Cornhole, Fire, and Hot Dogs

Is a hot dog a sandwich? After all, nearly 80% of the time you’re cooking the buns over the campfire they inevitably fall apart, effectively creating two wheat buns to fit on either side of the selected meat.

One thing is for certain: prior to this chick's first camping experience, hot dogs were the last thing on her mind. Don’t get me wrong, they still are. But for very different reasons today than a year ago.

It wasn’t until last year that I would come to terms with this nefarious meal. You see, growing up I ate those slimy hot dogs from the grocery store out of necessity. Those evenings and weekends when my family opted not to dine together required me to get creative. However, instead of learning how to cook, I leaned more towards the lazy-girls guide to surviving dinners alone. I’d take a half-drenched hot dog from the fridge, nuke it in the microwave, then lay it on a bed of mayonnaise. Add a slice of melted processed cheese, zig-zag some ketchup over the top, and call it Tuesday’s dinner.

I did this so often that at one point I looked in the fridge and vowed never to eat another hot dog again. That promise extended to all forms of meat served in the same shape. If it looked like a penis, I was not interested.

This attitude towards hot dogs would last years and turned resolutely mute when I was invited to my friends' camping trip last year. At the time, we were new friends. Trish grew up full-on tent camping and she looked forward to these excursions every year. I, being the newest addition to the friend group, was lucky to get invited. I could not wait!

I had never been camping before. Not even glamping - as this vacation would more properly be termed. Camping had never been my family’s forte. The appeal of having no indoor plumping for days was enough to keep us home-bound. This trip, however, would be different. There would be a cabin with beds, a public restroom just around the corner with plumbing, and showers if needed. As a guest, I wouldn’t have to worry about food or alcohol, or games. All I had to do was show up and have fun.

Trish had the whole menu already planned and prepped. When I arrived, the fire was crackling, the birds were spinning, and the river was lazy. It was magnificent. The entire space was set up with two very large tents covering the firepit and the table where all meals and games would be made and played. I had no choice but to admire the dedication Trish put into her campsite. There was cornhole and a variety of DVDs for portable viewing. There was Yahtzee and cards and (of course) there was vodka. At the time, I didn’t know the difference between Fris and Kettle One vodka and it would take a few more months before Trish and I discovered that the latter left us with the lesser of two evil hangovers. Unfortunately, for the sake of this trip, Fris was the vodka of choice with chilled beers for day-sipping.

We didn’t cook the infamous hot dogs until the second night. The boys - we shall call the Tweedle-Dumb and Tweedle-Dumber - were drunk as skunks all day long. So by the time dinner came along at eight in the evening, they had long since passed out inside the cabin. Trish and I were comfortably set up under the tents with the sounds of soft pittering rain and movies to keep us company. We got to know each other a lot that evening as we sipped on our vodka-cokes and passively watched “10 Things I Hate About You.”

When it came time to cook dinner, Trish knew of my ailment towards these delicacies, yet she made no opposition to me actually eating them. Instead, she encouraged me to “expand my buds” and try it. Being the sheep that I was, I mimicked her spread and sat down to eat my first hot dog in years.

The first bite brought back those awful memories from Tuesday’s dinners. I chewed slowly, unintentionally prolonging the flavor as it lingered and spread with every motion I made. The odd mix of relish and mustard played strangely in my mouth. I had never tried relish before and actively avoided yellow mustard my whole life. So the addition of both was foreign. Diced red onions buried their way between my teeth. Their flavored superiority lasted longer than I was comfortable with as I wasn’t used to eating raw onions, least of all raw red onions. They were yet another food I did not actively seek to ingest.

It was at the point when my tongue began fishing for those delightful rose-gold bits when Trish asked:

“So, what do you think?”

I hate hot dogs. Red onions have this weird heat to them and I don’t like it. Relish is weird and mustard reminds me of my dad. Hashtag - not a fan.

But I just nodded and took another slow bite.

The second bite made me want to throw up. However, I didn’t want to prove myself a liar and upset my new friend. So I swallowed my pride and with it the hot dog. By the third bite, I reverted back to my habit of blocking out the food and began mindlessly eating what was in front of me. A practiced talent I had required growing up and had rehearsed whenever a new dish was introduced at family dinner. I stared into the fire and kept on eating.

I had almost forgotten that I was eating at all until Trish looked at me and said:

“You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to.”

I looked down at my plate and frowned. I had one bite left. Directing my frown at her over the red-hazed glow and replied:

“Yeah, right” and with a snort, the hot dog was gone forever.

I know this doesn’t sound like the “best summer food,” but I’m getting there, I promise.

Fast forward a year and Trish and I are now roommates. Ever since that trip, Trish (being the older of the two of us) has taken it upon herself to expose me to life’s greatest things. This, of course, is a great thing as new experiences have always been fun and enticing with her by my side. And Trish, being a foodie since the cradle, makes discovering new foods and flavors fun. Because cooking and baking run in her blood, Trish has introduced me to a world outside my food rut.

Whereas before Trish my taste buds were especially dismal and exclusive, only allowing family comfort foods to pass my lips (i.e. pasta, chickens, rice-Roni's, canned veggies, etc), today I am completely open to trying new things.

Before Trish, I had acute PTSD toward jalapenos (thanks, dad). Today, I pick them out of the bowl when we’re making tacos. I eat pickles from the jar, whole if I can. I’ll drizzle Cholula over my eggs, potatoes, and even in my dull noodle soup. I eat a variety of olives. I love feta cheese and I’m never going back.

So when we were planning our Vag-only camping trip this year, I suggested (to Trish’s surprise):

“How about hot dogs?” When she looked at me curiously, I continued. “It’s tradition, right? Besides my taste buds have evolved since last year. So why not?”

The reason hot dogs are the best summer food is that they aren’t a daily delicacy. This piquant dish is reserved for occasions where sticks and fires and awkward bedding are involved. They are the symbol of evolution and change. The memories I cherish reside in the company of that first trip with my new friends. The grinning and laughing over a fire. The spread of movies I’ve never seen before and can now say I have. The game of Yahtzee and the pleasant feeling of having lost poorly well.

When I think about hot dogs, I think about the sound of the Tweedles “corning each other’s holes” for hours (however annoying and frustrating and embarrassing that was). It’s the “match my every drink” energy Trish had that night and the falling out of the bunk bed still drunk the next morning memory. It’s the sound of rain and cackling fires blending together. It’s the giggling and running to the bathroom through the rain. The walk I took alone that morning where came within 50 feet of a deer. Searching on the lake bed for rocks for Tweedle-Dumber.

Hot dogs preserve some of the best memories I have made in a very long time and the friendships I have built in the time since.

And I wouldn’t trade that for the world.

*This is a republish of my original work. A title and picture change are included.