Happy Birthday, Jenna.

Tomorrow, Jenna will be ten years old.

And yes, we are having a party. Friends, cake, games, swimming and hot dogs.

I love, love hot dogs.

I know they are rubbish food, but I am one of millions who will swear they can mark out their lives in hot dogs. I know everyone thinks hot dogs are American, and epitomize everything good and bad about this society. You know the bad -- fat, piggy kids, lazy mothers, preservatives and saturated fats -- and the good -- cookouts, family, friends, party, fun, celebration, outdoors, festivals and amusement parks.

But the African hot dog most certainly does exist.

They are not quite like their American cousins -- a little skinnier, toned down, a little more basic really. Usually a fairly humble bendy vienna sausage nestled in a smallish white elongated bun, and smothered in tomato sauce, or ketchup, depending on which country you speak from. They don't get the royal treatment of grill marks, relishes, onions and gourmet mustards. They don't cost much, and can be bought at a vendor who fishes the warm viennas out of some boiling water where they are heated through, and pops it into its bun, wrapped in a scant napkin.

It is a great and ongoing mystery to me and my brethren as to why exactly Americans grill hot dogs. We just don't get it. We grill steaks, lamb chops, pork chops, marinated chicken, boerewors (a spiced local sausage, hopefully homemade) and exotic kebabs.
A South African braai (barbecue) is all about the great, succulent grilled food, and then the beer and company.
For us, the humble hot dog just fills an empty spot in a satisfying fashion. Not really a celebrated food, we say. Not fit for company.

And yet if I think about it, I remember when growing up, fast food joints and take-out spots were virtually non-existent. Exhausted mothers picked up supplies for hot dogs at supermarkets and headed home to feed the kids at the end of the week. Ditto for maids-day- off nights. When hot dogs were served, everyone relaxed. Parents' expectations were low, bad table manners were ignored, kids could lie around or horse about. Dinner was straightforward.

Frequently, hot, sticky Durban summers were packed with pre-adolescent friends at our suburban pool, piles of white buns and lukewarm viennas, gaily accented with bright bottles of ketchup and potato chip packets. Instant kid food readily available without much grown-up intervention required. Adults stayed in calmer, cooler shadows with wine spritzers and olives.

When I was thirteen and broke my arm with a resounding snap on the beach, my mother took me to the emergency room across the street. The huge community hospital, Addington Hospital, must have had the best in-patient view in all the world. All I really remember was feeling weird because someone had wrapped their ketchuped hot dog half in my t-shirt --for safekeeping I guess -- when I undressed and ran off in my swimsuit. I smelt and felt like a hot dog for hours while I waited, and kids showed up mangled and screaming from motorcycle accidents.

In high school, upon strict instruction to come up with a booth, game or carnivalish side-show for our annual fund raiser, my assigned partner and I unenthusiastically decided to man a no-frills hot dog stand. No gimmicks, fair price and good quality buns. (There is no such thing as a good quality vienna.)
To my astonishment, I sold three hundred hot dogs in just over an hour. Our target was exceeded, and my lifelong fascination with a simple, good commodity, marketed and sold to the masses was stirred. Humble hot dogs were a hit.

At sixteen, my friend Janine and I (I know, I know) would take a bus to the beach, hang out all day, and on our way home, stop off at the hot dog stand outside Durban's City Hall and feast on the meaty, bread and ketchup concoctions. Pure heaven. A day of sand, sun, friends and the utter bliss of being sixteen and free, was completed with a hot dog on the steps of the bustling city square. The world was fascinating and rich, and it responded to our colorful nubile presence with delight and pleasure.

Through the years of young adulthood and poverty, hot dogs featured as emergency food, quickly swallowed outside busy nightclubs in the wee hours of the morning. Cheap, quick and delicious fuel for a night of pouring drinks behind bar counters mobbed with beautiful people determined to have a good time.

And now, I am to my dismay, a mom to a ten-year old.

And when there are kids, there are hot dogs.
These days, on the rare occasion that I venture into Costco with champagne-tastes Henk on a weekend, we always order a round of hot dogs for everyone, and nod our mutual approval and delicious satisfaction as we eat them with the throngs on the plastic benches in the store.
We always smile at each other conspiratorially, compliment each other's cleverness at discovering the best hot dogs in the country, and always smugly marvel at the price. A buck fifty of pure heaven on so many levels.

Happy Birthday, Jenna. Have a hot dog on me.