The County Fair

Let’s talk about the fair.  You expect blue-ribbon pigs, creaky carousels and swings for the kids, and cotton candy.  Our county fair has upgraded, and not necessarily in good ways.  You want fried food?  Prepare your stomach for this:

What you can’t see is the sign for deep-fried butter.  I wonder, do people eat sticks of butter at home like they were bananas, or do they reserve that behavior for the fair?  Our lunch options were limited by cost and what we thought wouldn’t give us immediate coronary blockage, so we ended up with a nine-dollar hot dog.  Keep in mind that hot dog fed three people because it was COUNTY FAIR SIZED.  In an effort to inflate Americans to record girth, fair food vendors are producing portions of food that would make the food pyramid people weep.  Beside the 18” long hot dog, we could’ve bought a plate of curly fries that looked as if it were deep fried in a bucket.  Imagine, if your stomach can handle it, a cylinder of curly fries a foot across and ten inches high, straining a triple-layer of paper plates, and topped with melted cheese, chili, and hopefully a last will and testament.  You cannot get a small side of fries, you can only buy The Widowmaker.

But I should be fair (get it?…[crickets chirp]).  The fair also had pony rides, which Child Harbat enjoyed and was dressed for, in full cowgirl regalia.  On each circumambulation of the pony pen, she waved her hand and gave demure smiles to the crowd, who applauded and snapped pictures like slavering paparazzi.

There were a few animals, and we missed out on the craft exhibits, but mostly the fair seemed like shrill hawking of cheap toys, expensive food, and high-G carnival rides that could flatten your eyes into the back of your skull.  Am I getting too old for the fair?

About Peter Soutowood

Writer, architect, father, husband.