Which is to say, though I don’t eat pork or beef, I must confess my love of devouring the occasional American wiener (sidenote: talk about “wiener” as a misnomer, I have been to Vienna and can tell you with some confidence that not one single person I met there would ever eat the American delicacy know as a hot dog, not even with a side of Sachertorte served on exquisite china in the Sacher Hotel itself). And because a wiener isn’t a wiener without it’s slightly sweet, doughy bedding material and built-in serving dish, I even eat a real bun, fully glutenized, allowing inflamed epithelial cells to form in my small intestine and twist me into a bloated Bavarian pretzel of pain. Mmmmm...pretzels. Well, that’s another blog.
I am a traitor to holier vegetarians than I, yes (but I am hardly the only one: you animal-loving, organic flax-wearing Hindu cheaters have also confessed your “wiener exceptionalism” on numerous occasions to me and you know who you are!). Tsk, tsk shake your head. Tell my gastroeneterologist I am a self-destructive lying leaky gut, go ahead. Weiners are special. Wieners equal fun and family and life. Give me wieners or give me death. So to speak.
Think about it. Do we serve wieners at funerals or parole hearings? No. The wiener is the blessed guest of the fireside campground sing-along, the little league game, fireworks in the park, state fairs, block parties (except on Top Chef Chicago, but what does someone with a name like Padma Lakshmi really know about American cuisine anyway?). Everyone loves a wiener, even the notoriously picky population known as kosher rabbis, who take time off their hushed study of Kabbalah to bless the casing-free oinkless nummies known as Hebrew Nationals. Amen and L’Chaim!
Speaking of religion. Wieners have even led me to add to that long list of things I must discuss with God, which includes:
1) why so many people choose to tell lies in hate rather than the truth in love (even to themselves)
2) while I know everything is designed with a purpose, what exactly is the purpose of the one inch hair that perpetually grows out of my right big toe
and
3) though I have heard from some dancing , squeeze-boxing Wisconsonites that in Heaven there is no beer, will there indeed be hot dogs there (or Wisconsinites?)?
Even non-eater Toe, whose food repulsion wouldn't permit him to touch a skin-toned tubular meat sandwich with a ten-foot pole will regularly ask for hot dogs for dinner, "With one squiggly yellow line of mustard, please." The boy will gape at that glorious item on his plate, fascinated, knowing on some deeply animal level that it is the source of gastronomical joy, even though his autistic sensory alarms are blaring and sending his gag reflex into spasms. The boy won't eat the wiener, but he clearly loves the wiener as thing.
In American dance, hot dogs dance, they wear hats and tap shoes, they have love songs devoted to them. Hotdog is a verb of showboating and the modern American interjection equivalent to huzzah! People, we do not sing, "If I were a sauteed chickpea patty, everyone would be in love with me."
Now that I got that off my chest, be aware that the famous Chicago Dog will be opening a MN flagship wienery in Stillwater this coming April Fool’s day 2012, and if I am being punk’d by the internet, so help me I will bring down the world wide web.
I am a traitor to holier vegetarians than I, yes (but I am hardly the only one: you animal-loving, organic flax-wearing Hindu cheaters have also confessed your “wiener exceptionalism” on numerous occasions to me and you know who you are!). Tsk, tsk shake your head. Tell my gastroeneterologist I am a self-destructive lying leaky gut, go ahead. Weiners are special. Wieners equal fun and family and life. Give me wieners or give me death. So to speak.
Think about it. Do we serve wieners at funerals or parole hearings? No. The wiener is the blessed guest of the fireside campground sing-along, the little league game, fireworks in the park, state fairs, block parties (except on Top Chef Chicago, but what does someone with a name like Padma Lakshmi really know about American cuisine anyway?). Everyone loves a wiener, even the notoriously picky population known as kosher rabbis, who take time off their hushed study of Kabbalah to bless the casing-free oinkless nummies known as Hebrew Nationals. Amen and L’Chaim!
Speaking of religion. Wieners have even led me to add to that long list of things I must discuss with God, which includes:
1) why so many people choose to tell lies in hate rather than the truth in love (even to themselves)
2) while I know everything is designed with a purpose, what exactly is the purpose of the one inch hair that perpetually grows out of my right big toe
and
3) though I have heard from some dancing , squeeze-boxing Wisconsonites that in Heaven there is no beer, will there indeed be hot dogs there (or Wisconsinites?)?
Even non-eater Toe, whose food repulsion wouldn't permit him to touch a skin-toned tubular meat sandwich with a ten-foot pole will regularly ask for hot dogs for dinner, "With one squiggly yellow line of mustard, please." The boy will gape at that glorious item on his plate, fascinated, knowing on some deeply animal level that it is the source of gastronomical joy, even though his autistic sensory alarms are blaring and sending his gag reflex into spasms. The boy won't eat the wiener, but he clearly loves the wiener as thing.
In American dance, hot dogs dance, they wear hats and tap shoes, they have love songs devoted to them. Hotdog is a verb of showboating and the modern American interjection equivalent to huzzah! People, we do not sing, "If I were a sauteed chickpea patty, everyone would be in love with me."
Now that I got that off my chest, be aware that the famous Chicago Dog will be opening a MN flagship wienery in Stillwater this coming April Fool’s day 2012, and if I am being punk’d by the internet, so help me I will bring down the world wide web.
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