A weenie wagger graduates
Alright guys, I’ll have to admit–I’m a bit pissed off at all the readers of this blog. A few months ago I posted about how my wife and I were buying a house and nobody took the time to send me a note to warn me about what I was in for. Like my friend James said his dad told him, after buying a house there’s two things you won’t have around to bother you: a savings account and free time. And I won’t even begin to tell you about how I got stuck on my roof last week, although I will mention that my neighbor Dave who eventually helped me out is an avid hot dog fan who just might make an appearance on the blog if I can convince him.
Last August (which seems like so long ago when you’ve been staring at seven-foot-high piles of snow for the past month) Samantha’s sister Alana came to visit with her family. To Jordan, her eldest child, I’m known as Uncle Hot Dog. Apparently he figured that I made a living eating hot dogs (don’t I wish) so I didn’t want to disappoint the kid when he came to visit. There was a problem with our impending visit to hot dog land, however–Jordan was what Sam has dubbed a “weenie wagger.” You all probably know a weenie wagger and at one point were one yourself; it’s the kid who pulls the weenie from the bun and, wagging it proudly while clutching it in their grimy hand, devours the dog sans anything. I don’t hang with weenie waggers, so after having a heart-to-heart with Jordan we decided it was high time for a weenie wagger to graduate.
And there’s no better place to graduate than one of my favorite stands in New England, Fred’s Franks, home of the heart-stopper known as the schnurble. We piled the kids into the car and drove on down the road with “Pomp and Circumstance” on the radio, ready to see a boy become a–well, not a man, but just a kid that doesn’t eat a hot dog like a monkey does a banana.
No matter how appealing I tried to make the non-ketchup condiment–like Fred’s Srirachababa, a mix of sriracha, home-made BBQ, and A1 sauce–the kid wouldn’t budge from his choice of ketchup. I decided to win the war rather than this battle and let Jordan have his way.
In the end Jordan found becoming a real man of a hot dog eater was less painful than a trip to the dentist’s, especially since he had his Forest Ranger sheriff’s badge to steady his nerves. A gift from Aunt Sam, Jordan had received this star earlier in the day for not bugging us too much while we took him on a hike. Yay for children!
Since Alana’s husband William is a more adventuresome type, he went with the chorizo, which he ended up sharing with his son Justin. I swear that kid’s got a steel lining in his stomach because he downed a good quarter of it and I didn’t hear any horror stories resulting from them being stuck in the car with him on the ride back to Jersey.
In ending, I do have some sad news to relate–Fred, the original owner of Fred’s Franks, sold his stand to a guy named Carl. Just a week after Fred shared his lunch with me (a delicious grilled pork cutlet, just like mama used to make back home in Indiana) I got a mass email from Carl saying he bought the place. I never got to say goodbye to Fred and thank him for starting a great stand *sniff* but I gotta give him big props for it taking him only three years or so to start a stand, create a ridiculously high-quality product that he consistently cranked out, build up a very loyal following, and then sell it at (hopefully) a profit. Big ups Fred, and best of luck to Carl–you better keep it going or I’m going to be the most despondent kid on the block for not having an amazing stand less than one mile from my house.