Last Friday, Dave and I took the day off to inculcate our daughter into the American tradition of paying a hefty admission fee in order to mill around with the sweating, rhinestone buckled masses, in order to feed ourselves into a coma.
That, my friends, is what the state fair is all about.
The Iowa State Fair has a particular reputation for disgustingly fatty foods, deep-fried and on a stick. Example, butter. I did not try the deep-fried butter, because I don’t hate my life and want to die. Suicide prevention organizations hover around the deep-fried butter booth handing out pamphlets offering free counseling. I told Dave I wanted to try some deep-fried butter and he was all, “BUT IF YOU DIE I’LL HAVE TO GET A MATCH.COM PROFILE!”
Every time you eat deep-fried butter, a small piece of Michelle Obama dies.
In a millennium, archaeologist will discover the site of the Iowa State Fair and surmise from the stomach contents of the bodies buried there, that the ancient civilization of America engaged in the ritual torture of their Midwesterners by forcing them to swallow what appear to be toxic bricks of saturated fat and other substances as yet unidentified in order to sacrifice them to the gods of corn.
But seriously. So good.
Or, at least the first bite was good. Warm, sweet, melty. The second bite was full of regret and anguish. But I stuck with it, because I’m a trooper. I made Dave take a bite and once it cleared his throat, he waved me off. “I’m all for American’s eating whatever they want, but Lyz, THERE ARE LIMITS!”
He refused a second bite.
Ellis giggled and helped me finish it off. I’m pretty sure Mayor Bloomburg is going to pass a law banning the feeding of deep-fried Twinkies to your babies. But Bloomburg, so help me, you can pry my saturated fats from my cold dead hands! Which will be soon, because I’m probably going to keel over here, any minute.
In addition the the deep-fried Twinkie. We ate a corn dog, cookies, red velvet funnel cake and a concoction known as a “Pickle Dawg.” I had no idea what it was when I ordered it, I just knew I wanted one.
When I went up to order the lady said, “Deep fried, honey?”
I nodded, as I thought to myself, what perfect sentence that was.
“Ham or salami”
Good grief what was this? “Um, salami.”
“Spicy or mild?”
I felt like an inmate on deathrow being asked if he wanted the needle or the chair. Obviously, I choose spicy. Because, when it comes to my disgustingly unhealthy foods, I go balls to the wall.
The Pickle Dawg is a pickle, encased in warm spicy cheese, wrapped in salami and deep fried. I called it Eduardo and declared him my new lover. When Dave reached for a bite, I squawked and slapped his hand.
“I’M NOT SHARING!”
A little girl sitting at the picnic table with us nodded her head. “It’s okay,” she said her pigtails bobbing, “we don’t always hafta share. Like when we get drinks. Somethings are just ours.”
“Yeah, just ours!” I said, like the really awesomely responsible adult I am. The little girl smiled and gave me a thumbs up.
On our way into the fair, I had seen a giant sign that read “BEEF SUNDAE.” And my goodness, how I wanted one. I don’t even know what a beef sundae is, but it both alarmed and allured me. I had to have it. Dave promised I could have one as we left the fair, but that was before the deep-fried Twinkie, and it’s melty, chemical goodness. As we walked out, I again saw the “BEEF SUNDAE” beckoning me like a siren.
“Dave, can you get the beef sundae and I’ll just have some bites?”
“Are you kidding me? Eating some of that Twinkie was the worst idea ever. I’m not eating a beef sundae.”
I begged. But to no avail. Beef sundae, you and I will meet again. Next year.
And you too chocolate dipped bacon on a stick. God bless America.
Our glorious becookied baby.
