Step Right Up!

I begin this post a little disappointed. I had wanted to find a couple sound clips that you could click on as you closed your eyes—a mechanism to instantly flip a sensory switch in your brain and transport you to a place many of us easily recall: the distant mechanical thunder and rush of a roller coaster, high-pitched screams issuing from the passengers, and the loud clanging of a bell on the midway as a game starts or ends. Perhaps you remember attending county or state fairs as you grew up, or taking your kids or grandkids to them.

One thing I can’t do yet is send olfactory data over the wire. Can you recall the smells of wholly unhealthy food wafting in the air? Sure, the rides were fun, and the games momentarily entertaining, but I dare say that if you can’t recall the artery clogging pleasures of food at the fair, then you’ve missed out on a quintessential facet of growing up in America. Yes, seriously.

Soon I’ll be posting an interview I’m going to do with a gentleman named Jim Rising. He’s published a book titled But Then Again, I Could Be Wrong – The Book of Rants. I love a good rant. There’s something viscerally cathartic about a passionate unleashing of pent up, simmering logic that begins to foam and boil over into emotion. I’ll be receiving a copy of the book within the week, but in the meantime I was checking out some of his rants online. In a recent one he speaks of his ill-advised craving for “fair food.” Which got me to thinking.

Aunt Juicebox wrote of her trip to her local Renaissance Festival. Twenty years she’s been going to this thing, if for no other reason than for a specific food item. She ices the cake with a short diatribe about some mouth-breathers who stand in the middle of the road just to take pictures of a really bad accident that tied up traffic. Anyway, her whole reason for making the trek was to quell the mouth watering craving for the food she’d anticipated.

There are two biggies I remember as a kid: Indian Fry Bread and cotton candy. There’s all kinds of scare-your-cardiologist offerings nowadays, including deep-fried snickers bars and a bacon cheeseburger served on glazed doughnut . . . and no, I’m not kidding! To be fair (no pun intended), I haven’t been to our state or county fair in at least as long as Aunt Juicebox has been going to her Ohio Renaissance Festival, so I’m not current with what the gastronomic offerings are, but I certainly recall what they were like, and what memories they created. I don’t recall seeing funnel cakes when I went, but I think they’ve made their way out here into the desert southwest. But fry bread still reigns out here, especially with plenty of honey drizzled atop it, but powdered sugar will do in a pinch.

To this day, mom still loves to get cotton candy when she has the chance. Every ball game we’ve been to, she’s bought some. Sure, there are the staid standbys of hot dogs, hamburgers, popcorn, and snow cones, but as an adult one of the big reasons you go is for the food. Your kids will eat up the expensive rides and games, but you’ll always remember, amidst the sounds of the crowd, the midway barkers, and multi-colored strobing lights, the smells and wonderfull badness of all that food vying for your arteries and stomach.

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What Part of the Turkey Does the Bacon Come From?

A woman of reality who adores BBQ, has an incarcerated neighbor named Thumpy Bitch, and has little problem actually considering doing physical harm to people who talk in movie theaters. I forgot to mention, she has a real jones for bacon. Seriously.

I bring to my readers a woman whose blog I’ve smiled and laughed at in spite of its prolific sprinkling of the F-bomb. It’s real, and it can be really funny. I am honored to introduce Aunt Juicebox—and no, I don’t know the meaning behind the name, but I can surely guess! Her blog, which, if I may say so, is apparently widely read, is over on that other platform, Blogger: Bacon Is My Lover. She’s even blogged about her husband wearing his boxers backwards. I can say that’s genuinely funny because I’ve been guilty of doing it as well. Kind of embarrasing to basically re-dress yourself in a restroom because access hatches aren’t where they should be, ya know?

One of the things I really enjoy about reading the blogs I do is that they’re all distinctly different, as varied in their style and voice as the individuals who write them. Auntie’s is certainly indicative of that appraisal. I’m so very glad to agreed to write this guest post. Be sure to leave her a comment and you might end up with a copy of my book. And if you don’t want the book, that’s fine, but by all means comment!

In case you’re wondering, yes, I do eat turkey bacon on occasion ;^)

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When J.W. approached me about writing a guest post, he instructed me to write it using my own “style”. I can only assume he meant that I should write it using as much profanity and sarcasm as possible, and to make fun of someone in my family. I thought instead, I might take this opportunity, while away from my own blog, to show a kinder, gentler side of myself. After all, there’s more to Aunt Juicebox than my proficiency at using the F-bomb. I also love bacon. That’s right folks, this post is about love. And not just any kind of love, but the undying love I have for good food.

Ever since I was little, autumn has been my favorite season. Not only did it mean school was starting soon, which the nerd in me loved, but my birthday was coming up as well. Usually, my birthday was celebrated at Thanksgiving dinner when all the relatives would be gathering at our home anyway. This joint celebration didn’t bother me at all, in fact, it meant more cards and presents and well wishes – more than I probably would have gotten otherwise. And as with most families, the epicenter of any gathering was the kitchen. I spent many hours helping my mother do the prep work for every day meals as well as the holiday dinners.

I would wake up in the morning, and I could already smell my mom cooking the turkey. I don’t know where the tradition of having the turkey done by lunch time came from, but it certainly meant spending the rest of the day nibbling on it—and on stuffing, and sweet potatoes . . . oh, and pie. Can’t forget the pie.

I’d sit at the table in the middle of the kitchen, scraping carrots or peeling boiled eggs, as family members started showing up. We’d greet them, hug them, smell the scent of the cool autumn air on their coats and jackets. We’d laugh, and watch television, and of course, we’d gather in the kitchen and eat food that had been prepared with loving hands in anticipation of a day well spent.

Obviously, we can’t forget Halloween, Christmas and the New Year, all of which are fantastic food feasts in their own right, but I’ve always had a special liking for Thanksgiving. It’s that bastard stepchild of the holidays, the one caught in the middle that doesn’t get as much attention. I think it was made more special by that feeling we all get as children when we realize we are a year older, a year taller, a year wiser. I got more attention myself on that day than any other day of the year.

As an adult, I take less joy in birthdays of my own than I used to, but I still love to feed people. As the weather turns cooler, and the leaves crunch underfoot, I start pulling out my pumpkin recipes, my holiday movies and cd’s, and think about what I’m going to make first. So tell me, which holiday food gives you the best memories?

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