The deep-fried Kool-Aid test

Muslims have Mecca, the Irish have the Blarney Stone, hippies have Phish, and when you’re from Minnesota, you have the State Fair.
Also known as “The Great Minnesota Get Together,” the two-week climactic grand finale to summer might as well be coined “The Great Minnesotan Pig-Out.” Why the mascot is a cute little gopher in a top hat instead of Porky Pig in leiderhosen is beyond me. Although, it could be due to fears of Porky ending up on a stick, slathered in barbeque sauce with a side of kraut.

But then again, what do you expect from a place where “get together” is synonymous with food (which includes beer, because there is “a sandwich in every glass.”). In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s a crime in Minnesota not to plant an icy cold beer (Grainbelt Premium, usually) and a bowl of salty snacks in your guest’s hand within two seconds of their arrival. It’s the universal Minnesota welcome gesture, and much more preferable to small talk or, god forbid, actual physical contact.

Anyway, seeing as how I was reared on the annual outing to the Fair, which often ended in a violent regurgitation of a corn dog in the house of mirrors after too many spins on the “Gravitron,” I figured it was my offspring’s birthright to experience it firsthand. Along with 1.7 million of their fellow fairgoers, a side show in and of itself. (And I have the iPhone photos to prove it, with top honors going to “If Garrison Keillor was in a Polka Band.” Oh, and Dante Culpepper, if that’s you, you better report back to training camp, immediately.)

But all ridiculing aside, there was a serious component to our recent Labor Day weekend quest: Deep-fried Kool-Aid. That’s right, apparently some gastronomical genius out there had the brilliant idea to add red Kool-Aid to doughnut batter. I’m thinking it was more of one of those culinary “happy accidents,” like Reese’s peanut butter cups, Toll-house cookies or pimiento loaf, but suffice to say, he’s taking it to the bank.

(To be fair, the Fair is not all about deep-fried food. It is also about food on a stick, as in: “Big Fat Bacon” on a stick; pork chop on a stick; chicken on a stick; and cheese on a stick. And there’s also plenty of nonstick options, including chocolate chip cookies, cheese curds and fries – all which come not on a stick but in a bucket. Oh, except two out of three of those are fried.)

Allow me to say, first and foremost, I have the utmost respect for the fried food culture. It’s a little-known fact that I was the Fresh French Fry Queen of the 1986 Minnesota State Fair. I don’t like to boast, but I think it had something to do with my ability to keep from slip sliding into a boiling vat of oil for the entire 12-day stint or stand for hours on end in sweltering heat atop a six-pack of industrial Heinz ketchup cans while trying to stoically upsell people on the “32-ounce special.” Suffice to say, a day shift at the fry booth has nothing on waterboarding.

Alas, the glory days – not to mention my $100 bonus – were short lived. And despite my reign as royalty in the food service sector, or perhaps in spite of it, I was never able to hold down a regular restaurant job again.

But, seeing as how my children are virtual strangers to the deep-fried phenomenon, I figured it only prudent to let them see where mini donuts and Pronto Pups really come from: a tiny window in a trailer covered in blinking lights. So it was, lured by red dye No. 5 puffballs and deep-fried cheesecake that we entered those hallowed grounds of golden brown delicacies.

What would it be first? Footlong corn dog? Tom Thumb donuts? Or maybe a trip to the all-you-can-drink milk bar followed by a visit to the “Princess Kay of the Milky Way” butter carving?

Much to my chagrin, we were quickly rail-roaded to the Midway, where mechanized torture, classic rock and carnival barkers vied for our limited attention spans. While I abstained from all but the most staid rides, I will say in the carnival workers’defense (apparently “carnie” is no longer p.c.), they have come a long way. For example, they all wear uniforms and are no longer allowed to exhale smoke directly into your face or curse when they take your tickets.

Needless to say, by the time the Early Bird special was over, I had hemorrhaged a good amount of my allotted fun tickets. There were barely enough for us to each get our own Kool-Aid balls, with maybe enough left over for cheese curds.

And that’s when we saw it, or should I say, she saw it (I averted my eyes in horror and an impending sense of doom.) It was an entire family with what appeared to be neon-colored colored cotton candy wigs on their heads. Upon closer inspection, we learned it was none other than the “Fair-Do” – the latest hair styling sensation to hit the midway. Part Bride of Frankenstein, part Cinderella, part shower loofah, my 5-year-old daughter was utterly and instantly fascinated. Alas, it was with a reluctant and empty gut, that we set off on a quest not for the latest and greatest confection of sugar and grease, but the latest and greatest confection of teased hair, air-brush paint, Aqua Net and glitter.

After an hour-and-a-half waitlist (apparently word had gotten out amongst every pretween in the greater metro area), she emerged, her shoulder-length light brown locks twisted tight into two blue Brillo pom poms, sort of like a Smurf Princess Leia. After the initial “oohing” and “aahing” over the miraculous transformation and basking in the glory of my daughter’s new look, we decided to call it a day (that and the extra charge for glitter had tapped out the fun tickets.) And while we made our way to the gates, she held those sparkly blue  bouffants high for all the other girls (and horrified mothers, who seemed to shoot me the same dirty look) to see.

I guess the fair can sometimes be that way. Like when you think you’re going for deep-fried Kool-Aid and you end up with deep-fried Smurf hair instead. Either way, you’ll spend months or a gallon of conditioner trying to get rid of the remnants, whether they’ve gone straight to your thighs or your scalp. But the sticky sweet memories remain.

– Missy Votel