Carowinds is the grandest amusement park in the Carolinas, and they offer corn dogs on a similar scale. I scarfed one down, along with a pile of fried potatoes and the requisite ketchup and mustard, the bliss overtaking me as I licked the corners of my lips in search of a last crunchy crumb.
Aside from the fact that they taste so freaking good, the corn dog scores a zero in the redemptive qualities department. The base of the concoction is a tube of mechanically separated meat, whatever the heck that means, which is impaled by a wooden stick, entombed in a thick batter of sugary carbohydrates, and plunged into boiling oil for several minutes. Behold, the wonders of lunch in America.
Why did I select this week’s-worth of caloric intake? Because I was spending the day acting like a teenager anyway, and eating one seemed like the only holistic thing to do.
Aiming for the delicate, I will only say that this 31 year old’s constitution isn’t quite as ironclad as the glory days, and I found myself intimately acquainted with a public bowl of white porcelain before the day was out.
In short, corn dogs — especially those of the foot-long variety — taste darn good but are slightly less appealing the second go around. If there is a next time, I think I will spring for a salad.