I’m bingeing The Bear. 

And I have eyeballs with nerves connected to my brain. So I’m somewhat bewitched by Jeremy Allen White.  

I can’t even talk about his Calvin Klein ad. Except to say the socks and sneakers at the end are no good. 

No good at all. 

A conversation between his character and another character — well, it drove home a universal truth I have long denied. 

The plot centers on a kid’s birthday party. It’s catered with hot dogs and Ecto cooler and all the things you’d expect to find. 

Jeremy Allen White asks his cousin where he put the ketchup for the hot dogs. 

“What kind of an — ” 

Wait. I can’t say here the word used in this bit of dialogue. 

It rhymes with glassbowl. So we’ll just use that. Glassbowl.  

Less fun. More aggregator friendly. 

And intentionally written as one word. 

Anyway, the cousin asks what kind of a glassbowl puts ketchup on hot dogs. 

“Kids,” Jeremy Allen White says. “Kids put ketchup on hot dogs.” 

“Yeah,” the cousin replies. “Glassbowl kids.” 

Immediately I was brought back to an autumn afternoon at our cabin. My husband, his parents, our kids, and I were eating hot dogs fresh from the outdoor fireplace. 

Except my son. He’s a purist who believes a hot dog cooked anywhere but in a boiling pot of water is an affront to humanity. 

Ever the proud nod to our British ancestry, my children believe seasoned food should carry a Surgeon General’s warning. They eschewed the condiments my mother-in-law and I set out on the table. 

As my husband and his parents traded mustard and relish and the like, I reached for the ketchup. 

Twice in my life, my eating habits have been the record scratch at a table. 

This was one of them. 

The other was the day I broke bread with my friend and her first-generation Italian grandparents.  

They gasped when I used a knife and fork to cut my pasta. 

“She’s — she’s not Italian,” my friend’s mom hastily explained. The grandparents grasped their pearls at the unfortunate me, genetically incapable of twirling pasta on a spoon. 

On this day at the cabin, everyone stared at the narrow line of ketchup carefully squeezed on my hot dog. 

“What?” I asked. 

Apparently, putting ketchup on hot dogs is against all culinary rules, like using utensils on a taco or drinking red wine from a Champagne flute. 

Not forbidden, exactly. But weird. 

“Everybody puts ketchup on hot dogs,” I retorted.  

I know it was bold to suggest all eight billion of us put ketchup on hot dogs. I know that. But I was as in the corner as Jennifer Grey and had no Patrick Swayze coming for me. 

How my husband and I made it this far without recognizing the disparity of our hot dog beliefs was incredibly irresponsible on our part — I admit that. It has only been through marriage counseling and using “I” statements our relationship has worked. 

But Plato said where there is love there can be ketchup, so I just try to hold onto that. 

In the years since The Day of the Ketchup, my husband, his parents, and I have engaged in some good-natured ribbing over the ketchup/ hot dog debate.  

They insist I’m gross, I insist they’re gross, the kids insist we’re all gross, and we all eat our hot dogs. 

Since that day, I have tried to notice if hot dogs are ever served with ketchup as a condiment choice. City food trucks usually have a ketchup bottle. 

I don’t know about ballparks. It might surprise you to discover I know nothing about sports. A night wherever the Phillies play baseball? It’s wasted money on me. 

And boring. 

A night in New York with Alexander Hamilton? You can slip me all the hot dogs you want, condiments or no. 

Funny how curse words rhyming with glassbowl don’t fly but double entendres do. I’m the Three’s Company of the aggregator world. 

Anyway, I’ve never confirmed hot dogs and ketchup are an acceptable pairing.  

But I also never tried very hard because, well, I hate being wrong. 

But with the ketchup dialogue on The Bear, I had evidence I couldn’t ignore. 

The proof was in the ketchup.  

I’m weird. Weird for turning my nose up at mustard — gross — on a hot dog. Weird for using ketchup. I’m weird. 

I’m a glassbowl. 

I’m a child. 

But. 

But. 

Jeremy Allen White was fine with ketchup on a hot dog. 

So I guess I can be fine with his socks and sneakers.