Hot Hotdogs

The hotdog, spelled as such, is about five centuries old and was not invented in the USA, but in Germany.  Frankfurt, in the 13th century, to be historically correct. We all know that Germans love their sausage, and when these steaming hot outdoor delights were offered for sale, to accommodate street occasions, the fat-loaded pork "tube steaks" were wrapped in buns to protect  hands from being burned. When in Germany at a sausage stand near Mozart's domain, I found they didn't always hand out these delectable delights with bread, but merely slapped them red hot and savory, into a piece of waxy paper. Nothing tasted better than these greasy, drippingly fragrant meats. We, weary tourists wanted to wander about oogling rather than sitting at a restaurant table to eat schnitzel.  A tall, cold foamy beverage would have been the perfect go-with, but that had to wait until a sidewalk establishment could be found. Not a hard task in Germany. At baseball games, it's traditional to get hotdogs which always taste best there, in spite of the oft  lower quality, rather than any other place in the world. Mustard, ketchup and relish (I like all three) can drip down on your tee shirt and be washed out to show still, your favorite team logo before the next game out. In my teacher days, during a spate with Grade Twos, Friday was Hotdog Day. Parents came to the gym kitchen and at about eleven in the morning, the rest of the day was lost.  Wafting through the hallways came a calling far more irresistible than Pied Piper's music. As soon as that indelible scent of hotdog, entered the classroom, forget Reading, Writing and Arithmetic. Hotdog took over. Little eyes bent doorward, little hearts beat faster, little hands quivered to grab what the ladies of Hotdog Day would bring pre-ordered to our room and dispense. First, it was necessary to have the hand washing at the back sink because when the knock came to the door, that wouldn't easily happen.  I made sure that I was in a safe place when the bell rang for lunch, because the stampede to the hotdog table could be dangerous even for adults who were teachers. Principals notwithstanding. The wise ladies of Hotdog Day, supervised the onslaught by controlling what went on the hotdogs according to the dictates of each eager little client. While one lady lined up the ravenous kids, the women at the table applied with their tongue depressors, liberally to the hotdogs on hand, whatever the child's directions were. "I hate mustard", "Not too much relish, but a bit of mustard and lots of ketchup", "Don't let any ketchup touch my hotdog" and other specifics that only eight year olds understand.The room hadn't been so intense all day when the actual eating began. If you've never heard the special sounds of Grade Twos consuming a hotdog or two, you shouldn't. It's almost inhuman and primitive. It ranges from humming, to toe tapping, to actual singing familiar tunes to all-out open mouthed lip- smackings and low growls and groans. Not pretty music. At the end of it all,  there is detritus. But there is peace and quiet, when the final smeared face leaves, looking smugly sated and complete. Until next Friday.