Those that know me will know I don't eat hotdogs. How can I knowingly ingest something with 25 grams of fat in it. I wish I didn't know that, then I could be happily oblivious, but I do. So on Fridays Steven's class makes food to practice cooking skills. So he choose to make hotdogs. I had no idea he planned on sharing, but when he called me that afternoon after getting of the bus (he always calls me at work to let me know he got home safely) he excited announced that he had brought home hotdogs for me and Scott. I wasn't sure exactly what he meant, but I could tell he was very excited and proud of himself. It wasn't until I got home that I fully understood. As I walked in the door he ran to the refridgerator and grabbed to sandwich bags one with my name and one with Scotts on it. He had lovingly bagged 1/2 of a hotdog for me and a whole one for Scott. Bun, mustard, relish and all. What could I do? No matter how opposed I am to hotdogs I just couldn't crush him in that way. So we waited for Scott to get home and grinned and bared it. And here is the proof.
Steven also has a magic trick for all of you. I'll let is speak for itself.