Just One More Hot Dog

Every time I eat a hot dog, the little voice in the back of my head questions my feeling of necessity to ingest this thing that can barely be classified as food. Nobody wants to eat the scraps of animals who have gone through a process that requires a word like “emulsified” to describe what has happened to make it edible. No, not edible, but to hide and encase it in a way that allows you to eat it without being reminded of its real identity. I pretend buying the “all beef” franks make a difference and allow myself this small lie, so I don’t have to deny the food that has become special to me. Special, you say? A hot dog? Yes, reader, a hot dog. Served with a generous helping of simple yellow mustard on a classic white bun. This is my poison of choice, and I eat it willingly.

Even after my belly had rounded, the circumstance a sizable globe, a new human somersaulting within, I was not swayed from my feelings towards the wiener dogs. When you become a human incubator, the doctor hands over a list of “slap your hand away no no’s,” and you spend nine months testing the limits of your self-control. I did my best to make good choices, eating greens most days, giving up coffee, and staring daggers at my friends as they ate sushi. This curated list of dos and don’ts also contains a general vagueness category of food they classify as “unhealthy,”, but hot dogs, despite being an amalgam of animal parts, stayed in the rotation as I gestated my little boy.

The hot dog, painted yellow, paired with the zest and crunch of Cheetos, downed with a crisp cool can of Coke, is the one meal that I won’t give up. Why? It is the last meal I remember eating with my mother before she died. One afternoon, as she sits at our kitchen table, long dark hair flowing down her shoulders, taking slow breaths from her oxygen tank, I heat up the leftover wieners and prep our lunch the way she likes. Each item relegated to its correct position and proportion on the plain white porcelain plate. I settle into the wooden chair next to her and with deliberate slowness we raise the food to our mouths, taking bites, and in between, enjoying lively conversation about topics we read on the news that morning. This food, the hot dog, has become a way for me to recall and cherish a lost moment with a person whom I miss dearly.

It was not the last meal we ate together, but it is the last meal I remember. The smell of the mustard as it hits my upper lip and I bite down on the elongated frankfurter. The crunch of the Cheetos, the unnatural orange of which should be off-putting but merely invites me in. The fizz against the back of the throat as I sip my soda and wash down the remnants of each bite. Her raspy laughter filling the air, whatever words stumbling from my tongue giving her just a millisecond of joyful recourse. We would have gone on in that moment together forever if we could. Her, me, the hot dog, soda pop, and Cheetos. A symphony of artificial flavors and animal byproducts no one could deter us from. What I wouldn’t give for just one more hot dog with my mother.

Nowadays my family and I spend summer Saturdays barbecuing, gathering around our long dining room table, my mother’s absence pressing in but a smile upon my lips as I dip into my freshly grilled hot dog. I laugh and pass the mustard, looking to my husband and son, bittersweet wrinkles appearing at the edges of my eyes. I have carried her into this life with me.

Her body is many years gone now. Ashes snug on the mantel in my father’s living room, the dove-etched urn peeking out towards the kitchen and admiring all the delicious dishes my father cooks, mostly for himself. The spirit though, the living spirit she created, in which we communed over food on topics as varied as politics, to the minutiae of the Real Housewives of OC, lives on in my consumption of those hot dogs. I honor her memory, of what we shared in days long past, and hope that my son will think of me with the same fondness. When he has grown old, remembering those loved and lost, and consumes the one food, he too will never give up.

 

Image by Peter Secan on Unsplash.com, licensed under CC 2.0.

Amanda Brush
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