Hello Bypass, My Old Friend

I fondly remember growing up watching "The Cosby Show". That Greenwich brownstone housed many fabricated memories for me. It was the birthplace of a family unit that was both entertaining and inspiring. When I watched, I felt like I was sharing their moments with them. I felt like I was one of the Huxtables. As I've grown older, I realize that sometimes it's difficult to distinguish what happened in my youth with what was happening on the show. It seemed as though my life and the scripted family's journey were intertwined. Was I with Rudy and her friends when Cliff took them all to the fancy restaurant and Bud thought the croutons were sawdust? Was I in the car that got hit by Stevie Wonder's limo? Maybe I was one of Theo's wrestling teammates, or I was Vanessa's boyfriend Robert?
It's difficult to fully assess the differences in reality and NBC programming, nor can I judge the limits of impact that Claire's stern, yet loving mother had on my decision-making. Regardless, the show helped to mold me into the person that I am today. That being said, there are inspirations that were less than lofty. Sure, I'll never go to a party and play the alphabet game while drinking rock-gut whiskey. I'll never try to take a helicopter to prom. These are good life-lessons. But what about the things that I picked up that could have detrimental consequences?
I am, by all accounts, a registered foody. I love food. I love to cook. I love to eat. I love when food is brought to me. I love discovering new and exciting ways of preparing the same-old tired dishes. Food is exciting. Food can fill up not only your stomach, but your sense of worth. Heathcliff Huxtable loved food. I always looked forward to the shows where his culinary taste was displayed. Whether it was BBQ, a massive Hoagie, or even that secret spaghetti sauce, Cliff was a man with finely-tuned tastebuds. I would watch his cooking and feel the need to emulate what he was doing in the kitchen. It always sounded good. But not every dish deserved to be replicated. Enter: The Bacon Burger Dog.
In a few apocryphal episodes, this elusive mystery was mentioned as the major enticement to Theo and his unappetizingly-named friend Walter. (As I have a phobia of certain types of bugs, I'll refrain from using his nom du pest). The exact recipe was never discussed so my imagination had to craft what I envisioned as the perfect grilling beast. I dreamed about what it must taste like. I dreamed of designing this sure-fire backyard treat. Two years ago, I decided to make my dreams become reality.
Since the writers were wise enough to never explain what this delicacy was made of, I had to come up with a recipe on my own. Taking the name, I knew that there had to be bacon and elements of both a hamburger and a hotdog. Here's where the genius came in. I laid out five slices of thick-cut, applewood smoked bacon. This was going to be the palette upon which my masterpiece would be constructed. I then began to mix up some ground sirloin with the various spices, condiments, and tastes of heaven that I would normally use for making a hamburger patty. A little garlic, some Worcestshire sauce, some blackening seasoning, a little red wine vinegar, a hail mary or two, and then some Italian bread crumbs and an egg to bind. Over the bacon-y goodness I spread this mash of red meat perfection. I now had two of the three components down. Bacon? Check. Burger? Check. Dog? Here comes the piece de resistance'. I didn't want any plain old wieners to taint the glory of this dish. I needed a dog worthy of being part of this mystical trifecta. I needed a big fat sausage. I opted for some locally produced bratwurst. I took this little grey pork grenade and began to roll it up in the bacon and hamburger. Pretty soon I had a giant meat spliff that was ready for cooking. Picture it: weighing in at nearly three pounds, it was about three inches in diameter, and about eight inches long. As it sat there on my counter top, I began to hear angel choirs singing the praises of a creation so divine. It was a thing of carnivorous beauty.
So now that it was prepared, bring on the heat! Over an open flame, much like my neanderthal predecessors, I roasted this staggering gem until it was fully cooked. As the smoke wafted throughout my backyard, animals began to let their nosebud curiosity draw them closer to inspect what was obviously a true work of art. One neighborhood dog seemed to look at me with a kinship rarely seen between animal and man. His big brown eyes weren't of envy but of congratulations. It was if he were saying to me "Hey, man, well done. I applaud your efforts at creating something so right." He was giving me his canine vote of confidence. To show my generosity, I responded my offering him some of the fat drippings that were collecting. He ate with a relish that made my own mouth water in anticipation for that upon which I would soon be feasting. I'm pretty sure I saw him raise his forepaw and give me a thumbs up.
Once my Bacon Burger Dog was grilled to its quintessence, I took it back inside to prepare the fixin's. In prior anticipation for the expected size, I knew that no mortal bun would suffice to carry this thing. I had purchased a sizeable Italian loaf that would be fortunate enough to house the sacred meat. A little mayo, mustard, bbq sauce, tomatoes, onions, and cheese later, I was ready to start the dining experience that I had yearned for ever since my tastebuds were piqued while hearing Dr. Huxtable mention this elusive treat. I took a few bites (noting that my mouth was in no way large enough to do anything other than nibble the outsides). As I tasted what can only be described as the food equivalent of a first kiss, I was sent into a nirvana of sensual delight. The bacon (which can make any food taste better) was perfectly cooked. The flavor of the hamburger mixed with the sausage was nearly poetic. It was like I was looking into the face of God, and he was pleased. Soon, however, God began to wear a different expression.
You see, this is not a dish for the faint of heart. This is a dietician's nightmare. Meat, bread, and dressings in copious quantities. One of these BBD's could feed a starving nation for a month. Gluttony is listed as a deadly sin for a good and natural reason. As I continued to attack this monster with a verve usually seen only in shark feeding frenzies, my body and my desire began to battle for supremacy. The very smell of this thing would be enough to give a normal person a massive coronary. The manufacture of one of these could send a cardiologist's children to college. This was not meant for human consumption. But yet, I stared into the face of destruction and ignored rational thought. This is when the meat sweats started.
You know that feeling of growing exhaustion and serious perspiration that accompanies a heavy workout? If you experience those same feelings while having a meal, something is terribly, horribly, republicanly wrong. I had to wipe my brow repeatedly, but I was not willing to throw in the paper towel. I would trudge on. This was my great white whale. I kept eating. Then I noticed that I was starting to lose feeling on one side of my face while the other side was tingling? Is this a stroke? Are my heart and brain telling me to stop? Ha! You're going to have to do better than that. I've waited since my childhood to experience this cuisine, and I'm not going to let a little possible ephasia or blindness stop me now!
I managed a few more bites before realizing that this thing was only getting bigger and heavier in my hand. I was fighting it. I was a marathon runner in the last six miles. I was swimming and could almost see the English coast just over the channel's horizon. Only, I just couldn't do it anymore. I was beaten. I had been defeated by a massive roll of beef, pork, and German engineering. I sank back into my red chair and accepted the food coma that was washing over me. If I woke in heaven, I wouldn't need to eat a thing.

Eventually I recovered, vowing that never again would I attempt to copy any aspect of Bill Cosby's diet. No matter how good it sounded, I would certainly regret it. Only after this abusive experience did I remember the episode where all the men of New York were mysteriously getting pregnant. Towards the end of the episode we saw each of the Huxtable men (including husbands Martin and Elvin) giving birth to objects signifying their hopes and personality. Cliff Huxtable became the proud father of a meat-riddled sandwich and a two litre grape soda. Mazel Tov!