We recently spent 4 days at the Tunbridge Worlds Fair working for Crescent Foods selling very un-fair fare. Nothing fried. No animal parts shaped into giant tubes and cooked in great big gobs of greasy grimy gopher guts. No sugar spun into tufts of pink clouds on a stick. All vegetarian burritos, quesadillas and tortilla wraps. My god we were out of place.
Deciding what to eat at the fair and when is an art form that can only be perfected with practice. Fair food should be attacked in the same systematic way a good lover approaches sex. I look at popcorn kind of like getting to first base. You can still move around, checking out all your options without having to make a serious commitment to any one (type of food). Which makes fried dough the oral sex of the fair. Things are definitely heading in the right direction but it’s not too late to head to the parking lot satisfied. Taken to a logical conclusion this of course makes Italian sausage and peppers the big O. Which I suppose makes maple cotton candy akin to a good post-coitus smoke.
There are quite a few overweight people in Vermont and I think most of them spent a day or more at Tunbridge. Nothing like a September chill in the air to get people thinking about an extra layer of warmth. I was lucky enough at one point to look up from my tortilla wrapping position and be greeted by the backside of a fairly large woman with a serious case of plumber’s butt wearing a bright red thong that stretched from one end of the Gobi desert, up and through Mongolia and ended somewhere in the foothills of the Himalayas. Not a pretty sight but not unlike witnessing a good trainwreck I found myself constantly checking to see if she and her family had moved on.
We did get to see quite a few people walking around wearing camouflage. Which doesn’t say a whole lot for the people who design camouflage.
And if I might offer the following bit of advice. Only buy stuff you won’t take home with you. Like rides, fair food and fortunes from Zelda the gypsy.
No giant inflatable hammers.
No goldfish in baggies.
No oversized foam cowboy hats.
No balloons that have been twisted to look like poodles with challenged colons.
No belt buckles the size of a Prius.
I’ve got to go. Somewhere out there is a clown riding a unicycle while twisting long skinny balloons into poodles that you can wear on your head. I think I might see what will happen if I jam a stick in his spokes.
Love you all. Peace. Peter
Chef Pete has a book in him...just saying.
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