Synthetic Sausage Nightmare

Beginning in middle school, I knew more than any sixth grader should ever know about commercial animal slaughtering for food chains and grocery stores. Needless to say, I acquired an aversion to almost all meat products not advertised as free-range. This habit remains with me; though on occasion, out of respect for others’ cooking efforts, I break my own code. Since I’ve been in New York, street vendors and friends alike hound me to “let loose” and try such authentic local foods like halal food, Philly cheesesteaks, and hot dogs. This weekend, I am venturing out for the first time to get one of Nathan’s Famous hot dogs.

            Now, this whole idea of avoiding vendors serving tortured meats began with several PETA videos. So as I walked the two blocks from my Midtown apartment to Nathan’s, I had to overcome mental images of persecuted cows raised in confined unlivable conditions. Totally unrelated to the situation at hand but adding to the challenge ahead of me was that I had to march twenty-five minutes in the cold down slush covered streets with chilling winds biting my cheeks. My adventure was already off to a great start.

            As I walked into the shop, a short Indian woman called out to “Hector” for “more dogs on the grill. ASAP.” (These were lovely words for my already overactive imagination.) When I stepped up to the counter, I asked for a number one combo—including one hot dog, fries, and a drink—with their “Old Fashioned Orangeade” since I was feeling especially spontaneous.

            After waiting only a few minutes, a brown bag was placed in my hands, and I walked quickly back to my toasty abode. Once securely comfortable in my living room chair with orangeade in one hand and “dog” in the other, I sunk my teeth into the all beef hot dog smothered in ketchup.

            First, I saw a vision of Elsie, the Bordens Dairy cow, begging for her life. (Okay, so a little too dramatic.) Then, I tasted the almost foreign flavor of burnt meat like the hot dog sandwiches my grandpa made when I was in elementary school. I had forgotten how chewy those little synthetic tubes of packed meat are. After the first bite, I chugged about half of my fizzy orange soda at once.

            Disgusted by what I did, I offered my roommate the rest of the hot dog. She laughed and told me I had to finish what I started. Then, she looked at me and said, “It’s all in your head, you know.”