Sunday, March 25, 2012

I don't like sand in my food...

Last night, I was reminded of something rather embarrassing.  I'm a no-sand-in-my-hot-dog-kind-o'-gal.  But am I alone in this?  I wonder...?

Now for those of you who live in the heart of Siberia or dead center of Kansas who've never experienced a bonfire at the beach complete with hot dogs roasting on sticks and marshmallow s'mores, you may have no idea what I'm writing about.  But there are many of you, my dear friends and blog readers, who are laughing your asses off. You're currently thinking to yourselves either one of two things: one, Bri and I are compadres in an obsessive-compulsive disorder.  Is that really a problem?  Or two, what the Hell is wrong with this woman?  For those of you living in Siberia or Kansas, I'll explain. 

As I have often referenced, I grew up in sunny Southern California; home to movie stars, terremotos (earthquakes), and the beach.  To celebrate the beginning and end of every summer, my friends, family, and I often found ourselves huddled around fire pits at local beaches.  After long days of playing in the surf and working diligently on future cases of skin cancer, we would pull out our coolers and prepare for our grand feast...roasted hot dogs, potato chips, sodas, and s'mores.

When we were younger, without children, we were in control of our own sandy destiny.  Someone would hand me a hot dog bun to place my perfectly skewered, hot dog in - perfection!  I never requested condiments such as mustard or pickle relish because I knew, without a doubt, that some fool either dropped the bottle in the sand or - because it's always windy at the beach during sunset - inevitably there would be sand in the condiments.  Why be miserable?  I would simply enjoy my food without relish.  Also, I would secretly carry sanitizing wipes in my bag to remove the nasty thin coating of sea salt on my hands before I ate. 

S'mores were a little more difficult to control regarding my sanitary standards.  This is where my job came in.  For those of you who are not familiar with this campfire dessert, the recipe is such:  One roasted marshmallow placed between two graham crackers and a piece of chocolate.  Yum!  However, this can be extremely messy if not handled with great care.

I would sit like the Mother Goose of supplies.  When someone's marshmallow was ready, they would turn to me and I'd have the graham crackers and chocolate ready to perform the delicate task of sliding their hot marshmallow off the stick and into the sandwich.  This made for a lovely, neat situation.  No one ever questioned my position.  It was automatically assumed that I was going to take care of it.  Granted, this meant I never roasted my marshmallow until everyone else was finished but it was a small sacrifice to make in order to enjoy my dessert as it was intended to be - sand free.

Years later, add children to the equation.  All Hell broke loose.  It was if the adults lost concept of Bri's need for order and cleanliness.  Sand everywhere.  Sand on the blankets.  Sand in coolers.  Sand in hot dogs bags.  Fuck it!  I'm going to McDonald's for dinner.