The (Corn)Dog Days of Summer

Before I had boobs, and I guess even after I had boobs—at least up until the time in which my boobs and I were made to get a real job (and by real, I mean any job which did not include a nifty little business card with my name printed on the front, and below it, in a slightly smaller font, "Best-selling Author" [which in my case means all of them, haha!])—how my brain mathed out summer was:

June = Friday

July = Saturday

August = Sunday

While Mom was stacking shirts at L.S. Ayres, and Dad was slapping snooze on the alarm clock (due to that one couple at the movie theater who insists on remaining seated until the very last credit rolls, even if it is midnight! [and also due to he didn’t have a younger sister in his ear all, Wake up, wake up, wake up—FINE! I’M UP!]), what we did during those months, my younger sister and me, was played.

Ahem—played outside. Because inside meant...

{dun-dun-dunnn}

…chores!!!

Laundry {violin screeching}...

Dishes {glass shattering}...

And worst of all…

{minor chord bellowing from an organ}

…dusting!!!

Wait a minute...

*places hands on hips*

We had to do all that stuff anyway!

True. But my pre-boobs brain (or my post-boobs, pre-job brain) clearly remembers Mom accepting Get Out of Chore Free cards, so long as we'd been playing outside (and never uttered the words, I'm bored).

Outside we went.

Some days it was, Hey let’s flip over our bicycles and crank the pedals to make imaginary electricity for a pretend castle!

Some days it was, Hey let’s balance our shoes on the tips of our toes while we swing and see who can kick theirs the farthest!

Here is the part where I’m supposed to tell you how all that summer fun really worked us up an appetite.

How our dear, sweet mother threw back the sheets at five a.m. to mix batter for (knowing how I detest pancakes due to their soaking up all the syrup) waffles and plunk hand-picked strawberries on top.

How for lunch, we’d open the fridge to find (neatly stacked on the second shelf from the top) sliced turkey between wheat toast. Bread smeared with avocado, crusts already cut from the edges and sprinkled in the grass for the birds.

How when the sun began to dip, Dad would fire up the grill and toss yellow squares of cheese onto sizzling patties.

Mouth watering yet?

Welp, I hate to throw cinnamon on your tastebuds, but the truth is, to put it politely, the food from my pre-boobs/post-boobs, pre-job days was...bland.

Ok, let’s call a turd a turd, the food from my childhood was crap! And not in a Nutty Bars or Ruffles Potato Chips with French Onion Dip kind of way.

When you grow up in a household where your dad's favorite coffee mug (the one with a crack on the rim from excessive use) reads, "Certified Fitness Freak" and your mom is putting you in piano, dammit, the mentality is that Food. Equals. Sustenance. And pennies are pinched! So hard that instead of Cheerios, it’s Tasty O’s (parents, please, for the love of pizza, just pay the extra dollar thirty-nine so you won't find yourself standing next to Mall Santa with your hands over your face as little Billy recalls "Real" Lucky Charms from his Christmas list), instead of Rice Crispies, it's Crispy Rice, instead of Raisin Bran it's (you get the picture)...

Yes, when you grow up in a household like that, the summer menu looks something like this:

Breakfast: Served with a side of Make it Yourself! With nighties stretched over tucked-up knees and eyes glued to “Saved by the Bell” followed by “The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.”

• Your choice of Tasty O’s (sprinkled with one teaspoon of sugar—see that, Cheapskate, you just lost twenty-eight cents of savings right there), Crispy Rice, or Bran Flakes (Hey guys? Not many raisins in here. Guys?? Guys!!!).

• And/or buttered toast. Ahem—Did I say buttered? What I meant was Country Crocked. Or I Can’t Believe it’s Not Butter Sprayed—Eww, Dad!! Did you just squirt that directly into your open mouth? Gross—stop!! (Yes, we were one of those families, the butterless kind. And nope, my tongue really did not taste a morsel of churned cream until I met my husband, and Oh! How we fell in love.)

Lunch: It’s my day to choose. You chose yesterday! Did not. Did too!!

• Ramen Noodles with Saltines -or-

• Kraft (And you better believe we thanked our Magic Stars for that! Because there is just something about that little off-brand powdered cheese pack that does {clap} not {clap} taste {clap} right {clap}, I don’t care how much butter/margarine you swirl into it) Macaroni and Cheese.

Dinner

• Chicken or Chicken. Coated with Fryin' Magic (instead of Shake n’ Bake, because your sister is taking piano too, dammit! But you know what? It's not bad. Really! Not bad at all!) Baked for 60 minutes in the oven. Served with canned {corn/green beans/gag-inducing-clump-of-spinach} and one baked potato (rinsed under faucet then poked with fork ten times and not actually baked, but microwaved. For five minutes or until tiny and shriveled, whichever comes last).

Repeat until August.

Oh August, you semi-sweet thing. With your beginning of the weekend feeling wearing away. How I despise Sundays, in all my pre- and post-boobs days, the way they fill my tummy with nervous toots. You’d be dead to me, August, if it weren’t for The Fair.

Can we go? Can we go?

Every. Single. Day.

We enter through Gate 1. Make a right at the officer on the horse, then drive over the lumpy grass which has been made into aisles by pennant flags. Dad finds a spot in the nosebleed section and riiiiips up the e-brake. Seats forward, hop out. Look—the tractor trolly! Just in time to hitch a ride—NOT, HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

We walk.

Because blisters add character, right Dad?

We shuffle through the commercial building (where later, we'll circle back to the booth where the lady in pigtails and purple freckles will plop us on the stool and paint rainbows on our cheeks). Past the table where the guy is handing out free bibles. Past the Culligan Man, to the open doorway. Over the steel threshold, which we cross like Dorothy entering Technicolor. And the world dissolves behind us.

The smell of straw and {sheep/swine/horse/beef/dairy/rabbit/goat}. Dad coaxes the Nubian to release, release! sister’s curls from mouth, and as our mission changes from barn strolling to open-bench scouting, it hits us. The aroma of aromas. The official smell of summer, forever and always.

Above us, from a white PA speaker, an echoing voice accompanies the scent. “Corndogs! Get yer corndogs!”

By Thursday, he’ll change his tune. “Corndogs! Buy one, get one corndogs...”

And on Saturday. “Free corndogs. Please take these corndogs.”

Deep-fried hot dogs on a stick? That's a hard pass for me, even to this post-boobs, real-job having day.

Mom heads for the Philly Cheesesteak stand. Comes back with a billowing cup of The World's Best Seasoned Fries, cooked to a temperature where the only way to eat them is via that trick where you chew so that the food does not touch anything except for your teeth (as to not scald the skin off your tongue/roof of mouth/lips/insides of cheeks). What is that secret seasoning that leaves me licking my fingers even though we just petted goats? (It’s Lawry’s, folks; it’s gotta be. No joke, a sprinkle of Lawry’s, and your popcorn will taste like meat. Try it. Then call me so I can say, I told you so.)

Dad’s been saving all summer for this week. Carbs, not dollars. Over the next six days, he’ll splurge on one elephant ear, one corndog, and a slice of pepperoni pizza. At some point, he'll start chanting, “too much MSG," and threaten to puke.

For us sisters, it’ll be snowcones. Rainbow flavored, on the logic that three syrup colors (rather than one) buys you an extra sip of juice before the ice turns white.

Slurp past the funnel cakes. Slurp past the eleven-dollar sticks of fried mozzarella (necks craned, *sigh* maybe someday). Stop to stab our flavorless hunks of snow back into slush—Hey Mom, wait up!

Her and Dad pause in front of the stand where through the window, the metal thingies stretch salt-water taffy. No thanks. We're holding out for lemonade. From the place where they add real lemons to the sugar water and shake it by hand.

Turn the corner to where the sun has punched out on the timecard.

Marquee bulbs glow against a cotton candy sky, and from behind the Matterhorn control station, a carnie’s voice beckons. “Scream real louuuud.” And oh! Do they still have it? Please let them still have it, The Zipper, The Zipper (sure that rusty thing looks like it's hanging by its last bolt, but it's soooooo worth it, and besides, if something important was going to fall off, it would have happened by now, right Dad?)—they doooooooo, they have it!! Dad can we please can we please can we pleeeeaase???!!

Repeat until Saturday, when we’ll stay until the last corndog stick is tossed into the trash. Shift the car into second gear and putt around the perimeter of the grounds trying to soak it all in, like a suntan you hope will be slow to fade. Then the fair will be over and September—the Monday of months—will be just a few shoe-kicking contests away.

In the days that remain, Dad will do what he can. A round of Ghost in the Graveyard. Sticks for a bonfire. He'll nestle into his bench-swing and blanket, and let us stay for the credits, even if it is midnight.

From the kitchen window, Mom will tell us goodnight, and toss out a bag of marshmallows, and we won't make s'mores.

With those white sugar fluffs stacked atop a smoldering log, the three of us will giggle as they spontaneoulsy ignite, then goo like (the floor is) lava.

We’ll beg Dad to tell us a scary story (but not too scary), and he will.

And when he reaches the end, he’ll shoot off his swing, blanket swooping behind him, and disappear into a twinkle of fireflies.