The Weekly Fare . . . July 3, 2003

Dangerous Traditions

If you were to ask anyone I know, they would tell you that I am a man of tradition.

Perhaps that is putting it nicely . . . If you were to ask anyone I know, they would tell you that I resist change like the plague.

A fine example of this occurred just last week as I was happily motoring my way down Route 460 just east of Lynchburg. Out of nowhere I found a deep hunger rising from within. My love of tradition was manifesting itself in a very subliminal yet physical sense. At first I was surprised - after all it was 4:30 in the afternoon and I had eaten a decidedly healthy lunch. There was no reason to be hungry. Why in the world was I having this craving for . . . "Yes! That was it! A Moores Country Store Hot Dog!"

My brother had turned me on to "Moores Dogs" during our many travels to Hampden-Sydney College outside of Farmville Virginia. I can still remember his exaggerated drawl and swagger as we pulled up in front of the old brick building with the tree growing up through the roof. "Son . . ." he proclaimed not unlike Foghorn Leghorn, "You just ain't lived 'til you've had a Moore's Dog . . . You just AIN"T lived!"

"Oh yeah?" I replied. "Why's that?"

"You'll see . . . " came the smiling reply.

We each ordered two dogs to go. The lady at the register grinned as she rang them up with a couple of Dr. Peppers and a large bag of Wise chips. She clearly knew a rookie when she saw one. Randy and I headed out the door with our loot.

The surprise?

Them dogs were hot. I mean REAL hot - not hot as in heat - but HOT, HOT! Like the kind of hot that would make Texas Pete blush. Only the sort of men who "ride herd" on cattle drives would want anything to do with one of these babies - and even then, only because they can't taste anything for all the other "trail-fare" they consume every day.

But all that being so, there was still something about a "Moores Dog" that made you want another one. Even after you'd downed your whole D.P. and whatever other fluid was in the car (including that warm water in the bottom of the cup that was the remains of the melted ice you had started your trip with) you still wanted - nay craved, another. It was an addiction to be sure, but a lot better than many of the others floating around in our college days.

So last Thursday as I sauntered up to the bar and ordered, "One bag of salt and vinegar chips - two all the way, don't hold the heat and a large lemonade," I savored the joy of honoring tradition. "If ol' Randy could see me now," I thought proudly. He'd be saying something like, "Yessir - that's the way you order 'em . . . salt and vinegar and no holding the heat . . . Just ain't lived 'til you've had your one-hundredth Moores Dog . . ."

It was probably my thirtieth or so, but who's counting.

I took my small brown paper bag of tradition out through the old screen doors and headed for my Tahoe. I couldn't wait to sink my teeth into one of those dogs. I was salivating like a tiger long off the hunt.

But I can be a patient man when it comes to tradition, so I took my time as I pointed the car east toward Richmond. I made sure I was well clear of traffic before unfolding the top of the bag and reaching inside to claim my first prize. I carefully opened the wrapper. Yup, there it was - just like old times - steaming and reeking and just begging to be eaten in about three bites. Which is pretty much what I did.

But it wasn't exactly just like old times.

In fact, it was very little like old times. By the time I had swallowed the second bite I realized that these dogs, hot though they traditionally be, clearly had a certain amount of "extra character" to them. "Don't guess they were holding back on the old "wang" today," I thought to myself. I went on and knocked the dog out with one final overzealous bite.

It was a big mistake.

By now I was already reaching to uncap the lemonade that I had placed in the cup holder next to me. Before I could get it to my lips, my eyes started to water so hard that I had to set it back down to wipe them so I could see the road. My face didn't feel so much flushed as on fire. I looked in the mirror and recognized myself as Moses having just descended from Mount Sinai - face aglow with the mystery of God. Except I was aglow with something else - and the best I could tell, it was a hot dog made from condensed jalapeno paste.

The burning in my mouth increased. I began to involuntarily whoop and yell like a bronc buster in a rodeo, which struck me as immeasurably hilarious. It really was uncontrollable. I could have no more held those yelps in than not breathe after being held under water too long. And I couldn't stop laughing for anything. It was a vicious cycle that had me snorting and gasping for air like a newborn pup. I was a total mess. I didn't need a tissue. I needed a towel.

I had lost it completely.

It was a good thing I had picked a clear stretch of road to start my traditional meal. Between laughing and crying and wiping tears and guzzling lemonade and stuffing those darn vinegar chips (great selection) in my mouth, I was having a hard time controlling the car. Thankfully there was no one else near me as I drifted from lane to lane struggling to "right my ship." If a State Trooper had been in the neighborhood, he would have pulled me over for sure. I'm not certain what the charge would have been.

Maybe failure to yield . . .

To a dog?

To tradition?

To common sense?

I'm afraid it was all of the above.

Some traditions are best forgotten.