Posts Tagged ‘hot dogs’


Gross foods. Really, I haven’t eaten a lot of gross things. I have refined dining tastes, I guess. Or picky. I’ve never tried pigs feet or lamb’s tongue or cow’s eyeballs. Then again, one person’s gross is another person’s delicacy. Like right now, I’m eating cottage cheese. I know that someone will gag upon reading that. Different strokes and all.

Gross foods I’ve eaten:

Egg Foo Yung: The grossest thing I ever tasted is something probably most of you like. I had this for the first time when I was about ten. My first thought was “this is like eating someone else’s snot.” Many years later I decided to give it another try. Mainly because the Chinese place got my order wrong and it was either starve or try it. I dug in. My first reaction: “this is like eating someone else’s snot.” And then I puked it back up.

Brussel Sprouts: Again, lame. I know. A lot of people like these guys. But to me, they are like little, feet-smelling balls of mush. The texture makes me gag. The smell makes me gag. The taste is so bad that even my dog wouldn’t eat them when I tried to sneak them off my plate and under the table to him.

pottedmeat.jpgGross foods I would never eat.

Potted Meat: What the hell is this shit? I don’t even want to know the ingredients. But I do want to know why someone would purposefully eat something that looks like it came out of a baby’s diaper. Along with potted meat, there are vienna sausages (mmm..fat baby fingers), pork brains in milk gravy and, of course, spotted dick.

Gross foods I love:

Elvis sandwiches: I only tried this once. And I don’t know if it was an authentic Elvis sandwich or not. It was peanut butter, bacon, bananas and butter. Deep fried. Holy shit was that good. Sure, there was a fist of fat clenching my heart the whole night and grease was leaking out of my pores for days and I gained 100 lbs and found myself wearing a white jumpsuit and singing hunka huna burning love while sitting on the toilet bowl, but sweet jesus, did that taste good.

hotdogs.jpgMom’s special dinner: Mom actually made this for dinner one night. She told dad it was a special treat. When she put it down on the table in front of him he just blinked. The rest of us dug in. Hot dogs, wrapped in bacon and cheese and deep fried, served over a bed baked beans, with sauerkraut on the side. Dad just kept staring at mom like she lost her mind. He wasn’t eating? More for us! Dad went out to eat and me and my sisters spent the rest of the night having a farting contest. -M

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all beef, all the time

Today is National Hot Dog Day.

I like mine all beef, preferably Oscar Mayer brand. Potato bun, sauerkraut and yellow mustard.

Every once in a while, a chili dog is nice. Todd keeps talking about this place in California called Weinerschnitzel. He claims they have the best chili dogs in the world. But he claims California has the best everything in the world, so I take his claim with a grain of salt.

This calls for a poll. Favorite hot dog condiment. Note, those of you that say ketchup are heathens. And you can vote for more than one.

So tell me, how do you like your dogs? How many condiments do you put on one weener?


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We’re headed to Coney Island this morning to see the Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest.

I don’t know why we’re going all the way over there to stand with about 30,000 people watching some guys shove weeners down their throats for about ten minutes. Seems like the thing to do.

It all just gives me an opportunity to leave you today with my proudest poetry moment ever.

Ode To The Hot Dog

I think that i shall never eat
a substance more devoid of meat
than the hot dog i ate last night
but damn, i did eat every bite.
and when i was done i ate another
so did my sister and my mother
i would have gone for three or four
if there had been any more.

hot dogs are the food of gods
despite the arteries they clog
in the oven, on the grill
floating in a watery swill
mustard (yellow), sauerkraut
that’s what summer’s all about
pile them high upon the plates
don’t talk to me about nitrates

no turkey, tofu, chicken filler
real meat hot dogs are what’s killer
so please don’t call me a big ol’ meanie
when i won’t share my all-beef weenie

Enjoy your 4th. Keep all your digits intact.

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1983. One of the most action packed years of my life. A constant stream of parties and clubs. So many nights spent in someone’s garage listening to our friends’ band practice and then driving to the club to watch them play, then out to another club to make some spastic attempts at dancing to punk rock and gothy new wave. The soundtrack to that time was a bizarre mix of The Police, New Order, Circle Jerks, Aztec Camera and Metallica. And Iron Maiden. Minutemen. Big Country. Suicidal Tendencies. Man, that was a good year for music. The The! U2’s last good album! PiL! Kurtis Blow! That’s right. I said Kurtis Blow.

But this story is earlier in the year than some of that. I hadn’t even started working at the record store yet. By July, I had done more drinking and partying in one half year than I had in the past four years combined. I was 21 and a slacker. I was jobless for most of the beginning of that year. Which isn’t always a bad thing when your friends were buying the beer and dope, and your boyfriend was paying for dinner.

Ah, the boyfriend. He was becoming creasingly agitated with my desire to have a life outside of sitting in his mom’s basement watching Clint Eastwood movies. And not the good Clint movies either. We’re talking orangutans here. But he comes into the picture later. The boyfriend, not Clint. Or the orangutan. Right now it’s the afternoon of July 4th, 1983.

There’s a big party at my parent’s house. Well, there was always a party at my parent’s house. They were the consummate entertainers. A lot of my early childhood memories are of weekend cocktail parties in the backyard. They were typical 70’s parties with drinks with fancy names and couples dressed in fancy clothes and food with names like Weenie Casserole. I kid you not.

But this was the 80’s. We had moved on from charcoal roasted weenies, Brandy Alexanders and demure women to gas grills, kegs of Bud and drunken firemen. Yea, dad knew how to keep with the times. Best of all, he ran the tv cable outside so we could party AND not miss a moment of a baseball game.

So here we are. Fourth of July, 1983 (insert wavy lines here that transport you magically back to that time). A yard full of firemen and relatives. A keg or two. Grill going. Yankees on the tv.

If you are a Yankee fan you know exactly what we were watching unfold that afternoon. Dave Righetti on the mound vs. the hated Red Sox. 41,000 people at the stadium. Dave’s pitching a no hitter. We sat mesmerized in the yard, squinting at the smallish tv, trying to see past the sun glares, drinking, eating and watching history being made. When the game was over and Righetti had thrown a no-hitter (the Yankees’ first since 1956) we all raised a plastic cup of beer to the Yankees, and America. Oh yea, patriotism runs deep when you are drunk on beer and melonball shots and high on beating the Red Sox.

When the game was over, the party really began. There was swimming and drunken volleyball and the obligatory lighting off of M-80s in garbage cans. It seemed to be a tradition in my neighborhood, along with lighting off mats of firecrackers. Personally, I never understood the attraction of making something go boom without the benefit of pretty sparkles or at least something going on fire, but that’s just me. I’m a visual kind of person. Go boom? Meh. Go boom with flames? Kick ass.

So in the midst of this noisy celebration of America and all it had to offer (like hot dogs, beer on tap in your backyard and your mother dancing on the deck to The Police), I get a phone call. It’s my fiancé. Oh yea, I forgot to mention. I was engaged to this guy. I was young and stupid. As opposed to later on when I became old and stupid. But that’s another story. This guy was, hmmm how to describe him? Nuts? Psychotic? He had just taken a job at Riker’s Island as a correction officer and came home one night telling me how he really identified with some of the prisoners. Ok. I may want to start rethinking my life plan here. Clint Eastwood monkey movies and identifying with murderers? That just might be a lethal combo.

Anyhow, the deal was this: I had his car at my house. He needed it back to go to work in the morning. Could I drive it over to his house? Well, let’s see. I had been drinking all day and he’s the one who left the car at my house when he ditched me the night before to go out with his friend and….well, the conversation went in such a way that I agreed to bring the car. At the last minute he told me to fill it up with gas before I brought it to his house. Let’s not get into the why of my saying yes. Young. Stupid. Etc. We’ll leave it at that.

So my cousin follows me in her car. We drive the mile or so and I stop at the gas station just down the block from my the fiance’s house. The car windows are rolled down because it’s hot out and the a/c is broken. I tell the guy to fill it up and lean back in my seat and wait. There’s a few kids sitting in the lot of the 7-11 across the street, shooting off bottle rockets. Another useless firework. Oh boy, it makes a whistling sound and then a small pop the end. If that’s your idea of excitement, then I bet Seven Minutes in Heaven is the perfect sex game for you.

I remember thinking that it probably wasn’t a good idea for these kids to be lighting off fireworks so close to a gas station. Probably a really bad idea considering it looked like they were actually aiming the bottle rockets toward the pumps. I started to get nervous. What if one hit a pump? Would it blow up? Would I die right there in a ball of flames, screaming for help while realizing that my imminent death would mean every subsequent Fourth of July after this would be ruined for my parents?

I pulled myself together. Sat up straight. Watched the little numbers on the gas pump turn. Come on, fill up already, let’s get out of here.

And then: A whistling in my ear. Deafening, like a jet plane was landing in my head. A pop. A sudden burst of pain. What the fuck? What. The. Fuck?? Pain. Pain. Pain. I’m deaf and in agony. My chest. My chest is on fire, I think. Let me tell you, nothing sobers you up quicker than the idea that someone just blew a hole open in your chest. Was I shot? Dying? I looked down and saw red. Red all over. My shirt was red and my chest was in pain and…holy shit. They nailed me with one of those bottle rockets!

At first I thought I was bleeding out but quickly realized that the red was dye from the rocket. The pain? That was real. I could feel my shirt starting to stick to the burn underneath it. That hurt like a bitch.

I guess I had screamed when the rocket hit, but I didn’t hear it because of the whistling in my ear. My cousin was at my window and the gas station attendant had come running over. I was clutching my chest and hyperventilating and at first my cousin thought I was having a heart attack. The shirt I was wearing was a V-neck and I slowly pulled the material to one side and pointed to what I was sure was a gaping in hole in my chest. My cousin gasped. The gas station guy said “Ewww.” Nice. Well, it wasn’t a hole, but it was a pretty intense burn. I was shaking and in pain and the guy said he would run across the street to the firehouse and send an ambulance over. No. No. No. No ambulance.

I paid the gas station guy, who said he was calling the cops on the kids with the bottle rockets. Whatever, I didn’t want to stick around. I needed some first aid, stat. And by first aid I mean someone to calm me down. Preferably someone holding a bottle of vodka.

Ok, start the car. Drive down the block. Fiancé only lives five houses away, I’ll make it there ok and we’ll get this burn taken care of and he will calm me down and tell me I’m not dying and give me a drink and some ointment and gauze and a few words of comfort and everything will be ok.

I walk into his house. My cousin yells at no one in particular “Hey, hey, she got hit with a firecracker. Anyone here? Hello? Emergency!” Fiancé guy comes down the stairs, looking annoyed.

“What? She what?”

My cousin repeats. Slowly, for the retarded. “Hit. With. Firecracker.”

She doesn’t like him much. Never did. He looks me over. I don’t say anything. Partly because I’m still hyperventilating and kind of crying and partly because the mess on my chest really should speak for itself. He looks me over again. Shrugs. Says the words that would become fatal to our pending nuptials.

“Did you at least put gas in the car?”

Well, you can imagine my stunned silence. What you can’t imagine and I can’t do justice to is the Glare O’ Death my cousin gave him. A glare that said all at once “You are such a fucking asshole and I hope you say the wrong thing to the wrong prisoner at work and he takes you hostage and fills your ass with his beefstick. And then I hope your ambulance crashes on the way to the hospital to have your ass repaired. And you die. DIE.”

I didn’t say a word. I just threw his keys at him and walked out of the house. The only thing I said to my cousin on the way back to my house was “Fucker. Fucker.” Over and over again.

We got back to my house and a couple of the firemen there fixed me up the best they could. I probably should have gone to the hospital. But there was vodka and hot dogs and The Towering Inferno on tv. I decided to skip the fireworks festivities for the evening. And decided to skip my upcoming wedding (though I didn’t get around to actually saying that out loud until November).

That bottle rocket might have actually been a sign from god. Ok, not the best choice of signs, but sometimes it takes a little force to send someone a message.

Every time I get a slight sunburn, you can see a faint scar on my chest. A constant reminder of Fourth of July, 1983. Makes me think of The Police, Dave Righetti and searing pain. Both physical and emotional. But hey, what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, right? Or can just be offset with a keg of beer, hot dogs and Steve McQueen.

America, fuck yeah!

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food flashback

I don’t know why this popped in my head this morning, but I had a flashback to these boil-in-a-bag dinners my mother used to make. Slices of meat product and gravy in a plastic pouch, that you dropped in a pot of boiling water to warm up. Talk about gourmet cooking skills. Boil bag, cut open, dump foodstuff on plate. Serve with some kind of canned vegetable. Or just drop it all on a piece of bread and call it a hot open sandwich.

I don’t know who made these meals (maybe Birds Eye?) and I can’t seem to find anything about them, but I know they existed. I’m pretty sure one was a salisbury steak. One might have been some kind of sliced beef.

My mother was apparently a lazy cook. It’s not like she worked all day. She stayed at home playing Yahtzee and Pinochle and smoking cigarettes with her other jobless friends. Come dinner time, she was stop shaking her dice long enough to throw a couple of plastic bags in a pot and call it a meal, then prepare for a hard night of drinking fancy-named cocktails at the bowling alley.

Maybe that’s just the way people cooked in the 70’s. In a time when people thought a hot dog/bacon/beans casserole was a perfectly healthy dinner, I suppose a little boiled meat was downright nutritious.

Like I said, no idea why that popped into my head. But I am swearing right now in front of all of you that I will never make anything that disgusting and/or lazy for dinner.

Hamburger Helper doesn’t count, right? That stuff is food of the gods.

my dinner with spidey

Even Spidey knows.

(please note: these are not the same boil in a bag dinners that hikers use these days, or MREs. These are not dehydrated meals meant for survival. They were pieces of meatstuff soaked in glutenous gravy)

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