July 4th.  Surf and Stillwell Avenues.  The crowd, thousands strong,
bristles in the scorching heat, and the announcer hams it up.

"This, the hot dog, the symbol of patriotism!" he bellows; the crowd cheers.

It's the 91st annual Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest, and I stand in
the throngs to bear witness.  American Joey Chestnut keeps a one-to-two-dog
lead over five-time champion Takeru Kobayashi.  The mood tenses, tight
as a sausage skin.  The minutes tick by.  Kobayashi evens the score.
Then he steps ahead.  The clock winds to zero, and Kobayashi wins by a
dog and three quarters at 53.75.

The 12 minutes of the contest leave me breathless, and I marvel
at the notion of food as a patriotic symbol.  Is a hot dog patriotic? 
Do other foods share the honor?

What is a hot dog?  The first frankfurter dates to 1484.  A couple centuries later,
German immigrants sold franks on the Bowery in New York City.  Charles
Feltman, a German butcher, stuck the dog in a bun in 1867.  He built
the first Coney Island hot dog stand.  In 1916, one of his employees
broke away and built his own nearby.  His name was Nathan Handwerker,
and his stand at the corner of Surf and Stillwell Avenues became the
Nathan's I visited two days ago.

Nathan's served me an onion smothered dog on the 4th.  I doused it
with ketchup and mustard from the pumps on the counter.  Contrary to
my New York roots, my preferred dog is the Chicago dog.  I build these
scrumptious red hots on the rare occasion that I bring hot dogs and
buns home, in spite of the six pack o' dogs vs. eight pack o' buns
dilemma.  To make, add on tomato and pepperoncini slices, chopped
onions, relish and salt--though I cheat and dollop on mustard too.
The raw ingredients constrast delicious with the grill of the meat and
warm give of the bun.

According to Merriam-Webster's, "hot dog" means three things: "a
frankfurter heated and served in a long split roll," "one that
hotdogs; also: SHOW-OFF," and an interjection "used to express
approval or gratification."

That definition is pure America to me.  One third heated, one third show-off and
one third AWESOME!!

Eschewing the wiener for a moment, let's focus on another favored July
4th item.  The mighty burger.

I always liked mine rare with Swiss cheese, thick tomato slices, and
crisp lettuce.  I smeared the bottom of the bun top with ketchup,
mustard, and mayonnaise.  When we were little, my sister called my
burgers "traffic accidents."

According to What's Cooking America, Genghis Khan and his invading
hordes ate the first meat patties.  They molded scraps of lamb into
cakes, tenderized them under their saddles, and gobbled them raw.
When the Mongols invaded Moscow in 1238, the locals adopted this dish
and named it steak tartare.  Sailors brought steak tartare from Russia
to Hamburg, Germany in the 1600's.  200 years later, German immigrants
brought "Hamburg steak" with them to America; by then, it had morphed
into a hard patty of shredded beef, ideal for a long voyage.

From here on, history books argue.  Many people claim they invented
the hamburger.  I only cite Oscar Weber Bilby, as he's the first to
stick the patty on a bun.  Don't argue with me on this.  Ground beef
alone or on Wonderbread won't cut it; you need that fluffy white bun.
Bilby did just that in 1891.

How American!  This dish travelled the world and came here with hearty
immigrants.  Then one U.S. citizen took this old idea and made it new.
Arguably better!

What else sat out on the picnic table on July 4th?  Mom always gave me
buttered corn on the cob.  I gnawed gleefully on the sweet ear,
zipping it across my face like the platen on a typewriter.

The word for corn used by our original native farmers meant "our
life."  They carefully cultivated the maize that became the corn we
know now.  The first ears had only eight rows of kernels.

I can't trace the origin of maize the way I can a hot dog or burger,
and I can't measure patriotism in a grain that grew here before
Europeans landed.  According to North Carolina Cherokee myth, a young
boy followed his grandmother to the food store one day out of
curiosity.  He watched her stand in front of her basket and rub the
side of her body.  Corn filled the basket.  Afraid, he ran back to the
lodge, but she knew he'd seen her.

"Because of this," she said.  "I must die, but I promise food for our
people.  Clear the ground and drag my body along it seven times.  Bury
me there."

She died, and he followed her instructions.  Wherever her blood fell
to the ground, a small plant appeared.  The plants grew, with tassels
of silk at the top like his grandmother's hair.  One day, ears of corn
appeared, and his grandmother's promise was fulfilled.

See, there's a lot more to picnicking than you may have realized! (Special thanks
to Yukari Rymar for her devoted research)