Anticipation

For the better part of my adult life, if you mentioned football , I’d probably recoil. Not an exaggeration—hate doesn't quite capture the visceral dismissal I had for the sport. The roar of the crowd, the constant chatter, the sheer gridiron intensity—it was background noise to be actively tuned out. The only reason I’d tolerate a game being on was for the sacred trinity of the Super Bowl: the halftime show , the commercials , and, most importantly, the food . That was until

Growing up in Taiwan , I didn't have much exposure to what we’d consider typical American food . Most of the dishes that hinted at a Western palate were lovingly prepared at home. Yet, in the bubble of my international school, one day stood out above all others: Hot Dog Wednesday . It wasn't just any school lunch; it was an event. The wonderful Chinese woman who lived on the property didn't just serve food—she crafted it. I remember the smell of her homemade hot dog buns  waf