This week I will be living in heaven. Weenie heaven, that is.

A department manager where I work is a fellow Rhode Islander and we have shared many stories of home and she is currently borrowed my copy of "You Must Be This Tall". She has had the movie for a month or two and was feeling guilty for taking so long to watch it. Today, she absolved herself by bringing me a week's supply of New York System hot weenies!

If you are scratching your head and wondering what a hot weenie is, then you are probably NOT from Rhode Island. Let me translate for those of you on a lower rung on the evolutionary ladder.

The hot weenie is one of God's great creations and are found almost exclusively in Rhode Island. These are a specific "RI Red Hots" brand of hot dog which are slow roasted on a grill while the buns are sitting in a steam cabinet for hours on end. The 4 inch slices of nirvana are covered in a Double Secret Probation Recipe of meat sauce which is a mix of spices and grease. The only way to have these is "alldaway" which is mustard, onions and celery salt.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

The other enjoyable part of the hot weenie is ordering one. All it requires is a small amount of money and a strong voice. Any of the dozens of restaurants around the state are OK to go to but, of course, there is always the Mecca of the Olneyville New York System.

You walk up to the counter and bark out the number of weenies you want and how you want them: "Three alldaway!" The guy behind the counter then starts to work lining up the buns along his arm. He drops the weenie in the bun, slathers it with sauce, pulls a wooden dowel out of a tub of mustard and runs it over the weenie, takes forks full of chopped onion and sprinkles it down,finally topping them all with a shower of celery salt. The show continues by wrapping them, two at a time, in paper and then dropping them in a brown paper bag which is tightly closed to hold in the warmth and aroma. The paper bag was never strong enough and as you drove home the car would be wafting with the ambrosia-like smells.

I can remember racing to the car any time my father said, "How about some hot weenies for dinner?!" It was a right of passage when I was old enough to go in by myself, order and pay all by myself. The guy behind the counter would line up as many as he could and it would be an amazing feat of balance and skill when as many as 8 or 10 would defy the law of physics perched between the guys hand and elbow.

Long before Nathan's of Coney Island had their hot dog eating contest, my friends and I would see how many hot weenies we could eat at once. My record was 12! These were cheap and delicious. The ultimate comfort food.

My friend had presented me with a bag filled with weenies and sauce which had been driven back from Rhode Island packed in dry ice. While I was not able to steam the buns, a good 15 seconds in the microwave softened them enough to simulate the process. As I sat at my table in the lunch room giggling to myself like Dr. Frankenstein I carefully assembled my hot weenie as my friends looked on suspiciously.

"Jack, what the hell are you eating?"

"Manna from heaven!"

It looked right. It smelled right. The bread was soft enough. I closed my eyes and raised the hot weenie to my mouth and bit down. Suddenly, I was transported home. The strong bite of the celery salt and the warm greasiness of the sauce danced over my taste buds. I flet that if I opened my eyes I would be sitting in my 1972 Plymouth Valiant parked at the Oakland Beach seawall.

ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

My friend had given me enough to last all week. Thanks to my gastric bypass surgery, gone are the days of a dozen weenie in one sitting; I was only able to eat two before my stomach let me know I was full. In my previous trips home I have always stocked up on Portuguese sweet bread and coffee syrup. Now I know that on my next trip I will get some dry ice and head for Widles Corner!