a night

We cooked hot dogs on the gas stove. They crackled and popped; skins and innards charring inside the blue flame. Hot dogs and beer, we couldn't get more American. Well, maybe if it was Budweiser and not Stella Artois. I think the Hot Pockets make up for the Belgian beer. Where else do you eat Hot Pockets, hot dogs, and one dollar chicken fries? Ah college.