One of my cousins married a man who had a dream house. Well, he envisioned a house on the top of a hill in Mont Vernon that had six sides, an attached 3-story, 6-sided greenhouse, and a cupola. Since Mont Vernon had lax housing standards, he started building his dream house and many of us spent hours working with him.
I met his mother, Betty, while I worked on his house. She was in her sprightly sixties and worked right along side of us. My jaw dropped when she stapled Tyvek onto the house by crawling from window to window on the outside of the house, two stories up.
Betty has a strong, Yankee personality with clear, sharp opinions, unique insights, and a forceful, yet entertaining way to tell stories. Perfect (well, unless you're my cousin's husband perhaps?).
One day we started working on the house early and made great progress. Around noontime, replenishing ourselves with water and snacks wasn't enough, so we broke for lunch.
My cousin's husband cooked Hebrew National Hot Dogs and as we dug into the chips, iced tea, and hot dogs, our lunchtime dialog wandered to Betty's cats.
Her cats personality reflect the owner as most pets do. Her cat, if I recall correctly, always tried to eat food off the table at supper time.
Betty bought an inexpensive brand of hot dog, and to everyone's surprise, the cat didn't try to eat them.
Curious, Betty bought a different brand, and the cat stayed away.
She repeated this with the solitary idea that she could determine the relative healthful quality of various hot dog brands through his cat's palate.
The ravenous cat was unstoppable when Betty served Hebrew National hot dogs.
If they're good enough for Betty's cat, they're good enough for us!