Columnist Scott Dickensheets: Facing the pitfalls of tofu, pigskins

WE LIVE IN heebie-jeebie times; the stock markets are unpredictable zero-gravity zones, the president's behavior gives us the slick willies and Aaron Russo remains a viable candidate for governor. Eeek! Yet none of that is as scary as two words I encountered the other day:

"Tofu dogs."

Time now for the latest installment of "Live and Let Diet," the sweeping saga of my family's experiment in vegetarianism (first reported in this space Aug. 18). On our 11th herbivorous day, my wife reached into the freezer and withdrew a package of, I swear, tofu hot dogs. Whoa, honey! In my time, I've researched real hot dogs and I'm aware of the lurid mythology about their ingredients -- beef snouts, pig tails, miscellaneous tripe. I'd rather eat that.

Because we'd already tried tofu, in fried rice, and it was terrible. To have the humble hot dog, that most American of foods, desecrated by this soybean extract, seemed criminal, disgusting, unpalatable ... hey, this isn't half bad! Yes, it's true, I have a tofu-eating grin on my face. I have eaten the soybean-extract dog and I have liked it. (With lots of mustard and relish, anyway.)

That's symbolic of how well my family is adjusting to the new diet. My wife whipped up some excellent vegetarian chili the other night, and we've learned Burger King will make you a Whopper with everything but the meat. More than anything, going veggie has forced us to carefully examine what we consume.

I'm aided in my new eating habits by my regular lunch mob, good pals who, to help firm my resolve, insist on lunching at Fatburger and similar joints. They flaunt their hamburgers -- their juicy, delicious, appetizing, mouth-watering, luscious, tasty hamburgers -- in front of me, while offering such helpful advice as, "Dude, this is the stupidest thing you've ever done." Thanks, guys!

* It's fortunate my wife and I are on the same page of the cookbook because we're certainly not on the same page of the playbook.

"You love football more than you love me," she said the other night. At least, I thought that was what she said. Dallas and Jacksonville were playing so I wasn't sure.

"You love --"

Wahooo! Interception! Run, man, run!

"-- football more than me," she sighed. "You're going to watch football every night, and on Saturday you'll watch college 'because there's nothing else on,' and then you'll watch 'Sports Center' talk about the 12 games you already saw!"

No, no, no. You're wrong about that, I told her. "Football isn't on every night!" Something told me not to complete the sentence: "But wouldn't it be swell if it was?"

Still, I could tell by the way she was standing in front of the TV that I wasn't getting off so easy. I had to reassure her, and fast.

"If this represents how much I love you," I said, holding my left thumb and forefinger four inches apart, "then I only love football this much." And I held my right thumb and forefinger 3 3/4 inches apart, giving her a clear -- and, I thought, generous -- quarter-inch margin of victory.

Alas, there are times when a man's well-meant gesture of love is a woman's confirmation of her worst suspicions. This was one of those times. "You dog!" she harrumphed. Some mild spousal abuse followed, which I suppose I deserved. Clearly, while the season hasn't officially started, I'm already facing third and long.

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