Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Fried Pickles: A day at the Fair
Fairs are dirty, greasy events. There are crowds of people, coughing and sneezing, touching everything one moment before you do. People are yelling at one another. Too much money is spent on stomachaches and cham-wows.
And still. The fun! A constant watcher of humans, I set myself apart and do what I do best. Take in the scenery. Oh the people!
Just look at us! We wait in long lines. We allow the bottoms of our pants to brush against dropped ice cream cones and we don’t run for a bathroom. Speaking of bathrooms, how about those oddball port-a-potties?
Here we are enthusiastically entering overly crowded buildings to patiently listen to snake oil type sales people pitching us their wares. We linger by the Gypsy Woman Booth…we privately consider getting out fortunes told…. and don’t.
Yesterday I spent the day at the fair with my family. The entire day, from dawn donuts to evening everlasting gobstoppers. We consumed all the must haves. Cheese fries, bloomin’ onions, chocolate covered bacon, and…fried pickles.
We like those the best, the battered and deep fried half-sour spears. The bursting salty wrongness of it suits the day.
Because all of it is wrong. None of is should be fun, or interesting. The rides are dangerous and dirty, the thrills momentary, the frustration immense. But really, who cares? It’s so good to be bad, sometimes.
We drove home in the dark. The rain started ten minutes from our exit.
“We were lucky,” said Bill.
We looked into the back seat at our three snoring, filthy, fantastic children. That’s what it’s all about. Someday a fair won’t be a fair without fried pickles. Not for these girls. We’ve given them a definition. It’s the best part of our job.
When we got home, the power was out. A thrill in itself.
***On a side note. This morning I got a good laugh as I tip toed downstairs to leave for work.
I was having trouble navigating the stairway. I stopped for a second to take stock of what I was holding. A gallon of apple juice (I didn’t want to fall down the stairs in the middle of the night when the nasty youngest screamed MORE JUICE!), one dollar and seventy five cents (?), a pair of high heels (No clickety clackety wakety husbandy), and in my teeth, the first fifty pages of my final draft of my new novel.***
And you thought Fried Pickles were strange? People are stranger. Gotta love it.