It’s winter here in Australia, which feels like the wrong time to be thinking about hot dogs. And yet, 15th July is National Hot Dog Day (at least in the United States). We don’t officially have a day of celebration for hot dogs in Australia, but I’ve decided that doesn’t matter. I’m celebrating anyway, mostly because I really love hot dogs.
I wish I didn’t.
They’re not especially nutritious, and there’s a certain mystery to them that doesn’t inspire confidence. You’re never entirely sure what they’re made of, and maybe it’s better not to ask. They don’t pretend to be anything other than what they are: cheerful, ultra processed, and unapologetically basic.
And still, I love them.
I tell myself that taste isn’t the whole reason. It’s about association. Hot dogs feel tied to something simpler. Casual meals, shared lunches, standing around chatting while eating something warm with your hands. They’re food that doesn’t ask much of you. No cutlery, no ceremony, no expectation beyond enjoyment.
Some of that affection dates back to childhood. When my mum was working over the school holidays, my brother and I would have to make lunch for ourselves. We’d warm hot dogs in the microwave and eat them with plain white bread and tomato sauce. The memory of hot dog water soaking into the bread makes me gag a little now, but the feeling of working together, figuring things out together, still feels good. It wasn’t about the food so much as the quiet pride of independence, of being capable in small ways.
They followed me overseas too. In 2004, I was spending the summer in Minnesota, and my American family took me to a Minnesota Twins game at the Metrodome. It was there that I not only discovered my love of baseball, but my continued appreciation for hot dogs. I sat in the stands eating them, cheering for the local team, completely swept up in the buoyant warmth and energy. That afternoon has stayed with me, the simplicity of it, and the joy of being part of something new yet familiar and loving it immediately.
Back in 2010, for reasons I can no longer explain, I was determined to share my love of hot dogs with my work colleagues. I brought a pack of weenies with me, warmed them up in the microwave, cooked bacon and onions on the sandwich press, and served up my delicacies. It wasn’t glamorous, and I’m sure the smell lingered far longer than anyone would have liked. Colleagues gathered around, laughed, and ate hot dogs together in the middle of an ordinary workday. For a moment, work felt lighter. Less about deadlines and emails, more about connection, novelty, and the joy of doing something just because.
Even some of my most culturally impressive evenings seem to circle back to hot dogs. After dancing in a Broadway show, then heading up to the Empire State Building at midnight, my friend Kaylee and I stopped at Grey’s Papaya and ordered hot dogs before taking a limo back to our hotel. There’s something hilarious about that contrast, sequins and skylines followed by mustard and neon lights. But it felt exactly right at the time. Familiar food after extraordinary moments. A grounding ritual.
Looking back, I realise I don’t always remember how the hot dogs tasted. What I remember are the people, the places, the possibilities.
Hot dogs aren’t aspirational. They don’t try to be health food or artisanal or worthy of a long explanation. They simply exist, and if you like them, you like them. In a world that often asks us to optimise everything, our diets, our habits, our choices, there’s something rebellious about liking something imperfect. A small pleasure that isn’t trying to make you better. Maybe that’s why they keep showing up, because they don’t demand anything beyond enjoyment. Sometimes enjoyment is reason enough.
So yes, it’s winter. And yes, National Hot Dog Day technically belongs to another country. But on the 15th July, I’ll be thinking about hot dogs anyway. About school holidays and summer baseball, site shed lunches and Broadway nights. About how some things stay with us not because they’re good for us, but because they remind us of connection, teamwork, and shared moments that mattered more than the food itself.
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