Zweigle’s

 January 23, 2024

Unless you grew up as I did in Rochester, NY, or its suburbs, you wouldn’t understand when we talk about white hots…specifically, Zweigle’s White Hots. I’ve never seen them anywhere else except locally in Wegmans, which makes sense because Wegmans is a Rochester-based chain of supermarkets. They know their roots and honor them.

A white hot is similar to a regular hot dog in shape and size, but only if the regular hot dog is bigger than the scrawny tube steaks that fill the coolers in most supermarkets. A Zweigle’s has substance; it’s fat and juicy, made of pork and veal, and of course, it’s white, not red. If there’s a Zweigle’s on the grill alongside a regular hot dog, or even most steaks, I’ll grab the Zweigle’s. 

Did I mention that my paternal grandmother was a Zweigle? Unfortunately, she wasn’t from the hot dog branch of the family. Her father was a cheese vendor around the turn of the last century. Even so, a Zweigle’s white hot has always been a family favorite. 

Yesterday morning, I received this email from my brother:

Morning You Two: We are Hot having Fudge Sundaes for breakfast today, in memory of Dad. Later we will have a Zweigle's White Hot. Might even drop it on the ground after it's cooked. (he accused Judy of doing that before she gave it to him. That was dad's last white hot). He would be 103. Sure do miss him!  Love you both.

My brother and father were especially close. When we were growing up, Thursday nights in the summer we would go to be early so we would be ready to hop out of bed and head to the golf course around 1:00 or 2:00 am. The sprinklers would have already done their work and the nightcrawlers would be out in force. Armed with a couple old Chock full O’ Nuts coffee cans, we would fill them in short order, take them home and dump them in the tub of oak leaves in the back yard.

Saturday mornings were the reward. Both my grandfathers would show up bright and early while we were spreading mayonnaise on our sandwiches preparatory to receiving the baloney (yes, I know it’s supposed to be spelled “bologna,” but it was always baloney to us.) and mustard. Then it was off to the lake to go fishing. We called it that, but if my recollection is correct, what we did would be better desctibed as “drowning worms.”

All that is to say we were avid in our pursuit of piscadoral pleasures. As I grew older, I got away from it, but my brother (and his son and grandson) are still dedicated fishermen. Because of that, and because they lived close by for years, he was closer to dad, had more memories. 

We often have a habit of looking back and wishing we could turn back the clock. That’s not possible, and so I don’t have as many, but the memories I do have are good. The world is filled with men whose memories of their fathers brings a shudder rather than a prayer of thanksgiving. Martin Luther once said that it took him many years before he could pray the Our Father because his own father was such a brutish man. When I look back, I see a man of integrity and faithfulness, and only hope my boys can look back and see in me someone who reflects the character and heart of my Heavenly Father. If so, I will go to my final rest in peace. And maybe my family will grill a Zweigle’s in my memory.