Here is something I have been thinking about lately — hot dogs.
There was an episode of Mad Men once where Betty Draper is feeding the kids hot dogs for their kid-supper (she would wait for Don and eat something better later on). She sits at the table in her hot pants looking utterly bored, smoking. I don’t smoke, but I feel her in that moment. While in the early 60’s I think hot dogs were new and novel, so no one would judge her for serving them, to me the hot dogs are a sign of her exhaustion. A meal she could make in 90 seconds before making a whole OTHER dinner for her husband.
I give W hot dogs, and I feel bad about it. I am not really sure why. I guess because they are the epitome of “crappy” food. They are filler, and cheap, and quick, and not what “good” moms feed their growing kids. Good moms serve organic, free-range something or other from the Gwyneth Paltrow book that I only know exists because they sell it at Costco.
I try to buy the all-natural hotdogs, but I know they probably are still (secretly) full of weird things and pretty far from organic. Then I put the hot dog on a WHITE bun — yep, no nutrition there. Oh, and don’t forget the food-colouring-and-sugar topping (aka ketchup).
Why am I doing this then, you ask? Why I am I giving him something I feel so bad about? I am not really sure. Because it is easy. Because he will eat it and not complain. Yes and yes.
Some days I can’t even bear to Google the words “chicken thighs” or “quick pasta.” And, so, on those days we eat hot dogs. And I drink wine.
[image: by SWEET2OOF]