I’m sorry Mom and Dad, thanks for letting me go to Penn State, it’ll probably be the last time) than the hot dogs themselves.
In my senior year apartment I lived in a primo locale. Above the grocery store where I worked. Above my favorite bar in the world. And just steps from the corner where my favorite hot dog guy worked. Sadly he passed away before the end of the year, but I have never seen more love shown than at his hot dog cart in the week after his death. Which proves my point that hot dogs make people happy (and that he was the sweetest guy ever).
But I digress. And I don’t like to do that when I am talking about food. My love of hot dogs started young. When I was little, my mom would cut them up because she is a Responsible Adult and she also cut up a string cheese and would put a chunk of cheese and a chunk of dog (wow, that sounds gross, doesn’t it?) on a toothpick. That was one of my favorite dinners. When I was in middle school, our gang of same-aged tweens would hit the snack shack during adult swim. One of the lifeguards served the best hot dogs ever. My dad called her the Hot Dog Artist and she was truly skilled with a bottle of mustard. Then I went to college and fell in love with the aforementioned hot dog vendor (and his late night counterpart a block down).
And now I live in a city known for its street dogs. And they are delicious (if not occasionally overpriced–don’t buy near Times Square).
I’m very simple when it comes to my doergs. Mustard. That’s it. And I’m happy as a clam (-3 cliche points….sorry) when I’m shoving a doerg in my mouth.
What’s that? No, I still do not care what it is them, but thank you for (again) asking.