Maybe the spring weather eroded my self-discipline. Or maybe the festive red-and-yellow umbrellas tipped the scales the day I was overcome by a sudden, inescapable craving for a dirty water hot dog. Heading up 3rd at about 48th Street, I clutched my husband by the wrist and pointed at the hot dog cart. "Come on, let's get one!"
Surprised by my uncharacteristic impetuousness, Allan pushed out his lower lip in an expression of consideration. We sidled over to the cart. I was mesmerized by its decor—colorful photos depicting an array of hot dog-topping combinations. I could see I was in for a radical break from my salad-and-grilled fish habit. [...]