The county fair is the only place for corndogs

The Lovely Mrs. Taylor and I went to the county fair the other day. Since moving to the sticks over a decade ago, I’ve tried to embrace my rural surroundings and all that implies.

I maintain a small garden (‘taters and onions this year—peppers last), I bought a chain saw and taught myself to operate it without cutting off any important appendages, I drive a pickup truck and actually use it to haul stuff.

I’m one flannel shirt from becoming Norm Abram. (PBS viewers will get that one.)

But the thing that most says “country living” to me is the county fair. Horses, pigs, cattle, sheep, chickens, bunnies, goats … all raised by 4-H kids in anticipation of this one week out of the year. The week when the critter they’ve cared for, nurtured and loved for the past 10 or 11 months is sold at auction and turned into cheeseburgers.

Frankly, I don’t know how they do it. You’ve gotta be born out here to feel comfortable with that, I think. I could never eat a steak I’d been feeding hay to and tucking in for the night the week before.

I’ve seen “Charlotte’s Web.” I know how traumatic the experience can be, even for farm kids.

At any rate, the animals are just a part of the fair. There’s the merchant’s building, which used to be filled with people from Peru selling jewelry made from clay and sweaters knitted from llama wool. These days it contains too many desperate politicians who want to shake my hand and loud women urging me not to get an abortion. Even the fair’s got to change with the times, I guess.

Despite the loud women and politicians, I still go through the merchant’s building each year. There are still a few clay jewelry sellers, after all.

Then there are the exhibit buildings, where the arts, crafts, home-canned vegetables, flowers and dioramas are displayed. The paintings and photos are my favorite. Everything from really, really good art, right on down to paintings that almost certainly have numbers on the canvas under the paint, are on display there. The talented, as well as those not burdened with great artistic skills—all receive equal billing and encouragement at the fair! It’s like elementary school for adults, and I, for one, love it. Everything in life should be like that.

The absolute best part of the fair, however, and the reason I go back year after year, is the corndogs.

Corndogs, to my way of thinking, are the perfect food. They’re compact, great tasting, greasy as all get-out, and have no nutritional value whatever. They are a treat to be scarfed down once a year, in abundance, only at the fair—the only place on earth (save for that “Pronto Pup” place in Grand Haven) that they’re prepared properly.

I recommend eating about half-a-dozen. It makes you slightly nauseous for a day or two, but it’s worth it.

For those worried about the calories, I suggest eating all the corndogs your belly will tolerate, then going for a ride on The Zipper. I can’t endorse bulimia, but hey, accidents happen, and those midway workers keep hoses handy for a reason.

More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.