We Love Hot Dogs

On Saturday afternoon The Sister, the Smalltown Girl, the Cute Friend and I set out for a day of hardcore shopping in The District.

After multiple hours of agonizing over fat tummy rolls and persuading Cute Friend that his life would not be complete without a pink and white striped shirt from J Crew, we decided to have a blessedly welcome bite to eat at the food court. Of course I settled on a hot dog.

I regret to say that it was one of the most wretched hot dogs I have ever tasted. The skin was so thick it was almost banana-like in texture, while the bun was so dry that it conjured up memories of the time I made bread and forgot to put in any wet ingredients.

It was a tragedy and a travesty. . .but in the end, it was still a hot dog.

And I'll take a bad hot dog over a good brussell sprout any day of the week.

I won't be happy until I've tried to make these.

Greatest. Idea. Ever.

Last night at the Nats game, a boy bought me a hot dog and I told him I loved him.

But then again, I said the same thing to the boy who bought me a hamburger on Saturday night.

The way to my heart is definitely through my stomach.

Because man cannot live by bread alone. He needs processed meat to go with it.