[05] no bun necessary

My stomach rumbles. My mom tosses a split hot dog into the heated frying pan. The sound of the blistering meat cracks the air like the clash of a cymbal. She gently maneuvers the thin browning torpedoes with a chopstick. The kitchen fills with the smell and smoke of a backyard barbecue. My mouth waters watching the hot dog halves curl at both ends, reaching up to be rescued from the sizzling pan. Dinner is served in bite-size pieces scattered on a plate with steaming "bap." I shake a downpour of black pepper all over my white rice, undoubtedly a disagreeable amount. I pierce a charred chunk of hot dog with my fork, shovel up some rice behind it, and then plunge the mountain of food into my mouth. Flavors spill onto my tongue. With every chew, the fluffy rice is a worthy rival to the greasy, salty morsel.


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