My train was rumbling down the Metra lines, somewhere between Mayfair and Forest Glen when I re-discovered the child-like enlightenment hidden within the hotdog.

Packets of ketchup, mustard, and relish bounced around at the bottom of my basket while I stumbled back into my seat. I began to dress the hot dog with condiments when a revelation hit me: the “process” in processed meat refers to more than grinding, spicing, and packaging.

This process entwines tenderloin and intestine into uniform sausages leaving behind a blank meat-canvas, ripe for expression. Our rituals of condiments and toppings makes each hot dog specific to their eater, like an amorphous fingerprint of what someone enjoys.

My hot dog was mine not because I processed the meat or devoured it but because it became a physical assertion of what I savor.