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Married people like fried food:
I just have to say fried food tastes better when there’s a ring on your finger. That is why they’re called Love Handles.
A few weeks ago for Labor Day weekend, John and I made the trek to our hometown’s annual county fair, which was basically a four-hour feeding frenzy. Growing up, the fair was the last big hurrah of the summer. Every year during my back-to-school shopping spree, I carefully selected and consciously set aside an outfit that would be unveiled at the fair. This ensemble was perhaps more important than deciding what to wear on the first day of class. After all, the county fair was the premiere social event of the year. Everybody knew that and dressed accordingly.
Now that I’m older (yet not much wiser) I put some thought into my fair-clad outfit but with different intentions. My primary concern: what material is going to be most forgiving during the ensuing onslaught? It was an unusually sunny day so I opted for a red v-neck tee with a black tank-top underneath. T-shirt + tankini
= maximum tummy control.
Before arriving at the fairgrounds, I prepared my mental list: fried cheese on a stick, funnelcake, lemon shake, cavatelli, crazy ice cream (It freezes in the heat!) and a sausage sandwich. I hadn’t been to the fair in forever, so my taste buds were more than ready to be indulged.
Within five minutes of our arrival, I was slowly sipping my first lemon shake. It was everything I had hoped for and remembered it to be. Fresh squeezed lemon, water and sugar. It doesn’t get better than that. Then I spotted the fried cheese stand, there in all its glory, just like it had always been. Greeting the gentleman behind the fryer with a great big smile, I informed him that I had waited five years AND endured an eight-hour road trip for this special treat. And for a moment I secretly hoped he’d give it to me for FREE, because that would just make it taste even better. Did he oblige? Not so much.
Nothing quite compares to the combination of Swiss cheese chunks stacked on a stick then dipped in a corndog-esque batter and fried to perfection. The outside is golden delicious and the inside? Ooey. Gooey. Heaven. Needless to say I had two of these bad boys; plus four lemon shakes (which to be fair, I shared with John),one bite of John’s sausage sandwich (apparently my idea to go halfsies wasn’t mutual), ice cream, fresh cut fries, part of a cinnamon-covered elephant ear, a Styrofoam bowl of pasta—and two deep-fried Oreos for dessert, of course.
Eating fried food is not without its repercussions. I could feel and see my distended stomach almost instantaneously. Plus my tankini provided limited airflow, so my shirt was now stuck to me like a second skin. Had we not been in a public place, and if my t-shirt had been a tad longer, I would have undid the button on my suddenly-too-tight jeans. Ah sweet relief was so close yet so faux pas. Anyway, I had accomplished my gluttonous goal and now it was time to suffer. But I must say, this particular trip to the fair was personally and epicuriously satisfying, because back in the day, it wasn’t “cool” to gorge.
Hours later when I was doing my walk of shame toward the handmade exit sign, my hubby had fallen behind. But I didn’t notice this for about 50 feet (thanks to my trans-fat trance). When I noticed he was missing, I turned to look behind me, and there he was, chatting it up with someone in the distance. I tried to turn back around before he noticed that I noticed him, but it was too late, he waved me in.
Call it a wife’s intuition, but I knew this wasn’t going to be good. I hated to meet new people under these circumstances: bloated, sweat-ridden and sans makeup. John introduced me to Gina, his
one-that-didn’t-get-away-because-he-never-really-had-her-but-tried for-years, gal pal from high school. Gina is about five inches shorter, her makeup still fresh. So naturally, I feel like an oafy grease trap. I wished we had met hours
