I got a bit of a late start this year, having not built a genuine campfire until just a week or so ago. While I must admit, it had nothing to do with camping and was far smaller than anything I’d call a bonfire, it was perfect for that cool night as we settled back to enjoy our patio.
I’m not sure what it is about nursing those embers that causes my mind to wander the way it always does. The hypnotically flickering flames and dancing shadows make me feel like I’m sitting quietly with an old friend.
Since this was somewhat of a planned event, at least as planned as I seem to be these days, a supply of hot dogs, mustard, ketchup and marshmallows was ready for a late-evening snack. As I roasted my first — or third (what overly responsible person or dog counts fire-roasted hot dogs?) — I was trying to remember when I first fired up my frankfurter. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember.
That realization didn’t cause me to worry that a few owls had flown out of my loft. In fact, the idea that I couldn’t remember made me smile. The reason was so simple — there have been too many times that I’ve found myself dodging the smoke of a campfire while cooking a few skewered wieners, leaving me unable to pinpoint any particular “first dog.” Rather than a loss of memory, it’s evidence of a treasure trove of recollections and something I would provide as proof of a solid, early childhood.
As I settled back to enjoy the fire with the always accompanying memories and the Cleveland baseball game playing in the background, I gave “my first fire-roasted hot dog” some more thought. It was still impossible to pin that moment down, but there were many that did come to mind. Once there was this small fire along a streambank with hot dogs that were somewhat rinsed off of fishing worm juices and dirt and then stuck onto freshly cut maple sticks. These were especially selected with Dad’s help to ensure that they were forked, doubling the chance that two fidgety kids would keep the hot dogs from ending up in the coals of the fire.
There was also the recollection of a gathering with fellow Cub Scouts as we listened wide-eyed to spooky stories while mustard stained our neckerchiefs. Then, yet another backyard camping trip with a tent made from a blanket. My brother and I cooked our own hot dogs on sticks cut from our yard’s own sugar maple. Included were a can of baked beans and bacon simmered in an old army surplus mess kit.
As I recall, that last one included dad sitting on the porch for most of the night, nursing his old briar pipe. Looking back, I’m not sure if he was keeping a watch for possible problems … or was just a bit envious.
One special hot dog memory occurred after a day of “ice-sliding,” something we excelled at since we lacked the equipment to call it ice skating. A fire was built right there on the ice while a paper sack was unpacked that was loaded with linked hot dogs, Orange Crush, a bag of Wise potato chips and a little bottle of ketchup, all bought from the old Akenhead’s Market in my East Palestine hometown. Dad had forgotten to buy buns, but it just didn’t matter. In fact, those hot dogs may have been the best ever. I can still hear the happy panting as our little English cocker, Cricket, eagerly grinned her tongue-lapping approval as she shared bites with each of us.
So, there you have it. I just can’t remember my first campfire-roasted hot dog, regardless of how hard I’ve tried. If I were to venture a guess, I probably had my first taste long before that fertile soil called “memory” had yet begun to fully sprout its harvestable crop. That very thought makes me happy.
Magic ingredient. I’ve heard people say that if you knew how hot dogs were made, you wouldn’t eat them. Maybe for some, that’s true, but I discovered the one secret ingredient of every campfire-roasted hot dog I’ve ever eaten — each contains just a bit of magic. They can conjure images and memories better than any fortune teller’s crystal ball and can spawn stories that can bring both laughter and a tear.
I hope you can’t remember your first wiener roast, either — but even if you don’t, I’ll bet somebody else recalls your ketchup-stained chin — and I’ll bet that makes them smile.
“If you see a campfire as just a fire, your imagination is very weak, because it is not a lifeless warmth, but a mysterious friend who came to visit you in the darkness… and shared your food, dreams and life!”
— Mehmet Murat Ildan
