If you thought that you could just go to a supermarket and chuck a jar of one of 1,456 kinds of salt available there into your basket, you are dead wrong. Buying salt the right way requires a special operation spanning at least three continents to get the right stuff. All the other salt is disgusting poison that will kill you almost immediately after ingestion apparently.
I follow all these rules at home because Helga is in charge of the food and the cooking, the food is awesome and it just happens automatically for me. And of course I don't follow any of this madness outside of the house. I love the kebabs from the local diner that is favourite with the cab drivers here and all the other good stuff that meets none of these criteria and I have it all the time cheap hydrogenated oils and all.
And when it comes to what the kid eats Helga's insanity is multiplied by a hundred. Again, at home, where Helga is in charge of the food compliance is assured automatically. But if the kid wants to have a cheap hot dog with the other boys at the fair once in three bloody months, I say maybe let's let him. Maybe, let's not suck all the joy out his life in the name of health, safety, sainthood and our madness. It is still food, it is not cyanide, a couple of hot dogs a year never killed anyone and actually living life is going to kill all of us in the end anyway.
It is a big thing for the boys here, they wait for it for weeks prior to the fair. It is a communal and bonding thing they do at the fairs, it is a tradition. They buy those hotdogs with lots of cheap ketchup and mayo, sit in a circle and eat, joke and laugh together. And then they run to get another one. It is a thing here, and he is part of the gang. And the fathers have them too (so do I). But letting the kid have a bloody hot dog is a Sophie's choice situation for me. If I didn't, the kid would be devastated. When I do, Helga looks like she is stabbed in the heart with every single bite the kid takes out of that hot dog.