My dog’s bun

Some questions that need answering.

I’ve been crankier and crabbier than usual lately. Sleep-deprived, too.

Not the sleep deprivation of the good ol’ days—the pre-parenting days when I’d be a few steps behind the ball during the day but a simple good night’s sleep was all that stood between me and a religious icon’s trimphant revival.

No, these days I feel a deep exhaustion that seeps into my bones. Like my eyes are sinking into my skull, and my chest is tight and heavy, and my heart is beating really fast but also achingly slow. The kind of tiredness that only a week’s worth of sleep will cure. But I know I’m not alone here—we’re all in the shit in our own way, so best get on with things. 

Despite my short-tempered, white-knuckled psyche that’s probably caused by said sleep deprivation, I’ve been pondering an altogether captivating question:

Are hot dog buns too small for the job they’ve been tasked with? 

Every other week or so, we’ll cook hot dogs for dinner. Not the flimsy, one-note hot dogs you find on kiddie menus at restaurants with paper table cloths. No, I’m talking barrel-chested, leave-your-shoes-at-the-door-and-be-on-your-best-behavior kinda dawgs. 

Dawgs with attitude. 

These dawgs ash their cigarettes in your drink, use coffee table coasters the same way COVID-deniers use masks, and fill your trash can with a week’s worth of trash the day after the garbage truck rolls through.

I’m talking fully loaded Chicago-style-esque dawgs that barely fit in your mouth and light up your eyes like the Fourth of July.  

In these bi-weekly hot dawgathons, I’ve learned that there are three elements to making a good one. 

First, the bun needs to be a potato bun and only a potato bun. It’s fresh, soft, and molds to your hand for better control and finesse. Toasting it is optional but highly encouraged. Don’t go overboard with the char, though. This isn’t a campfire smores session, ok? A quick toastin’ and the bun’s good for loadin’. 

Second, the wiener. This should go without saying but you need a quality wiener. And seeing as your mind is on the way to the gutter let me take it all the way there by saying it needs a decent girth. 

Cooking the wiener is critical, too. Cook it thoroughly enough that there’s a distinguishable pop as you bite down—it makes for an altogether tantric experience. Culinary or otherwise. 

Third—and here’s the clincher—the trimmings. For a deeply mind-altering hot dawg experience, push all your chips into the pot. I’m talking pickles, raw onion, tomato, pepperoncini (Greek peppers for the uncultured), American mustard, celery salt if you have it (buy it), and grated cheese if you’re feeling extra (you are). 

A bun crowded with such things brings with it a delightful crunch, a hint of spice, and a mouth-slapping serve of salty tanginess.

Anyway, the last time we cooked these dawgs I started questioning the structural integrity of the bun. 

Is it built sturdy enough to envelope all these flavors and provide a sufficient vessel for the ingredients to make it to one’s mouth? Why is it the size it is? Are there bigger buns out there? 

Because I’ve certainly run into issues in my dalliances with dawgs.

Inevitably, the trimmings topple out of the bun as I eat. Or mustard spills off the top and slides down under my pinky finger. Or, worst case, the bottom of the bun splits and implodes under what I assume is the immense pressure of trying to deliver an ungodly serving of flavor. There’s probably a hint of pandemic stress and anxiety, too, cause no-one’s asked how hot dawgs are coping in this socially isolated world have they?

There’s more work to do here. More thinking and pondering. The answers are still out of reach. Hidden within the bureaucracy of the hot dog world. 

Who’s making these decisions and can they be reversed? What evidence is there to support the size of the buns as they are today? Why are all hot dog buns the same size? Where’s the goddamm variety?

I’ll keep asking these questions for as long as they remain unanswered. 

Because even though I'm a crotchety son of a bitch, I’m a curious one, too. 

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Speaking of unanswerable questions, do you read calls-to-action?

Cause this is one of them.

A captivating albeit verbose call-to-action where I extend my shaky hand in a moment of vulnerability to ask for a favor.

If you enjoy reading my steamed and sauced-up Thought Dumplings, you can repay me with a gutsy click of the heart-shaped Like button.

I like to think that when you do, somewhere on this big blue marble a dog finally catches its tail.

*chef’s kiss*

Allan

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