Consider, if you will: The Crown of Frankfurters

I don't know if just me, but for the life of me I think that the word "Frankfurter" is dirty.  "Frank" I get, and I have eaten many of frank -both the processed food and men with that name.

It's the "furter" that leaves me feeling dirty.   Maybe because it reminds me furtive.

Even back on the farm that grandparents and then aunt and uncle had, where you soon learned that "sweetbreads" were not cinnamon sugar toast, a hot dog was fine, so were franks.  But "frankfurter" was as alien to me as those damned "New England Style Hot Dog Roll."

And I have to add that the "New England Style Hot Dog Roll" v "Hot Dog Bun" argument rages in our house.  My husband is from New England.  I am from the "Western Reserve" in Ohio - land owed to Connecticut after the Revolutionary War for service in the fight for Independence.  And in the Western Reserve is a hot dog bun, damn it.

But I digress - my beef today is with this thing called a "Crown Roast of Frankfurters", which is not something that families do battle over to see who gets to wear it on their heads.  Trust me, when this thing becomes cuisine, winter will be coming.

It seems that for as long as their have been people trying to better themselves, people have been trying to make "frankfurters" respectable.  Never mind what they are made of, encased in or resemble, people have been doing unnatural things with them in dishes since the 1930s.

The Crown Roast of Frankfurters is apparently the highest form of this lowest piece of processed meats.   It never looks like it does in the picture on real life, plus, you can get a splinter in your tongue from one.

I am warning you - this is going to get ugly.

I give you thus:

In this version, it's not so much a crown as it is a "rimming", the frankfurters line the souffle vessel, modestly acting as a meaty border for some cheesy goodness (including a can of Cream of Mushroom Soup, which is never far away from something like this) and brought to the table where all will clasp their hands in surprise and thanks.

This is the one were Dad's on strike from the plant and Mom has decided it would be a great time for everyone to join her in Weight Watchers.  "C'mon - it'll be fun!"  This recipe from the 70's requires the franks to be severed at the base to make feet. Then they are lanced with wooden toothpicks ("Don't throw those out - they cost money!  I'll wash them and we can reuse them next week.") to form the structure.  Then the innards are filled with kraut.  If the strike is extra long, omit the broccoli florets and the pimento.

Now this, THIS!, is the work of a gourmet, not a gourmand.  Notice how the franks stand at attention - their trussing is hidden.  And what is this?  Potato, Onion and Apple filling?  The minister has to be coming for dinner. 

Not sure what happened, maybe Mom was playing some Barry White and the Franks decided to sway with the music.  I have no idea what inside, but it certainly looks like it has some heft to it.

This?  Seriously?  C'mon you pantry pussy.  Put some effort into it for Christ's sake.

 
OK, there are showoff's everywhere.  But coin carrots and a cored pineapple defiantly rule this out as a classical Frankfurter Crown Casserole.  Sorta like when all you want is a donut and all they have are crullers.

Disqualified!  Do you really want to see this going into Eleanor Roosevelt's mouth?  Think about, man!

This is a crime scene.  You don't even try, and there they lay, limp, with a triangle of American Cheese melted over them, in a pool of creamed corn. There is NOTHING natural about creamed corn.  It's a crime scene.  Get FVU in here (Frankfurter Victims Unit) and find the pervert that concocted this mess.  

I leave you as disgusted as you must be with me.  Till next time.