So what is your favorite hot dog memory?

We all eat hot dogs.  Well, maybe not vegetarians, or those who actually read the ingredients.  So how can you have a favorite memory?  Think about it.  How many picnics, children’s meals, baseball games, or carnivals come to mind?  Maybe the state fair.  Now focus, is there one occasion that supersedes the rest.  In upstate New York it could easily have something to do with a white hot.  Is this important?  No, just an exercise in remembering.

My most prevalent memory is not when I ate a good hot dog, but when I couldn’t.  In the early ’70’s I was a young Air Force wife living in England.  I did most of our grocery shopping at the base commissary, but also learned my way around public markets, and the small specialty shops in the  English towns where some of the houses did indeed have thatched roofs.  We learned to eat meat pies, fish and chips wrapped in newspaper to carry home, drink warm beer and walk to most places we wanted to go.  (The beer wasn’t actually room temperature, but cool cellar temperature, unrefrigerated.)  Anyway, the one thing we couldn’t get anyplace was a good hot dog.  They fed us “bangers”, but they just weren’t the same.   When we returned to the states, hot dogs were a priority.  I remember they tasted divine.