The First Dog I Ever Ate

I remember the day like it was yesterday, in fact it was. I fired up the grill, breaking one of the sacred rules of our overbearing apartment complex, who disallows any fun with the intensity of a morning alarm clock. I bought charcoal earlier in the day because I’m not one of those fancy people with a gas grill, and took it home to cook dinner for myself and my wife, who deserves a nice meal cooked by me every once in a while, but not so often that it comes to be expected and loses all of it’s charm. I sliced up a potato and rolled them in a homemade batter before dropping them in the fryer, while I waited for the grill to heat up. I’d never made homemade french fries before, but last night’s meal was one of several firsts, a culinary adventure I wouldn’t soon forget.

It was the perfect evening for grilling, a nice spring breeze blowing through the trees as I stood on my balcony looking out at the dumpster below. Some nights you can tell are special while they are unfolding, and this was one of those times. I watched the flames envelop the charcoal as I sipped a glass of iced tea in the green iron chair beside the grill. I wasn’t in a hurry to cook the meal. I wasn’t in a hurry to do much of anything. I listened to a baseball game on the radio, the home team was winning, but I didn’t have a rooting interest. I was just enjoying the easy going nature of the true American dream that I found myself living. I put the meat up onto the grill and listened to the sizzle and pop as the grease fell from it into the fire below. I definitely need to do this more often I thought, but didn’t voice my declaration out loud, again not to give any unnecessary expectations of future meals on Sunday nights like this one.

I turned over the meat and admired the grill marks that diagonally marked the exterior of the side I’d already cooked to perfection, then waited a little while longer before removing it from the grill completely and taking it inside. I placed it on the plate next to the fries, and topped it with a little bit of mustard, but not so much that it would drown at the flavors completely. My wife and I sat at the table eating our hot dogs and listening to the jazz stylings of a musician who had died many years ago. It was the perfect evening, well it would have been anyway, had it actually taken place. I didn’t eat hot dogs last night. That was all a lie, a fictitious tale, told for the sole purpose of putting something in the blog today. The truth is, I didn’t actually have anything interesting to talk about today, at least nothing that came to mind. I hope you’ll forgive the lie, and come back tomorrow to read whatever I decide to write about. Tomorrow I promise to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Surely I can do that for one day.


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