Happy Friday — I have a confession to make. Last week I was on vacation in the Caribbean, where the breezes were warm and the sun was shining. My brain quickly turned to marmalade, and I was unable to compose sentences. Hence no posting. 

Now that I’m back and once again sufficiently crunched in the to-do list vortex, it’s time for more Hot Bones. 

This week is all about how plant-based hot dogs are exactly what you need this weekend. I may even convince G to eat a bite.

My regular workday entertainment — in fact my weekend entertainment too — is standing in front of our windows and staring at whatever regular thing the neighbors are doing. Who doesn’t love a good basic neighborhood snoop. So I didn’t blame Debbie from the house on the right or Jim from the left for staring right back at us, no doubt trying to figure out why anyone would try grilling in the winter, in the dark, on what appears to be a lunchbox loosely attached to a propane canister.

This was a damp February evening four years ago. I was looking at engagement rings, so G figured that if this was getting really serious she’d need to teach me about football. And before football comes football snacks. 

Sure, there’s Tostitos and nachos and chili and baked potatoes, but, Charlotte, nothing. nothing. comes close to the demigod of snacks: the grilled hotdog. 

Only problem for us was that we’d been living in apartments and row houses since college and didn’t have a legit couch let alone a proper Weber. All we had was a camping grill the size of a Kindle, which cooked one chicken breast at a time. Or two hot dogs if you didn’t mind the ends hanging off like cold feet over a twin bed.

Also we’d never used the grill until 30 minutes before Super Bowl LV. 

G and I read the instructions inside, put on our headlamps, walked into the rain, and put the camp grill on a wobbly, wooden patio chair. I brought out the damp hot dogs and buns on a plate while G unscrewed the propane canister and I dunno did something crafty to attach it to the grill. 

With everything carefully assembled, in the dark drizzle, it was time to cook the world’s greatest hot dogs. And then watch football.

Of course the grill wouldn’t light. We clicked the lighter and struck matches and did a lot of not smart things like put our faces right next to the gas line. We said stupid things to each other and stomped our feet and probably kicked the grill a bit. But no dice. 

That’s when I spotted Jim pretending to stare at his laptop placed directly in front of his patio window. And then I locked eyes with Debbie B from halfway behind her curtain, surely with 9.1. pre-dialed on her phone.

I’d like to report two young ladies, possibly witches, hunched over a cauldron or bomb, about to set fire to the whole neighborhood. And they’re cursing, officer. So much cursing.

Don’t do it, Debbie. 

Thank god I was about to marry someone who understands how devices operate, because as soon as I turned back around, G had done something to something and the grill was humming along with a healthy blue flame. I almost proposed right there.

An hour or so later, we toasted to Debbie and Jim as we sat down to watch the game and feast on snacks. The hot dog was delicious. I ate mine. Then I ate G’s. And the spare. Then I ate two bowls of chips and guacamole and passed out on the couch, fully transformed into a human salt lick.

If Jim and Debbie had peered through our living room window the next morning, they’d have witnessed a rough sight. I woke up on the couch with a hot dog hangover — blasting headache, crusty skin, mouth crackling like a paint roller. No knowledge of who won the game or even who was playing. 

Debbie, now’s the time to dial 911.

That’s when I realized, late late in my 20s, that hot dogs are truly one of the worst foods you can eat. I vowed that was my last one.

Sorry in advance, but I’m now going to dive into what you’ve probably been willfully ignoring every time you’re at a baseball game or sitting in the Amtrak Cafe Car (you know it’s legit when there’s a special hot dog drawer). 

Problems include:

But there are solutions! Perhaps your spouse will even grill them for you on your very own Kindle this Super Bowl Sunday.

This solutions section is going to be pretty short for two reasons:

1️⃣ It’s fairly simple to swap a regular hot dog for a plant-based one at the grocery store these days. Still not super healthy (high sodium) but they cook the same and all taste basically like a B or B+ version of the real thing. That’s because it’s much easier to re-create processed meats with processed plant-based alternatives than it is to emulate meat pure and simple. All fine with me as I’m not a stickler for hot dog terroir. 

2️⃣ I tried to run a typical Hot Bones experiment comparing half a dozen plant-based hot dogs via a blind taste test — was even going to do a blindfold bit — but when G and I got to Whole Foods, they only had one option available. And we forgot to buy buns.

So it was a streamlined experiment. We each ate one bite of the plant-based hot dog, and then one bite of the plant-based bratwurst we bought in a panic. 

Field Roast’s Signature Stadium Plant-Based Hot Dogs

💰 $5.99 for 6 vegan hot dogs

😜 Tastes pretty much like a mid-range hot dog, without the cancer

🔍 “Oh yeah I guess I did eat it all” — G looking down at her plate 

Beyond Meat’s Plant-Based Sausage Links - “hot Italian style”

💰$9.99 for 4 links

😜 Decent flavor, a little spicy, then the sensation of eating construction sand, eventually had to neutralize with rice

🔍 If you never want to host a dinner party again, serve these

➕ Bonus: If you want a full deep dive on the best and worst plant-based hot dogs out there, check out this article, just consider yourself warned with the wiener puns.