“This is Kaitlin’s first funnel cake!” - overheard at the Iowa State Fair, Des Moines, IA
When my brother Brent told his Iowan co-workers that his little sister was moving to their homeland, they all agreed on one thing: going to the State Fair was a must. Not ones to miss out on must-see opportunities, Jeremie and I drove to Des Moines last Friday. The charcoal sky looked menacing as we set out, and gave way to a good hard rainstorm before we arrived. I put our valuables in a plastic bag inside my backpack and we committed ourselves to getting wet and muddy. Other fair-goers had a similar attitude, happy to don plastic ponchos and step around puddles. A sparsely toothed, smoking parking attendant waved what looked like a crowbar and directed us to the closest entrance. That’s where we met Charlotte. Her white hair and glasses made me wonder if Charlotte had been attending the Iowa State Fair for decades. At this Fair, she was in charge of the ticketing. She manned that booth with genuine friendliness, but refused to let chit chat sway her from the task at hand. Jeremie bantered with her, while she adeptly handled our indecision about using a bank card or cash to pay. We left the booth with tickets and a mostly dry Fair Guide.
Our first stop was the exhibition hall that held the prize winning food entries. Jeremie’s roommate Will comes from a famous family, as far as the Fair is concerned. Will’s dad cleans up in the canning division. We peered through the glass, looking at shelf after shelf of Iowa’s best. If you can eat it, someone had canned it. There was even a “Fruit Other Than Named” and “Meat Other Than Named” prize, which someone explained was when the entrant had mixed ingredients beyond the category title (like a cherry-plum jam in the plum category). Will’s dad certainly dominated. I smiled when I overheard two ladies comment on it, “Gosh, that Rod Zeitler got everything, didn’t he?”
Looking at all of that food made us hungry, of course, so we headed for the main drag. We took a brief detour at the Exotic Animals Petting Zoo, saying hi to some not-so-exotic-but-very-cute goats, some camels, and a horse. “Feed the animals! Dollar a cup!” a woman in a folding chair called out every few seconds. As we exited, Jeremie noticed a sign which read, “Don’t Feed the Animals.” He asked the “dollar a cup” woman how this fit with her business and she said that sign was there because they used to have baby lions and tigers in the Zoo. Enough said.
The rain had eased into a sprinkle by the time we started looking at our lunch options. After our initial walk-through, this much was clear: just like we had committed to getting wet, we were going to have to commit to eating a lot of fried food. Mac ‘n cheese, Oreos, Twinkies, candy bars, chicken, hot dogs…all deep-fried for your cardiac roulette pleasure. One booth gave me hope with its listing of vegetables and cheddar cheese, until I realized that those too were victims of the deep fryer. Jeremie and I started with a deep-fried Twinkie. While waiting in line, we interviewed a young couple embarking upon their first deep-fried Snickers experience. The girl seemed to resist taking a bite and ended up with barely a nibble. I wonder if that’s a front all us girls need in such a situation. Like, somehow it’s not ladylike to admit that that much fat tastes really good. We watched our Twinkie take its greasy hot tub soak, and then Jeremie went for the first bite. Not bad. Like the Snickers girl, I took a tentative bite. Twinkies aren’t culinary masterpieces in the first place, so when you batter and deep-fry them, they remain their okay Twinkie selves, cloaked in the intrigue of wanton disregard for everything you know about health.
Our meal continued with a steak sandwich, hot, homemade potato chips, a giant lemonade, and a funnel cake. Eating gave us a wonderful opportunity to people-watch. Families and farm-wear presided. I took a photo of three elderly citizens on scooters; the lead granny sporting a fuzzy pink hat in the shape of a pig. Several families kept little ones close with the help of a leash. One grandma, dressed in red, white, and blue, wove through the crowd with two little girls, the younger on a leash. I would have put money on the leashed girl’s ability to knock grandma right over, if she had a mind to run after some cotton candy. Maybe she had been trained since babyhood to think that the leash was boss. Like strong carnival elephants who don’t realize they can break free from their little ankle chain.
The next stop was the baby animals barn. A golf cart with “Livestock Control” sped by us, no doubt on their way to apprehend the latest heifer escapee. I don’t consider myself a big city girl, but my exposure to farm life is limited. Little did I know how my eyes would be opened in this unassuming barn full of little corrals and small children running about. First, we took in the ducklings. Leaning over the railing, Jeremie kept account of which ducky was getting the best position in the huddle of fluffy sleepers. Then, we wriggled our way into a crowd of people waiting for chicks to hatch. Downy newborns sat in the heated cage amidst eggs at various stages. Some eggs were empty remnants, others had hopeful cracks, and the rest looked untouched. I had high hopes for seeing my first chick hatching and felt sure that the fourth egg from the left was wobbling from the efforts of that baby trying to emerge. Sadly, the miracle of life requires an attention span of greater than five minutes. I got bored and we moved on.
There was a line to see some piglets, so we shuffled single file past the huge mothers with their busy, buffet-style underbellies. Jeremie and I spent a long time near the sheep. Their wobbly legged attempts to follow their mothers were pretty amusing. One sheep looked painfully pregnant. As we wondered when her labor pains might strike, our attention was suddenly redirected to the cluster of big screen TVs overhead. My eyes were riveted in awe and horror as the screens showed a female veterinarian, elbow deep in a pig’s you-know-what, assisting with a piglet’s birth. All of this was happening just 20 feet away in the corner stall that was currently swarming with onlookers. We watched the blood-covered newborn slip out and get a quick rubdown with a towel before it was held up to the camera lens, eyes just barely able to open. What a change to go from a nice, cozy womb to a barn full of spectators who smelled like fried food. I don’t envy that pig, but I’m glad I was there to marvel at its grand entrance.
After witnessing a live birth, all other venues took on a subdued quality. Jeremie and I ambled along, stopping to check out things as they interested us. We held some butterflies in the butterfly tent and took a picture with one perched on my nose; we sat and watched a chainsaw artist make a wooden lighthouse; two young carnies tried to cajole Jeremie into swinging the sledgehammer to ring the bell and win his woman a giant stuffed animal. There was a gospel quartet and a one-man band; a life-sized cow sculpted from butter; pumpkins big enough to provide all of Iowa with Thanksgiving pies. We found ourselves wandering the homemade quilts, half looking for Will’s mom’s entries, half in a stupor. It was time to go home.
Brent’s co-workers were right. It was an amazing event. Since last Friday, I’ve met Iowa natives who have never been to the Fair. That’s inconceivable. As an outsider, I thought seeing the Fair was part of embracing Iowa. I suppose that’s one benefit to living somewhere for the first time – everyday things become fascinating quests. As far as I can see, Iowa has a lot to offer.
When my brother Brent told his Iowan co-workers that his little sister was moving to their homeland, they all agreed on one thing: going to the State Fair was a must. Not ones to miss out on must-see opportunities, Jeremie and I drove to Des Moines last Friday. The charcoal sky looked menacing as we set out, and gave way to a good hard rainstorm before we arrived. I put our valuables in a plastic bag inside my backpack and we committed ourselves to getting wet and muddy. Other fair-goers had a similar attitude, happy to don plastic ponchos and step around puddles. A sparsely toothed, smoking parking attendant waved what looked like a crowbar and directed us to the closest entrance. That’s where we met Charlotte. Her white hair and glasses made me wonder if Charlotte had been attending the Iowa State Fair for decades. At this Fair, she was in charge of the ticketing. She manned that booth with genuine friendliness, but refused to let chit chat sway her from the task at hand. Jeremie bantered with her, while she adeptly handled our indecision about using a bank card or cash to pay. We left the booth with tickets and a mostly dry Fair Guide.
Our first stop was the exhibition hall that held the prize winning food entries. Jeremie’s roommate Will comes from a famous family, as far as the Fair is concerned. Will’s dad cleans up in the canning division. We peered through the glass, looking at shelf after shelf of Iowa’s best. If you can eat it, someone had canned it. There was even a “Fruit Other Than Named” and “Meat Other Than Named” prize, which someone explained was when the entrant had mixed ingredients beyond the category title (like a cherry-plum jam in the plum category). Will’s dad certainly dominated. I smiled when I overheard two ladies comment on it, “Gosh, that Rod Zeitler got everything, didn’t he?”
Looking at all of that food made us hungry, of course, so we headed for the main drag. We took a brief detour at the Exotic Animals Petting Zoo, saying hi to some not-so-exotic-but-very-cute goats, some camels, and a horse. “Feed the animals! Dollar a cup!” a woman in a folding chair called out every few seconds. As we exited, Jeremie noticed a sign which read, “Don’t Feed the Animals.” He asked the “dollar a cup” woman how this fit with her business and she said that sign was there because they used to have baby lions and tigers in the Zoo. Enough said.
The rain had eased into a sprinkle by the time we started looking at our lunch options. After our initial walk-through, this much was clear: just like we had committed to getting wet, we were going to have to commit to eating a lot of fried food. Mac ‘n cheese, Oreos, Twinkies, candy bars, chicken, hot dogs…all deep-fried for your cardiac roulette pleasure. One booth gave me hope with its listing of vegetables and cheddar cheese, until I realized that those too were victims of the deep fryer. Jeremie and I started with a deep-fried Twinkie. While waiting in line, we interviewed a young couple embarking upon their first deep-fried Snickers experience. The girl seemed to resist taking a bite and ended up with barely a nibble. I wonder if that’s a front all us girls need in such a situation. Like, somehow it’s not ladylike to admit that that much fat tastes really good. We watched our Twinkie take its greasy hot tub soak, and then Jeremie went for the first bite. Not bad. Like the Snickers girl, I took a tentative bite. Twinkies aren’t culinary masterpieces in the first place, so when you batter and deep-fry them, they remain their okay Twinkie selves, cloaked in the intrigue of wanton disregard for everything you know about health.
Our meal continued with a steak sandwich, hot, homemade potato chips, a giant lemonade, and a funnel cake. Eating gave us a wonderful opportunity to people-watch. Families and farm-wear presided. I took a photo of three elderly citizens on scooters; the lead granny sporting a fuzzy pink hat in the shape of a pig. Several families kept little ones close with the help of a leash. One grandma, dressed in red, white, and blue, wove through the crowd with two little girls, the younger on a leash. I would have put money on the leashed girl’s ability to knock grandma right over, if she had a mind to run after some cotton candy. Maybe she had been trained since babyhood to think that the leash was boss. Like strong carnival elephants who don’t realize they can break free from their little ankle chain.
The next stop was the baby animals barn. A golf cart with “Livestock Control” sped by us, no doubt on their way to apprehend the latest heifer escapee. I don’t consider myself a big city girl, but my exposure to farm life is limited. Little did I know how my eyes would be opened in this unassuming barn full of little corrals and small children running about. First, we took in the ducklings. Leaning over the railing, Jeremie kept account of which ducky was getting the best position in the huddle of fluffy sleepers. Then, we wriggled our way into a crowd of people waiting for chicks to hatch. Downy newborns sat in the heated cage amidst eggs at various stages. Some eggs were empty remnants, others had hopeful cracks, and the rest looked untouched. I had high hopes for seeing my first chick hatching and felt sure that the fourth egg from the left was wobbling from the efforts of that baby trying to emerge. Sadly, the miracle of life requires an attention span of greater than five minutes. I got bored and we moved on.
There was a line to see some piglets, so we shuffled single file past the huge mothers with their busy, buffet-style underbellies. Jeremie and I spent a long time near the sheep. Their wobbly legged attempts to follow their mothers were pretty amusing. One sheep looked painfully pregnant. As we wondered when her labor pains might strike, our attention was suddenly redirected to the cluster of big screen TVs overhead. My eyes were riveted in awe and horror as the screens showed a female veterinarian, elbow deep in a pig’s you-know-what, assisting with a piglet’s birth. All of this was happening just 20 feet away in the corner stall that was currently swarming with onlookers. We watched the blood-covered newborn slip out and get a quick rubdown with a towel before it was held up to the camera lens, eyes just barely able to open. What a change to go from a nice, cozy womb to a barn full of spectators who smelled like fried food. I don’t envy that pig, but I’m glad I was there to marvel at its grand entrance.
After witnessing a live birth, all other venues took on a subdued quality. Jeremie and I ambled along, stopping to check out things as they interested us. We held some butterflies in the butterfly tent and took a picture with one perched on my nose; we sat and watched a chainsaw artist make a wooden lighthouse; two young carnies tried to cajole Jeremie into swinging the sledgehammer to ring the bell and win his woman a giant stuffed animal. There was a gospel quartet and a one-man band; a life-sized cow sculpted from butter; pumpkins big enough to provide all of Iowa with Thanksgiving pies. We found ourselves wandering the homemade quilts, half looking for Will’s mom’s entries, half in a stupor. It was time to go home.
Brent’s co-workers were right. It was an amazing event. Since last Friday, I’ve met Iowa natives who have never been to the Fair. That’s inconceivable. As an outsider, I thought seeing the Fair was part of embracing Iowa. I suppose that’s one benefit to living somewhere for the first time – everyday things become fascinating quests. As far as I can see, Iowa has a lot to offer.
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