Writing

Hot Dog Stories

We were on a road trip and stopped at Stuckeys. I was hungry and whined until I got a hot dog. It was cold and the bun was stale and I threw it over the parking lot fence.

Maggie has a brother who died when he choked on a hot dog. I try to imagine the scene and the grief.

I used to fry hot dogs in a skillet and eat them with just mustard. I’d split the dogs open and spread the sides apart before putting them in the pan. You don’t have to add butter, they’re greasy enough.

I know you don’t really have to cook hot dogs, they come already cooked. There was a kid in school who always ate them. He’d pull them out of his packed lunch, cold and naked and eat them just like you’d eat a cookie.

I’ll never eat a tofu or turkey dog.

I bought Hebrew National all beef for the kids and microwaved them until they were hot and curled a little. It’s hard to explain what color a hot dog might be, maybe the same as your tongue? The kids liked them with ketchup. Reagan declared ketchup to be a vegetable. That was the erroneous 80’s.

Paul called me a few times when he was drunk, late at night, rambling on. He told me how the hot dogs in 7/11 give you leukemia. I never said I wanted to get off the phone, never even snorted in disbelief about hotdogs, 7/11 and leukemia. I guess I knew he was lonely, I remember he was angry, but we never got that deep.

I never knew there were hot dog restaurants until I moved to Birmingham, Alabama.

Lucy Jaffe

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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