It's not a fence.
It's not a protest.
It's not a lottery game.
No ... no, and it's not a new football player ... or a new play.
Before we go any further, let me state unequivocally, and not for the first (or last) time: I don't do football.
The thought of attending a tailgate party excites me about as much as the prospect of watching "Turbo" Tim Geithner, clad only in Jockey shorts and a wifebeater, cheat on figure out his income tax refund using cut-rate software with Windows 95 on a laptop roughly the size of Janet Napolitano's hin lap.
The idea of listening to the pre-game show, wherein zillionaire former NFL stars wearing $4,000 suits and $800 ties sit around a desk harping on the minutest details of every team, every coach, every player, every play, every contract, every statistic, fills me with the same sense of wonder that envelops me when I pluck mini lint-blankets from the mysterious hole-y landscape that is my clothes dryer's screeny trap.
Her eyes widen. She staggers a little.
The thought of sitting through the actual Super Bowl game interests me about as much as watching a horde of geriatric snails demonstrate their snappy ambulatory technique.
The idea of being forced to witness the halftime show inspires the same kind of dread I experience when contemplating a trip to Wal-Mart at peak traffic time the Saturday before Christmas or Easter.
Like, not at all, y'all.
And again I say: I don't do football.
But I have nothing against fun food, the type of which folks often enjoy on happy, sit-around-with-friends kinds of days like Super Bowl Sunday.
A little buddy of mine at church often teases me about my love of hot dogs. "What are you having for lunch today?" she asks me nearly every Sunday morning as we head for our cars, and home, and lunch.
"Why, hot dogs, of course, Gail," I say with a straight face, even if we're actually having brunch at Harper's or bacon and eggs at Cracker Barrel or barbecued chicken with mashed potatoes, green beans, and cornbread muffins at our own table.
In other words, I lie (sometimes) ... in church ... just to see the expression on Gail's face when I say "hot dogs."
Her mouth falls open. Her eyes widen. She staggers a little. She clutches my arm. "HOT dogs again, on a Sunday, you just had hot dogs last week, I can't believe you like hot dogs so much, why do you like hot dogs so much, what kind of hot dogs do you buy, how do you cook your hot dogs, we don't eat hot dogs all that often ... "
Today, after answering (truthfully) that our lunch menu consisted of hot dogs, baked macaroni 'n cheese casserole, and two kinds of snack chips, and watching my little buddy run through the full gamut of emotions prompted by that astounding revelation, I assured Gail that someday I'd tell her the secret behind why we like hot dogs so much at our house.
What I didn't tell her was, once I tell her, she'll have to enter the witness protection program. She'll have to look over her shoulder for the rest of her life.
"Do you really want that, Gail?" I will ask when I finally decide to reveal the secret. Then I will howl inwardly at the half-amused-half-scared-serious expression which is sure to suffuse her cute little face.
But you? To you I shall reveal all, and let the chips (make mine wavy) fall where they may.
If they fall on the floor, Javier'll snap 'em up. No harm, no foul. Six points.
Serve with hot dogs and wavy chips.
The secret is picketchard.
You take a bowl ... it doesn't even have to be a super bowl. It can be a plain bowl.
You take some mustard and squeeze a bunch of it into the bottom of the bowl, until you're tired of squeezing.
You take some ketchup and you squeeze a bunch of that on top of the mustard ... about twice as much ketchup as mustard is best.
You take some large-dice sweet pickle relish and on top of the mustard and ketchup you plop several heaping tablespoonfuls of the pickles.
Stir well and heat in the microwave for a couple of minutes, until piping hot.
Serve with hot dogs and wavy chips. It's good on both.
And now you know.