Of Thee I Sing!

Sunday is the Fourth of July. Festivities will be as varied as the nation’s constituents. Our roots gravitate from every country, ethnicity, and social strata.

Far from being monolithic, our culture is an amalgam. America absorbs heritage from each huddle mass that yearns to be free and from civilizations extant prior to European pioneering. If this country is a melting pot then we, the people, are the viand – a gumbo, a pozole, a burgoo.

A fine example of this stew is old time music. Also known as folk music, hillbilly music and Appalachian music, the genre mixed Celtic, German, African, French and other traditional rhythms to create an American sound.

Originally families would play these tunes together at home. Minstrel and medicine shows took them on the road. By the 1920s, radio and records had spread the sound across the rural and urban landscape. Old time music laid the groundwork for what would become country, bluegrass, blues and rock ‘n roll.

The names of these string bands reflect the music’s creativity and humor: The Skillet Lickers, Dr. Humphrey Bate & His Possum Hunters, The Fruit Jar Drinkers, Seven-Foot Dilly & His Dill Pickles to name a few.

This weekend wherever you celebrate, in the backyard, at the beach, on the porch, on the stoop, grab a guitar, banjo, fiddle, kazoo, spoons, or whatever you have. Revel your patriotic fervor with a glorious noise. As ever - BB

“As I was walking a ribbon of highway/I saw above me an endless skyway/I saw below me a golden valley/This land was made for you and me” - Woody Guthrie

Hot Dog!

Red Hot, wiener, frankfurter, wienie, dachshund sandwich, meat slurry by any other name would still taste as sweet.

As Independence Day approaches, aficionados look to their Mecca - Coney Island and the Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest. I discussed the bout for the Mustard Colored Belt last year. This year’s focus will be on the morsel itself.

Food historians relish debating the origin of the sausage. Some cite a translation of Homer’s The Odyssey that mentions the sausage; others eschew that translation. Some attribute the treat to Nero’s chef; others boil at that idea and claim it apocryphal.

By the Middle Ages many cities laid claim to the legend of the link. Frankfurt, Germany declares a local butcher created a pre-cooked sausage, ergo the Frankfurter. Craving to catch up to its rival, Vienna, Austria also alleges ancestry. Vienna in German is Wien from which comes the word wiener.

But a sausage is just that until its put on the bun. Who first matched bun and wiener? Those stories peel forth like layers from an onion. Several world fairs, sidewalk and sport venue vendors claim the bright spark of adding the bun.

One fact is certain. In 1916, Nathan Handwerker left his employer to sell hot dogs for half what the ex-boss charged. This action gave rise to an annual July 4 tradition - watching grown adults shove as many red hots down their gullet as they can in 10 minutes. That’s what this country is all about. As ever- BB

"I devoured hot dogs in Baltimore 'way back in 1886, and they were then very far from new-fangled..." - H.L. Mencken

"It's like a bromance...I'm having fun with it." - Joey Chestnut current holder of Nathan's Mustard Colored Belt

Thumbs Up

During the Depression, thousands of teenagers left home to ride the rails. Some left to escape hardship, some to find work and some seeking adventure.

I entered my teens in 1967 with a strong wanderlust and a craving for precarious thrills. By then the free transit option of choice was hitchhiking. For almost a decade, putting out a thumb and accepting rides from strangers was my principle mode of transportation.

The rides were sometimes mundane, sometimes interesting and sometimes unnerving. As the proverb says, “God watches over fools.”

During these treks, the one constant was a sense of freedom. Whether a seven-mile hop across the bridge into Philly, or a cross-country journey, the act of putting out my thumb, throwing caution to the wind and offering myself to the Moirae exhilarated me. No matter what the outcome, I had crossed the Rubicon and the die was cast. Nothing in later life has captured that sense of disenthrallment.

I have not hitchhiked in many a decade, but often think of the open road. My heart stirs to the words of Walt Whitman, “Reckless O soul, exploring.” – as ever BB

“I might be walking over to a kid's house, then of all a sudden I would just stick out my thumb and hitchhike across three states.” Rickie Lee Jones