Next month, I return to the homeland from whence I came. After a five year absence, I am returning to Seattle once more, not to bless it with my presence, but to go to the Fair.
Oh, sure, I have told my friends that I can’t wait to see them. That is most certainly true. And I look forward to a long lingering lunch, sharing our respective stories about lives lived, with an old friend who has managed to elude me for years.
But I have a secret agenda — the Fair. You see, my trip was planned specifically around the time the Puyallup Fair occurs. I haven’t been to the Fair in perhaps 10 years and I can hardly wait to “do it at a trot and do it at a gallop, or do it real slow so your heart don’t palpitate…”
I know what you’re thinking… they must have fairs here in Florida. Yes, they do, including the Florida State Fair. To date, I have not been to it, so I can’t honestly compare the two. What I can say is that in my mind, February is a strange time to have a fair, at least for someone from the north. Fall is harvest time, not February. That means produce displays from the local co-ops, thousand-pound pumpkins that have be lifted with a forklift and fresh pies made with the fruits of Washington orchards. February? We’re still wrapped up in our woolies, waiting for the spring thaw!
I have been going to the Fair since I was 16. I used to take my mother to it, my father being sick and bedridden most of the time. He wasn’t exactly the fair-type, anyway. So we would go on our annual date together.
At the crack of early we would drive from Renton to Puyallup, about a two hour drive. We always arrived by 10 a.m. and waited for the Blue Gate to open. The routine all these years has never varied from that. It has become a ritual.
There were more Fair rituals, of course. Once in the gate, it was a right turn. We’d make our way under the grandstands to get hot, fresh Fisher scones, lathered with butter and raspberry jam. There were other places to get them on the grounds, but this is where you could watch all the old people make them. We would get four each and set off.
Not far away was the fresh taffy place. Got to have some fresh taffy. Then it was time to watch the people do all their demos of amazing items for the home that could slice and dice like magic at the Fair, but never seemed to perform as well once back in the kitchen.
From there, we did Hobby Hall, then to the agriculture exhibits to marvel at the giant fruit and vegetables, drift through the 4-H building and onto the animals. Now, as you know, I’m not very barnyard friendly. True, I’ve always wanted to have a goat, but the smell of the barn isn’t exactly something I’d want to a girl to wear on a date. It’s well, too organic for my tastes.
But for some reason, it was OK at the fair. Eventually, all the rabbits, chickens, cows and horses looked the same to me. I really only liked the dogs and the draft horses, who looked down on me like I look down on cockroaches. If given the chance they would gladly squash me like a bug.
Whenever I had a chance to win a barn, I would enter my brother’s name in the contest. I had no use for one, and knowing his wife, he could. Eventually we would make our way to the logger show and watch lumberjacks saw big logs in half, then turn and scale a 75′ tall log in seconds flat, doing a controlled fall to the ground to beat his competition.
By then the scones had worn off and it was time to eat. I have learned over the years that the only place a corn dog tastes right is at the Fair. I think it’s the other sights and scents that make it taste like a corn dog should. Of course, they call them Krusty Pups at the Fair. Still, it’s a corn dog. I really don’t even like to think of what a ‘krusty’ pup would taste like.
That was just a snack, though. As anyone knows, the true star of the Fair is the onion burger. Everyone has their favorite place to get one. In later years, the Earthquake Burger came on the scene. But in the early days, it was the original onion burger. There is nothing like sauteed Walla Walla Sweet onions and a piece of meat sandwiched between two fresh sides of a bun. No condiments necessary. My mouth is watering even as I write this. If there is a heaven in the afterlife, I hope to God it has an onion burger booth.
My mother always saved her best for last. Eventually we made our way over to the desserts. Me, I always favored cotton candy, or maybe a carameled apple. My mother, though, had a passion for Belgian Waffles, those super thick waffles overflowing with strawberries and whipped cream. Me, I’ve never been a strawberry guy, so I would only take a bite of the waffle and the whipped cream. I didn’t know until years later that the secret to eating strawberries was sour cream and brown sugar. But that too is another story.
Eventually, we were faired out. This would always be about three or four in the afternoon. We had seen all there was to see. The only time we stayed longer is if the Royal Canadian Mounties were doing a show. My mother would dutifully arrive as early as possible and sit patiently for an hour or more, waiting for the mounties. I can’t blame her, they always put on a great show.
As we’d leave, we’d see the evening crowd show up. I have been in the evening crowd just once, to see Peter, Paul and Mary in a driving rainstorm. It was nice, but it just wasn’t the Blue Gate experience I plan to relive come September.
Out on the Treasure Coast, thinking about making scones, but knowing they just won’t taste right,
– Robb