Hot Dog

June 19 2016

It was always hot dogs

simmering in a pot

of tired water.

Small globules of yellow fat

bobbing on top,

the dogs

plump, pink, circling.

This was lunch

home from school.

The white airy bun, a little stale.

Milk, in the usual tumbler

its clear glass dulled.

Who knew what was in

that chemical meat

its tight elastic membrane?

Anyway, kids only know what they know;

the order of things

seems pre-ordained

as permanent as home.

Familiarity, though, is little comfort

and I hate hot dogs today.

The snap

of teeth on skin

the first salty squirt.

The bland sweetness

of toothless buns.

And that unforgettable smell,

marinating in their own bath-water

over-done.

I saw a very unappetizing picture of a pale hot dog on a dry white bun. This memory immediately resurfaced: not just the biographical memory, but the sensory one. For a long time, lunch was boiled hot dogs. Later, very water Kraft Dinner. ...Maybe a nutritionally suspect childhood is what accounts for my small size!

(“Kraft Dinner”, btw, is a distinctly Canadian term. The same product is sold south of the border. But no one there calls it “Kraft dinner”; it’s just good old mac and cheese!)