In preparation for this past Saturday’s annual smelt fishing outing with my gal pals (and their significant others), I came up with the bright idea that I would make mini-Reuben sandwiches.

Food is generally an important element in any social gathering.  It is especially important when you hang out on the shores Lake Michigan on a cold night, with nets cast but with no expectation of catching anything.  Like the line about Elvis having left the building, it seems that our little fishies have left the lake.

Every April, on a Saturday night, we observe this Chicago tradition.  We drag lawn chairs out of our car trunks and set them up in a horseshoe around an well-rusted 50-gallon drum, which contains our fire.  Our spot is off Montrose Harbor, in a calm area near the boat launch.

Nancy has a license for smelt fishing and the proper equipment, but the focus is on keeping our tradition, not on our catch.  She brings the net, firewood, a propane grill, and sets up a long folding table where everyone unwraps and uncorks whatever they decide to bring.

I knew Nancy would bring chili or Sloppy Joes. Someone would bring deviled eggs. Someone else would bring chips and guac. I thought mini-Reubens would be a tasty addition and still easy to eat with your fingers.

On Friday, I went to the Vienna Beef factory store. They make and package their goods on premises and have a cafeteria and deli for factory workers and for anyone lucky enough to know about it.

It has limited hours. You have to get there before 2:00

When I pulled up to their parking lot, I was overcome with a desire to treat myself to a hot dog.  I saw a couple benches with umbrellas for shade set up for people wanting to have lunch outside.  The sun was shining.

I walked up to the deli counter.  The selection was sparse compared to what you’d find at Jewel or Mariano’s because they only sell their own products.

“Do you want regular or trimmed?” the deli clerk asked.

“Oh regular,”  I replied.  “I want as much fat and flavor as possible.”

After buying meat to take home, I went to the cafeteria line for a hot dog.

The line worker and I exchanged smiles.  Without recounting the old joke aloud, the one about the Buddhist who asks the hot dog vendor, “Make me one with everything,” we understood the implied reference. Yes, I want mine with EVERYTHING, I told her.

I paid for my purchases and returned to my car.  It was too cold, I decided, to eat outside. I listened to an old Todd Rundgren song on my car radio and marveled at the foil-wrapped prize on my lap.

A beautifully juicy all-beef frank nestled in a fresh and warm poppy seed bun, slightly spicy mustard, very few freshly chopped flecks of onion, tomato wedges, an eighth of a Kosher dill pickle (cut lengthwise, of course), two sport peppers, and celery salt.  (Promoting fresh, they didn’t bother with Day-Glo green pickle relish, which is often a standard condiment.)

Ah perfection.  I was so happy.

I thought about this for the next couple days. Why was I so happy sitting in my car, eating a hot dog?

Yes, the sun was shining, I was out in the world, I felt a little inspiration about what I planned to bring to the next day’s outing, a favorite old tune was on the radio… but there was something about listening to myself, about having a simple craving and satisfying it that made the moment special for me.

I didn’t add French fries or a Coke to my lunch.  I didn’t crave something else after I was done with my hot dog.

What a blessing it is to know exactly what you want?  This sort of clarity doesn’t happen often enough.  What a wonderful thing it can be to satisfy a craving right away (rather than repress it only to welcome a streak of gluttony later).

It can be automatic to question a choice, to wonder if you could have done better, to worry about the consequences of a decision, or about whether a choice will please someone else.  It’s so nice to get something exactly the way you want it.

Treating yourself to an occasional hot dog (for me, that would be ONE with EVERYTHING) is no small thing.