On Saturday evening, my gentleman friend and I found a recipe for mini corndogs. We decided my two twenty-something male housemates would enjoy the meal as much as his kids would, so everyone was invited to take part.
This might have been a mistake.
Turning three grown men and one romance author loose in a kitchen full of corndogs is a recipe for terrible innuendo. Luckily, the kids were in a different part of the house when the following utterances had me doubled over in laughter:
On failing to purchase the mini hot dogs suggested in the recipe:
It’s fine, the big ones will be juicier anyway.
On deciding whether to cut the hot dogs in half or in thirds:
Do you think this is too big to fit?
On testing the batter for consistency:
I don’t think that’s thick enough.
On determining the best way to position the corndog skewers:
Should I stick it in sideways, or straight in?
On checking the deep fryer’s temperature:
It’s hot enough, you can put it in now.
On lamenting the oil level in the deep fryer:
I wish I had just one more inch.
On finding the first corndog still cold in the middle:
You pulled it out too soon.
On waiting for the corndogs to cool:
Don’t put that in your mouth yet!
Admit it – you're never going to look at corndogs the same way again, are you?