Ducky Dogs

While I have been known to eat hot dogs with chili and cheese I generally prefer them with yellow mustard and sweet relish. There was a time in my life when I would eat four or five hot dogs four or five times a week. Now, not so often, mainly because of my growing (morbid) obsession with my ever-expanding belly, though I have to admit I am beginning to be concerned with what they are made of as well. Minnie tells me that the part of our brain that fully comprehends consequences does not completely develop until we are well into our twenties. Mine apparently is developing a little more slowly, an occurrence that is admittedly a bit disconcerting but that I am nevertheless grateful for.

I generally like "Dirty Water" dogs (those boiled in water flavored by the other dogs cooked that day) more than dogs that are steamed, fried, or grilled, though I am not a snob about such things. Of course it goes without saying that the bun must be steamed. When I am cooking at home I buy Hebrew National's all-beef franks, which are made with 100% kosher beef (better cuts of meat processed cleanly) that contain no artificial flavors, no artificial colors, no by-products, and no fillers. I generally boil three links for a few minutes (until they are crisp), then put each of them in their own bun topped with mustard and relish. Of course milk is the (absolutely required) drink of choice.

On a side note, the lawyer in me believes that it is appropriate at this point to make the following DISCLAIMER: "Ducky (Author) is not, nor has he ever been, employed by Hebrew National, Inc. (Company) nor any of said Company's subsidiaries. Furthermore, said Author does not hold, and has never held, any financial or other pecuniary interest in said Company nor any of said Company's subsidiaries. Said Author is simply of the opinion that the products of said Company are yummy."

I have a dream of one day opening a hot dog stand in Austin, to be named of course Ducky Dogs. Every detail of this my true calling is firmly cemented in my brain. As you would suspect Minnie supports each and every one of my dreams, though she has made it perfectly clear that her support of this endeavor will be that of the hands-off variety. Apparently she has paid her dues in the food service industry and thus will only be available to cheer me on from afar. Even promises of naming a vegetarian dog the "Minnie Dog" has not to this point changed her attitude about the glory of slinging dogs in a shop of our own creation. While I find her reluctance a bit disappointing, my study of history reminds me that the greatest of men have often had to pursue their passions on their own. While my drive for greatness may ultimately be along such a lonely road, I have no choice but to slog on, knowing that there are few callings more important that providing a good dog to a hungry populous.

Better Than a Stick in the Eye

So last week I had to go to my doctor's office and do some lab work in preparation for the annual physical exam that I had today. I distinctly remember thinking that it was less than ideal to be up so early, and fasting at that. Then one of my grandmother's old sayings popped into my head, "Well it's better than a stick in the eye." Of course my grandmother was right, it was not that bad after all and I probably should have been more grateful for having the opportunity to take advantage of such great health care. But frankly I found it hard to appreciate being stuck in the arm with a needle and having to walk through a busy waiting room holding a plastic container of warm urine.

Well anyway, these annual visits have over the years become a routine for me, one that I no longer look forward to. In the distant past my doctor would review the lab tests, poke and prod me a little, pat me on the back, and then say in a satisfied way, "Everything appears to be great. Keep doing what you are doing." More recently things have not gone so smoothly and I have actually come to dread this time of year, knowing that it is quite possible that the doctor will tell me that he is concerned that there is something horribly wrong with me.

Anyway, last year a young woman from my doctor's office called me a few days after I had given blood to inform me that the doctor did not want me to take any calcium-based antacids for ten days or so. The woman told me that the doctor was concerned about the high level of calcium in my system and that we would talk about it when I came in for my physical. "Alright" I said. "Is this anything that I should be concerned about?"

There was a pause on the other end of the phone. "Well, I'm not sure. The doctor just asked me to let you know."

I should have immediately called my sister the doctor who would have told me that the labs were most likely screwed up and that I should not worry. Instead I took matters into my own hands and decided to google "high calcium". Part of my "I don't need to ask for directions" mentality I think. The first article that I opened told me that "Hypercalcemia is the most common life-threatening metabolic disorder associated with neoplastic diseases, occurring in an estimated 10% to 20% of all adults with cancer."

My heart sank. I knew that I had some untreatable malignant form of cancer that was intent on killing me within a matter of days. I actually envisioned asking the doctor how much time I had left and him responding "ten," to which I asked if he meant years, months, days. "Nine, eight, seven . . ." were the next words out of his mouth.

What helped to elevate my anxiety even more was the knowledge that I had not taken any antacids in a quite a while, and certainly not on a regular basis. Then it occurred to me. "Maybe it is from the milk." You see I do not remember a time when I did not drink at least four gallons of milk a week, and it is not at all unusual for me to drink a full gallon on any given day. There is absolutely nothing under the sun that I love to put in my body more than milk. When I was a child it was chocolate milk. I would mix a quart or so of milk with something approaching a cup of powered Nestles Quick then sit in front of the television with a table spoon and my concoction, draining the glass one slurping spoonful at a time. The only thing that has changed today is that I know longer add the chocolate to my milk.

The truth is that I am addicted to milk and the thought of giving up my habit was almost unbearable. For five full days I did not drink any milk. Not one drop. What was I going to do if the doctor told me that I had some condition that required that I not drink milk anymore, for the rest of my life. The fear of having cancer was lifted, having been replaced by the panic that resulted from the realization that I was going to be told that I could never drink milk again. This is how my mind works and yes it is tiring.

Come to find out that my sister the doctor had been right. The lab technicians had messed up my tests somehow. I did not have cancer and I did not have to give up my daily milk fixes. You can not imagine the sense of relief that I felt. While I am truly grateful for being cancer free and for not having to give up milk, I believe that I am at least equally grateful for being reminded that my exaggerated fears don't often have a basis in reality. Of course the problem is that my brain is leaky and what I learn I quickly forget. Oh well, such is life.

Roasted Marsala Chickpeas

So I bought some Roasted Marsala Chickpeas a couple of weeks ago. They were packaged nicely, looked tasty, and by all indications were going to be fantastic. I could not wait to open them and give them a try. When I finally got to put a handful into my mouth I was pleased by the crunch, and then, from some ugly place in my childhood, I noticed the flavor. "What the heck" I thought, "these things suck."

Well I am not the kind of person to give up easily so I kept eating them. (While it is true that I am this stubborn, it is probably more accurate to say that I kept eating them because I hate to waste anything, even if it means that I have to suffer in the process). Much to my surprise I began to enjoy the taste of those little red legumes. In fact, I have found it hard over the past few days to keep from eating them. I now consider them to be one of the many things that I truly love.

(On a side note I have always wanted to love mushrooms as well, but with no success to this point. I have to admit that they look really good to me, and I know that since so many people rave about them that they must possess some redeeming quality. But for whatever reason every time that I put one of these spore-bearing fruiting bodies of a fungus into my mouth I come close to being sick. One of these days I will just give up on them completely. I think that sushi may be in this category as well, though the coolness factor of eating raw fish keeps me coming back for more.)

So where is the lesson in all of this for me? I think that I have known for a long time that it is important for me to keep trying new things, otherwise I might miss out on discovering some great little gem that will bring pleasure to my life. But now I think that I know as well that it is important for me to try things a second time if I don't love them at first. I understand that this involves a bit of dice rolling, but it is worth having to eat a few mushrooms to be able to uncover the beauty of Roasted Marsala Chickpeas and the joy that comes to me from eating them.