Hot-dogs Don't Tell Tales

At intervals, the sizzling Hebrew National hot-dogs smelled of wet dog and incense. I hoped they were still good. My windows and doors were locked. Nobody would know I was feeding myself, and my daughter Merry, non-organic, unhealthy, bizarre meatstuffs.

Martin and I are semi-vegetarian, semi-organic foodies. We had a brief romance with vegetarianism, during which Martin ate fillet-o-fish at McDonalds and we realized we were part-time carnivores at heart after all. I read enough information on little beef-fed girls who bud breasts and develop cancer to scare me meatless. One of our friends based his doctoral thesis on undercover work in a meat processing plant in the midwest. His stories were enough to make you plant your own bean crop in the back yard. So we compromised. When we are at home, we eat only organic, natural and hormone free, or local meat, and we don't eat that very often (who could afford to?) We feed the girls and lactating me only organic, hormone-free milk.

And generally speaking, I publicly denounce hot-dogs.

But I have a secret passion for Hebrew-National, so much so that this year during the superbowl at my parents house, when my mother sent away an unopened package of Hebrew National Franks with my brother and his girlfriend, I disgraced myself by throwing a mini temper tantrum.

--Those were SPECIAL, I hissed, as my brother's girlfriend disappeared to put on her coat. --Those were SPECIAL TREATS.

My mother shrugged as if to remind me that my little brother lives in an almost-condemned house, works hard, and most importantly, is my blood relation, after all.

--We still have the other package, she said, referring to the sorry buy-one-get-one-free, preservative-packed, non-kosher mystery dogs in our refrigerator.

--He doesn't even CARE about his health, I complained, holding an invisible cigarette in my fingers. Besides smoking, my brother does horrible things like eating frozen Jimmy Dean sausage sandwiches.

--I saved one of the Hebrew National for Merry, my mother pointed out, just before my brother and his girlfriend reappeared. I banished my pout until they were safely in the cold air, plastic sack in hand--containing not only the whole package of expensive kosher hot-dogs but the rest of the salt and vinegar kettle-cooked chips! Double-whammy.

When I came back home from my parents house with the girls, Martin had a surprise in store for me. Nestled in our rickety, twenty-year old refrigerator drawer, not one, but two Hebrew National hot-dog packages smiled up at me. I have shared this secret with nobody. When our friends came for lunch and Merry mentioned the possibility of hot-dogs, their mother, a vegan, pooh-poohed.

--Oh, no, she said. --I don't think your mother would have hot dogs.

I did not admit my secret and shameful cache but instead shoveled Trader Joe's macaroni and cheese onto her children's plates. I saved the Hebrew National for quiet afternoons, like lunchtime today. It did not matter to me that they smelled odd as they cooked.

As we waited for them to pockmark deliciously in the pan, Merry read me the book she had created this morning out of green construction paper, called "The Cornia Tales."

--This is a tale about Merry, the artist, Cocoa the famous doctor, and Elephant, the farmer,
she began.

She went on, undeterred by Elspeth, who was making a sound like a blocked vacuum cleaner with every bite of natural, dye-free noodles.

--Sometimes Elephant did bad things, but Merry forgave him anyway, Merry continued, holding up the picture for me to see. And then the book abruptly ended. The hot-dogs were blackened and smelled delicious. I slid one onto her plate.

--I don't think that book has enough narrative tension, I pointed out.

Merry picked up her hot-dog and licked it.--Yes it does, she argued.--It has narrative tension because sometimes Elephant does bad things. Also, it's only the first book.

--Good, I said, and bit into my lovely, hot, tasty, clandestine Hebrew National hot-dog. I finished it quickly and with gusto. Within minutes of the last bite, I doubled over with a stomach cramp.

Merry looked up from her hot-dog, which she was nibbling slowly and deliberately. "Maybe you'll throw up it," she said.

And here's the real source of narrative tension: the things we claim publicly and proudly; the things we actually do in secret; and the consequences when the first two do not meet. Call it the ego and the id, if you will. I call it a stomach cramp. But guess what? The cramp passed, and I squirreled the rest of the Hebrew National hot-dogs safely away in our cheese drawer. They wait there for another quiet afternoon. And they aren't telling any tales.