Peanut Butter, Corndogs, and the Trouble With Eating the Whole Circus

Some things are meant to be looked at. Your belly is not a museum.

I was telling you about the lad who brought home a peanut butter jelly corndog from the Iowa State Fair like he'd found the Ark of the Covenant on a stick. Bless his heart, and I mean that the way you'd mean it about a dog who chased a car and caught it. Those Iowa folks put more thought into what they skewer than into what they're raising, and I say that with the full knowledge that Harrow Corners once deep-fried a rumor and served it at the church potluck. We are not above it. Nobody is.

Half the fun of a state fair is watching people eat things that no sensible mind would have conceived on a full stomach. The other half is watching them regret it. But there is a difference between watching the circus and climbing into the cannon. The boy should have looked at that corndog, said "well, that's a thing," and walked on. What's the sense in eating the whole spectacle? You'll just end up full of nonsense, which is exactly what you started with.

Speaking of nonsense, you remember Joe Henderson from over on Maple. Last Fourth of July he got the bright idea to fry up a whole bucket of those PB&J corndogs and call it a new tradition. I tried one. I will tell you honestly: it is like eating a memory that never quite happened. You can have a whole picnic on nostalgia and still go home hungry. By sunset, folks were arguing over whether Joe was a genius or a fool, which is the same argument, just from different sides of the potato salad. That's another thing fairs bring out in people: the need to pick a side over something that didn't matter to begin with.

Joke's on Joe in a different way, though. That batch of corndogs. Folks are still finding pieces in the grass. The kids call it magic. I call it another reason to keep your lawnmower sharp and your wits sharper. Some things, once you put them out into the world, don't stay where you left them. My old rocker knows the same principle. The Wendells tried to move it to make room for some newfangled lounge chair, and it was back on the porch by morning. They had enough sense not to ask. That's the wisest thing the Wendells ever did.

People get giggly over new ideas and strange foods, and nobody stops to ask the only question worth asking: what are you actually feeding? The body or the eyes? Real life is the same old farm with new weeds every season. The dishes still need washing. The garden doesn't care what you ate at the fair. Feed your people, even if supper is a trembling mess. Let the novelty crowd have their butter-dipped ice cream. Feels fine for a minute, then it's a stomachache and a sticky shirt.

I've seen the lake pass out milkshakes one summer. Seen Walnut Street stretch like taffy when the years were lean. Iowa dipping ice cream in butter doesn't register as strange from where I'm sitting. But here's the thing: the real trick is knowing when to put the stick down. Not every odd thing that comes along deserves your full attention or your appetite. The folks who chase every new shiny thing are going to be too worn out to notice what actually matters when it walks up the front steps.

Nibble at the oddities if you want. That's fine. Life is short and corndogs are long. But don't make your whole existence a carnival. You are not a novelty act. Your plate deserves better than a performance.

The Holidays still keep that fruitcake from 1954 in the cupboard. I've watched it come and go from this town for longer than I'll say. Some things just need to be eaten, even if it takes half a century to work up the nerve. Don't let the shiny new thing crowd out the real thing that's been waiting.

Moral? If you eat like the world's a circus, don't be surprised when you feel like the sideshow.

Keep your fork honest and your porch salted. , Aunt Dot
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