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Campfire Hotdogs

My Summer Food.

By TessPublished 2 years ago 3 min read
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Growing up in the Pacific Northwest, summertime meant camping. If the weather allowed it, our first trip to the lake would be the May long weekend. It was an experience to look forward to all year, especially when it came to camping meals. No matter what, one night away would be hot dogs for dinner.

I do not eat hot dogs on a regular basis. Sure, that ballpark wiener scratches an itch and offers an awesome addition to the baseball experience; or even a dog grilled on the bbq is the perfect sidekick to the burgers sizzling next to them. But for me, it’s the campfire roasted, exposed flame kissed Schnieder all beef jumbo hotdog, on a white bun with mustard only, that’ll cure what ails me.

Perhaps it’s the investment applied to the act of making one’s hotdog that has me so titillated. Finding a branch of suitable length and girth, then carving it into a sharp poker, quintessential for hosting the dog while roasting. As well as, the necessity of locating the ideal spot in the fire to setup your dog, rotating so all the sides are blessed by the fire’s flames equally. As soon as the dog is nearly done, you have it’s beautiful, soft bed at the ready, slathered in yellow mustard to welcome it’s toasted skin once upon it.

I only eat hot dogs when camping. It’s an antisapated event that I look forward to every summer. And it happens every summer making the act one of nostalgia. That first bite into cool bun, spicy mustard and HOT dog brings me back to being a child again. Things feel simpler. Like all problems could be solved in this moment, with this hotdog.

My boyfriend was well versed in my feelings towards hotdogs and made it his mission to honour them, though the weather proved to be a mighty adversary.

We left late on a Friday and continued to be delayed on route to our destination. He loves camping in the deep woods opposed to the provincial park camping I grew up with. Forty-five minutes into our logging road adventure, the clouds that loomed above indicated rain and the wind that came with it suggested disaster, but my boyfriend would not be deterred.

Finally, after an hour, witnessing spot after spot along the logging road occupied by those who arrived what looked like days before us, we found our temporary home. But it was minutes from darkness and I’ll admit, I was losing hope.

The wind picked up so wildly, we decided to sleep in our Delica van rather than setup a tent we legitimately thought would blow away from our campsite atop this mountain. It was that same wind that battled my boyfriend while he tried to build the fire.

The rain started and so did my pessimistic attitude. I turned in for the evening, which meant taking my boots off and climbing under the sleeping bag and blankets we arranged in the rear of the van. I’ll admit, I was sulking as I read my book waiting for my boyfriend to join me, but he refused to come to bed without the hotdog I held so dear.

It felt like hours passed as I occasionally glanced out the window at my poor boyfriend, huddled over the dinky fire that constantly threatened to go out. I accepted I would be sleeping alone, until…

The sliding door flew open and from the darkness came a hand holding a white bun, made up with mustard cradling a steaming, campfire roasted hotdog. I took a bite and all was right in the world.

My boyfriend finally climbed into the van with me and then displayed half a dozen more dogs made up along with the covenant that we were “probably going home tomorrow and might as well eat ‘em all now.” And we did.

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About the Creator

Tess

Storyteller.

Life lover.

Kindness sharer.

Inspiration seeker.

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