I thought I could do it, I really did. Hubby and the youngest, just back from London (as opposed to Temecula) told me I could do it. "You can do it, Ma!" "No, I can't." "Just try, honey. It's the 4th of July. This is classic Americana." "It's nauseating, is what it is." "Come on, Ma!" "Okay, okay, don't pressure me." So I tried, but in the end, I had to look away. Watching grown men shove hot dog after hot dog -- gag me! -- after hot dog down their throats was a very big challenge for the SJG. "Oh, dear God, they're going to choke!" "They're not going to choke, Ma!" "Do they have medics standing by just in case?" Hubby said, "See how they dip the hot dog buns in water? That way they won't expand." My biggest fear was that one of them, or all of them, would toss their hot dogs, if you know what I mean. Up came the decorative pillow, my first form of defense when things on TV turn icky. "I can't watch. It's disgusting." "Man up, Ma!!!! Joey Chestnut's up to 60 hot dogs!" I said, "Dinner time must be a real treat at the Chestnut house." "70 hot dogs!" hubby said. "Veysmere! The indigestion! The calories," I said. And then, the final count. "72 hot dogs!" the menfolk said, whooping in unison. It was hard to get swept up in the thrill of victory. "Mazel tov to Joey!" I said. "I'm sure his mother must be very proud."
Every mother's dream, to see her son defend his title.
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