Is There A Doctor In The House?

Our boxed tomato soup was fine the other day since we had lovely hot dogs in baguette buns to go along with it, but facing that same soup, now left over, for lunch again, I thought a little doctoring was in order. I'm always amazed at what improvements just a little fooling around can make. This is essentially the same meal as before, but it felt entirely different.

I still had hot dogs in the fridge so I cut them into rounds and threw them in the pot while the soup heated, and added chopped celery, about a tablespoon of cream cheese and sliced green onion. Stirred all that while it heated and the cream cheese melted, but just 'til hot - I didn't want to cook the veggies, just warm them.

The hot dogs spread their smoky, salty flavor through the soup base and the veggies brightened the texture. For a little panache, I added a celery stick to each bowl as I brought it to the table. My Beloved smiled and asked, "So, is this Bloody Mary soup?" Sure, why not?

Hope you have a fun April Fool's Day!

Look Out!

This blogging thing is funny.

I started Zoomie Station originally just to keep my writing skills up and my mind active in retirement, but it has become so much more than that. A way to make friends from far away and close by. A way to be more thoughtful and adventurous about the food I cook. A way to access family memories. A peculiar form of artistic expression. And, sometimes, it's just plain silly, good for a belly laugh.

Take this photo, for example - our dinner a few nights ago when I didn't feel much like cooking. A couple of my favorite Coleman's hot dogs snugged next to some doctored up Boston baked beans from a can. I snapped the photo as usual and sat down to dinner.

This morning, when I was uploading the photo, I noticed the little kid in yellow shirt and black shorts on the plate, playing with his dog. He looks up at me with a startled expression - "Look Out!" I thought, "you're about to be crushed by two giant logs!" Maybe his dog is trying, like Lassie, to warn him of impending danger. Silly stuff.

Re-Doctored Beans and Hot Dogs

I usually make my mother's recipe for doctored baked beans but not only do they take hours of cooking, they also include maple syrup and, as much as I adore maple syrple, I've been thinking they are just too sweet. But, I have always loved the citrus she added to them, so I decided to try doctoring them myself and this is the result. My Beloved took a bite, unenthusiastically as he was expecting the usual, and got a pleased smile on his face. "These are the best baked beans I have ever eaten," he purred. That's good enough for me!

1 15 oz can of B&M baked beans (I like this brand - the beans are small and tasty)

1/2 chopped onion

1 orange, zested with a micro-plane zester

1 tsp butter

4 Coleman's hot dogs

In a small pot, melt the butter and sauté the chopped onion until clear. Add the beans and the orange zest and heat together for about 5 minutes. (I was going to add the juice of the orange, too, but the inside of mine was nasty so I'll try that next time). Lay the hot dogs on top of the beans, pushing them down until they are about half-covered. Heat until the hot dogs are done, about an additional 10 minutes.

Fabu Franks

Now, you know I love*love*love hot dogs. I think that tube steak is God's gift to humanity, one of the best foods in the world.

Okay, so that disqualifies me as a food snob. So what?

I've probably consumed my weight in hot dogs in my lifetime but never before have I taken a bite and stopped short with my eyes popped open. That's exactly what happened when I took my first bite of a Coleman natural uncured beef hot dog. I can state categorically that, among packaged hot dogs (as opposed to fresh sausages in the butcher's case), these are the best I have ever tasted and, believe me, I've tasted my share.

I have struggled to describe what is so compelling about these dogs. They aren't bigger or saltier or anythinger than other hot dogs, except they are better. Faintly smoky in taste (but not overwhelmingly fake-smoky like some barbecue sauces), lightly salty, nicely meaty - it's not really the parts, you see, it's the sum, and the balance. They don't lend themselves to analysis, just to enjoyment. These are some truly fabu franks.

Hot Dog Heaven

When I ordered my '49ers all beef hot dog at Show Dogs, I asked for relish. I got RELISH. That's okay, I can always tip out the excess.

I was called back from happy retirement last week to help out my former colleagues at a crunch time, so I found myself in San Francisco again. Walking down Market Street in the morning, I noted a new eatery on my route, Show Dogs. Being a lover of a good tube steak, I couldn't wait to return for lunch.

They have an extensive sausage menu at Show Dogs and they offered me all kinds of toppings from sauerkraut to onions but I consider myself a purist. A squeeze of mustard, a stripe of catsup and a tumble of relish are all I need to transport myself to hot dog heaven.

Right away, I knew I was in for a treat when the cook fished out a fat dog from its water bath and laid it on the grill to brown up. Another good sign - when the dog length generously exceeds the bun length. And the bun was toasted crisp on the outside, soft on the inside and sprinkled with sesame seeds. There is a little snap when you bite into a good hot dog, followed by a rush of salty, juicy flavor; this was a good dog.

The atmosphere in Show Dogs is a little funky - after all, it's in mid-Market. However, the black-clad, deathly pale waitress with the skull-printed kerchief artfully draped in the back pocket of her jeans was efficient, checked back once to make sure all was well, and even gave me a little existential smile when I complimented the cook. The music is too loud and the beat is too heavy, but I found myself tapping my toe to the hip-hop sounds. The place itself is clean and wonderfully bright from the wraparound windows - perfect for lunchtime reading. And, somehow, even though they offer fried foods, too, the place doesn't smell of frying oil, a bonus.

Show Dogs is a little pricey but that's possibly a good thing as it probably discourages some of the more colorful denizens of mid-Market. The diners around me were clearly either tourists or working folks like me enjoying a respite from sightseeing or salt mining. Ten dollars for a dog and a drink is probably excessive but I'd happily spend it again if I was called back to work again.

Corn Dog

Is this where I admit that I made this discovery out of sheer laziness?

I didn't want to wash (or, more precisely, I didn't want My Beloved to have to wash) an extra pan, so I slipped my fresh corn into the same water in which our hot dogs had been boiling for about five minutes. Three minutes later, fished out both and bunned the dog, drained the corn.

It didn't make a huge difference but there was a pleasant little hint of hot dog salt and smoke in my corn. Subtle but fun. Not exactly a corn dog, more like dog corn. A summertime treat, in any case.

Hot Dog!

Hot dogs, especially good, charcoal-grilled hot dogs, striped, blistered and even a little bit charred by the grill, always remind me of Ted's Hot Dogs in Buffalo, NY. I was thinking about them just the other day and wishing I could be in line there, anticipating that first delicious bite.

At Ted's there is always a line. It moves quickly, however, as they have an assembly line that rivals a Henry Ford plant. You choose your hot dog (white hot, red hot, foot long, Polish sausage, sweet Italian, hot Italian, whatever), it is speared and added to the line of dogs being grilled over charcoal, pierced frequently so the juice runs down and comes back up as juicy smoke that flavors the food. A few minutes later, blistered and striped, they are taken off by a second cook, popped into a bun and the cook looks up expectantly for you to choose your condiments. You name it, they've got it (onions, sweet relish, dill relish, mustard, catsup, whatever). Next you decide on "Fries or rings?" from the third cook, collect your drink from the fourth guy, pay the cashier and you are off to find a picnic bench outside (if it's warm) or a table inside (if, as usual, it's cold) and finally you get that first, juicy, smoky, salty bite. Pure Buffalo heaven!

Shortly after my first husband and I moved to Rochester, NY, we were befriended by Lois and Crane McDonald, a very friendly couple from Buffalo. They had moved to Roch-cha-cha for Crane's job but their hearts were still firmly rooted in Buffalo, so they introduced us to several of Buffalo's pleasures - Bisons minor league baseball, Ted's hot dogs and Buffalo style wings, to name a just a few.

Ah, Buffalo! It has such a bad rep - freezing weather, ungodly amounts of snow, decaying factories, Love Canal, unemployment. If you drive by on the freeway, all you see is ugly and more ugly. But, when you are introduced to the true Buffalo by a native Buffalonian, you can't help but love it.

Open, friendly people, cheerfully plebian food, beautiful parks, one of the best small art museums on earth, natural beauty and, yes, ungodly amounts of snow. But, every time I go to Buffalo, something nice happens to me. Like the time I got turned around on a toll road and stopped to ask the teller for directions - she not only set me straight with a smile, she also gave me a free pass through the toll in both directions. Or the time I watched a guy ahead of me hand a bright red rose to the toll taker along with his fare, which I thought was very sweet of him - then as I drove through, the toll taker gave it to me. Say what you will about Buffalo - I'm a fan!

So, this Fourth of July, My Beloved and I will be grilling hot dogs à la Ted's, savoring memories of Buffalo and wishing our country a Happy Birthday. She's looking good for 234 year old lady with a sadly oil-soiled petticoat.

Hottie

I'm very fond of hot dogs, a trait My Beloved shares but with far less fervor. I maintain it's because he doesn't use enough condiments on his hot dogs, but we've debated that hotly for nearly 15 years and I haven't detected any "give" on either side of the issue.

Anyway, I use almost any excuse to eat a hot dog - ball games, backyard barbecues, rainy days, sunny days - you get the drift. So, when I heard that Acme bakery makes hot dog as well as hamburger buns, I was all about buying those and stopping on the way home to pick up a package of hot dogs, as well.

Here's the result. I grilled the buns on the Jennair, boiled the hot dogs until they swelled and split, and added dollops of relish, Dijon mustard and June Taylor's celestial ketchup. My Beloved is a mustard purist who turns his nose up at further adornment to his dogs, the poor dear.

These buns are really special; I may be spoiled for all time. I've been known to take my own maple syrup to a pancake breakfast to get the real thing - does this mean I'll be carrying my own hot dog buns to future ballgames and backyard barbecues?

Firsts

Having been raised by a good home cook who was slightly snobby, I had never been exposed before I left home to such plebeian food as KFC and corn dogs. She basically turned up her nose at all foods that were served in a plastic basket. Her children were something of a trial to her as we all loved TV dinners, gooshy white bread, iceberg lettuce and bologna from a plastic package.

My Beloved was astonished when he learned that I had never been to KFC; he took me there shortly after I moved to California. I haven't been back but I like that my experience has been broadened.

On my recent trip to the East coast, my sister and I stopped at a restaurant in North Carolina which shall remain anonymous and I found on the menu at last a chance to sample a corn dog. It came with French fries and a very sour pickle, a tube steak wrapped in a sort of cornbread blanket, impaled on a stick and deep fried. You may recall that I'm a big fan of hot dogs, so I enjoyed my corn dog very much. This is not "gourmet" food but it's good food, hot and sweet from the cornbread and salty from the hot dog. The fries were done the way I like them, crispy on the outside, creamy in the middle with just a hint of salt. It was served in a plastic basket lined with greaseproof paper and brought to the table by a waitress who called me "Sweetie." Southern hospitality has my vote.

Summer Favorite

What I'm about to admit puts me beyond the pale of true foodie territory: I like beans and franks.

Yes, beans from a can and frankfurters mummified in plastic. I actually look forward to summer cookouts where, almost inevitably, someone will bring a big pot of beans to go with the grilled hotdogs.

My Beloved, however, is not a huge fan of the tube steak - the man can actually attend a baseball game without consuming one. Imagine!

Since I'm the cook in our house, and so have the power, we do occasionally have this summer favorite of mine. Oh, I dress it up for him by adding onions, spices and tangerine or orange slices (skin and all) to the pot of beans as they simmer. I sometimes even grill chicken apple sausages rather than true franks. But, let's not fool ourselves that we are eating anything but comfort food here.

And comfortable it is. Sweetly savory-salty, it's a flash back to childhood when, very occasionally, my mother would serve us this when she was dressed up to go out with my Dad for the evening and wanted to leave us in a good mood for the babysitter. When I take the first bite of the beans, I almost get a whiff of her perfume as she breezed out the door on my father's arm, knowing she left us as happy as she was.

Doctored Beans

One of the pleasures of writing about whatever we're eating for dinner is that it often brings back memories from long ago to enjoy - or not, depending on the memory.

Because my birthday falls in February, I was not allowed to begin kindergarten even though my mother believed I was ready - or perhaps she was just eager to get that last kid out the door so she could have some peace and quiet! In any case, three of the mothers in our neighborhood felt the same way so they signed up for a Calvert School course and decided to home school their budding geniuses. They took turns preparing and presenting the lessons and some of my earliest memories are of my mother painstakingly printing out letters for me to copy.

By far, my favorite classmate was Sandy Ferguson; I can't even remember the name of the other kid in the class. Sandy was my best friend even before we started school together; we played well and never quarreled, something of a rarity with me and my friends. Very simply, I loved him.

Then, one day we were playing a very interesting game of doctor when Mrs. Ferguson discovered us. As I recall, I had Sandy stretched out on the ironing board and was about to take his temperature rectally when I looked up into Mrs. Ferguson's horrified face.

Although I was sent home immediately with a flea in my ear, Mrs. Ferguson did forgive me once she got over the shock and even gave us her recipe for baked beans, which I still make today. I don't always follow the recipe exactly; I leave out the brown sugar and go light on the maple syrup and, if I don't have apples in the house, I sometimes resort to unsweetened apple butter. The onions and oranges, however, are key ingredients, not to be messed with.

Mrs. Ferguson's Baked Beans

4 #2 jars of B & M Baked Beans (#2 jars ae 1 lb. 3oz. jars)
1 large Bermuda onion, sliced
1 large unpeeled orange, sliced (I used tangerines this time and they worked fine)
1 large unpeeled apple, sliced (or use unsweetened apple butter)
1 cup brown sugar (I omit this altogether)
20 whole cloves
1 cup (real) maple syrup

Grease the baking pot with the salt pork from the can of beans, line with a layer of onion rings, orange and apple slices, 1 jar of beans, 1/4 of the brown sugar, cloves, and syrup. Repeat until bean pot is almost full with alternating layers. Cover and bake 8-10 hours at 200 degrees.

Needless to say, I don't make this amount for just the two of us and I don't bake it for that long. Two or three hours at 300 degrees is fine. I serve this with tube steak and that wonderful Boston brown bread that comes in a can, thinly sliced and spread with cream cheese. I don't know if that's traditional, but it's how it was always done in my family.

I wonder where Sandy Ferguson is today and I wonder if Mrs. Ferguson chuckles over the memory as I do.