The worst part about cooking and writing about it is that every idiot you come across tries to tell you what to make and/or write about. Have a brilliant creative idea? Keep it to your fucking self, stop bothering me, and do your own thing. Once in a disease free hooker, however, someone actually has a rare display of sagacity and I take note. I was talking with this old southern dude the other day and he was describing to me how his grandmother made baked hot dogs. She obviously remembered the Great Depression like it happened the day before. If I had been totally baked at the time it would have seemed like a good idea; so I got lifted and made the stupid baked hot dogs.
The general idea is to cook some hot dogs, plop down your favorite toppings and bake the whole fucking thing at 375 degrees for 8.25 minutes. I pan fried two dogs, sliced them lengthwise, and placed them in some buns slathered with chipotle adobo. I topped them with jalapeno, tomato, white onion, and cheddar. You can do whatever the fuck you want; I don’t give a shit. Just make sure the buns are not touching the sides of the dish or each other so they get nice and crispy. These bad boys could only be better if they were wrapped in bacon and served by a mermaid riding a unicorn in an enchanted forest. Now if you will excuse me, this second doobie ain’t gonna smoke itself. Eat it.