Saturday 29th January 2011
I make hot dogs about twice a year. It’s always a bit of
an event, like a birthday cake being carried to the table.
“Come on hurry up, sit up the table. Daddy’s made hot dogs!” MW says. MS comes to the table to see what all the fuss is about. At this point it could go one of two ways;
“What is it?” he could say with a look of dissapointment on his face or he could audibly smack his lips. I recieved the latter for my efforts.
After munching his way through half a bowl of guacamole, nachos and most of his hot dog, bar the bit at the end, I asked what he thought.
“9/10” He said.
“Why not the full ten this time then?” I enquired.
“Because the bread wasn’t homemade and I love homemade bread with my hot dogs.”