Once a year, on Independence Day, I allow myself to forget what is in a hot dog. Tucking them inside a bun and smothering them in mustard, onions, and relish helps disguise the truth.
This year we celebrated 4th of July at our place. Someone gave us a barbecue last year, but until now we hadn’t found the courage to use it (never being able to determine whether it's legal in Paris). Aside from a little window slamming from our upstairs neighbors, it was a great success.
The only problem was the left over pack of hot dogs I discoverd in the fridge the next morning. I felt too guilty throwing them away given all the starving people in the world (and now that we’re on a practice budget for when I stop working). I thought about freezing them in case times got tough, but eating an old hot dog is far worse than eating a relatively new one.
Fred offered to cook dinner so I wouldn't have to touch them. He even came up with a gourmet recipe to make them more appetizing -- chopped up and pan fried served over a bed of spaghetti. Remind me to check if he’s placed any
ads on the internet lately.
He's really taking this budget seriously, trying to feed me soup kitchen food. I reminded him that I could only eat hot dogs one way, hidden in a bun. Later, I realized that I had no right making fun of him considering that's my bottle of mustard on the left. If it's any consolation, I bought it in Paris so it was more expensive than his Maille Dijon.