I have a confession to make. I’m not proud of this and some might call it a guilty pleasure but I need to get this off my chest before I tell you about our next little adventure pit-stop.
I, Amy, genuinely enjoy a gas station hot dog. ::yelp:: That’s right folks. I’ve said it. Those probably not safe for consumption, hot dogs you see at your local corner store that are cooked on the rotating thingamabob. I get so excited when I get one. The plumpiness, the beef, the whatever else. Yum!
As you all may know by now, my husband, being the chef that he is, looks at me like a leper, but like a really cute leper you’d still be friends with, every time I buy one. He’s supportive but still doesn’t quite get it.
Anyways, the moral of the story, is I like hot dogs. Good hot dogs. Slow cooked, not grilled, hot dogs that just hit the right spot in your stummy hole. And he took me to a hot dog lover’s paradise.