Flourishing vine, whose kindling clusters glow
Beneath the autumnal sun, none taste of thee:
For thou dost shroud a ruin, and below
The rotting bones of dead antiquity.
Hot dogs are like strippers, really. Nobody wants to know the backstory. We don’t want to think about how they came to be in their present form of employment. “Well, when I was twelve, my stepfather..” “Not interested! Put some mustard on that.
– Jim Gaffigan, Food: A Love Story