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Confessions of a Foodie

Im-a-Foodie-not-a-SaintSomewhere, deep within men’s hearts, there lurk…secrets. Dark things. Things that never should see the light of day. Things so horrifying, so unfathomable, that to give voice to their name is anathema.

That’s right. I’m talking about Oscar Mayer Cheese Dogs. On white bread. With yellow mustard.

And I love them.

The problem, I suppose, is that I make all this hoity toity food.  And, in all modesty, it’s good. Really good.

But I can’t make an Oscar Mayer Cheese Dog.

And I love them.

With yellow mustard. On white bread.

I may go to hell for this (but, hey, I’m pretty much already there, so why not book the express?), but I think our guilty food pleasures are a lot like drinking wine.

What’s the best wine in the world? The one that you’re enjoying right now.

Now an Oscar Mayer Cheese Dog, or girl scout thin mints, or whatever, won’t make me ask for a little privacy and a cigarette, not in the way a great steak will, anyhow, but I can enjoy the hell of out ’em.

And I do. I admit it. So cook me up an Oscar Mayer Cheese Dog.

On white bread.

With yellow mustard.

And cook that sucker in the microwave. I’m hungry.