"The Armpit" Doesn't Boil Their Hotdogs?

Anyone who has visited the Outer Banks of North Carolina for summer vacation knows that one thing you can count on is a multitude of Northerners migrating down South.  It's because like most Northerners, they realize that the beaches in the South are simply the best (wink, wink Billie.)  Traveling down 95 South, 58, or 17, you can guarantee that you will always be traveling with a bevy of minivans and SUVs with New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania license plates.  I think they about outnumber actual residents during the summer months.

As we pulled into the little town of Emerald Isle, North Carolina our first thought was where to stop for a great lunch.  Traveling with two small kids, the goldfish and graham crackers were simply not sufficient especially when compared to the one of a kind eateries found on the island.  We spied the Highway 55 restaurant, notorious for their burgers, hot dogs and shakes and their 50s style dining experience.  If you're ever in North Carolina, stop there - it doesn't disappoint!  We pulled in and grabbed a booth.

As we sat down, my husband and I eyed each other and strategically planned how we would keep our two kids entertain lest they become "those kids" that every other table would whisper about.  Our fears were quickly calmed when a family from New Jersey filled the table behind us.  Truth be told, it was hard to even hear our children amidst the chatter (make that hollering) of that boisterous family!

While we were all waiting for our food we had to laugh at the conversation coming from their table - lots of chatter about their home state (no mention of it being "The Armpit" though), plans for the week, the eleven hour trip down, and a little banter about the small towns they passed on their way.  Though the real fun began when they got their food...

The waitress set down the three hot dogs that had been ordered.  Upon first glance, one of the women seemed horrified and she was trying to get her husband's attention without making a huge scene.  As soon as the waitress scurried away for ketchup, we overheard, "What in the world is with this hot dog?"

The statement caught our attention as some of us had ordered hot dogs as well so we glanced over.  What was on her plate was a perfectly normal looking RED hotdog.  Now, everyone south of the Mason Dixon line (and maybe a few other places) knows red hotdogs...they are the pride of every Southern Sunday picnic.  In fact, it can be argued with certainty that their taste is absolutely superior to that of any other hotdog.  We actually start to check temperatures when someone buys anything other than a pack of red hotdogs.  Valleydale...Carolina Pride...it doesn't matter, they are all a shrinkwrapped pack of absolute deliciousness. 

What makes this story such a hoot was her husband's response to her question about what exactly was wrong with her lunch.  Without missing a beat and seemingly very confident he replied, "Oh...you know, they boil their hotdogs down here, that's what makes them red."

What...the...heck?  Has the man every truly boiled a hotdog before?  Okay, besides the lacking grill marks, a boiled hotdog is light pink at the very best.  Never have I seen a hotdog turn red as a result of being boiled...never.  And down here we do eat a lot of hotdogs.  But his explanation was sufficient for her, as she devoured the thing in under two minutes.  I think it was probably the best darn boiled hot dog she has ever had.

~ Belle ~