I opened the fridge to discover my father had purchased a package of hot dogs. Surprising myself, I let out a whoop! of glee and danced around like a small child. Giggling at my reaction and curious about it because, generally, hot dogs are not my favorite thing to consume, I carried the package to the counter and debated about how I would cook it.
Boil? Brown?
Bar none, if I’m gonna eat a hot dog, browning is my favorite.
So, I went with the browning.
I placed the skillet on the burner and turned on the stove. Relishing in the feeling of the knife slicing into the meat and easefully gliding through, I had a wash of memories flood over me. Grandma Faye is the one who had taught me to do a hot dog this way.
I find myself with tears in my eyes and I am all of a sudden eight years old, standing by her in front of the old fashioned stove, learning to brown hot dogs. Tears running down my face, I listen to the hot dog sizzle against the surface of the heated pan until it’s the right time to add Grandma’s secret ingredient: just a tiny bit of water which mixes with the juice from the meat and creates a overall, even, glimmering brown color.
I watch the dropplets skitter and dance across the hot surface, creating a symphony of pops and crackles in perfect harmony. And I cry.
I miss my Grandma.
