On the Pleasure of Eating a Corn Dog
By Alizabeth Worley No doubt, more than one reader will be so affronted by my title that they have not only vowed against reading this first sentence but boycotted whatever magazine or book or website this essay finds itself in. I myself might feel so had I stumbled on such a title, except about Vienna sausages. But in this case, such a response would be a pity, for although this essay is undeniably about the pleasure of eating a corn dog, it is in another sense only about my pleasure eating a corn dog. In no way do I wish to inflict upon the reader's mind the pain of contemplating his or her own experience with corn dogs. You see, for me, the pleasure of a corn dog is only partially about the physical components: the fat, the baked batter, the honey crisped edge of the cornbread, the stick, the thin dribble of baked hard bread unavoidably left two-thirds down the stick (though since I'm thinking about it and have just finished two corn dogs responsible for the title, I migh