Why the Fair Matters to Me

In praise of craft and skill and the affirmation of tradition.

We are just home from the Fair, our bellies full. We each ate, in this order: a hot dog with caramelized onions and gruyere cheese on a toasted brioche bun; a slice of Neapolitan wood-fired pepperoni pizza; a cup of Mad Martha’s ice cream (oreo for me, chocolate and mint chocolate chip for him).

If this disgusts you, consider this: We did not eat fried dough, fried Oreos, fried Snickers, Firemen’s burgers, cotton candy, candy apples, root beer floats, pickle lemonade, tempura, brigadeiros, fries, rice bowls, ribs, corn on the cob, corn dogs, Jamaican jerk chicken – or the pulled pork and pulled chicken sandwiches which we sampled yesterday at noontime. Enviable restraint, don’t you think?

Nor did we then get on the Ferris wheel or the Gravitron or even the Dizzy Dragon or the Tilt-a-Whirl. The Midway, to me, is a mesmerizing kaleidoscope of color and motion – I love the blur of neon, the raw preening of teenagers let loose on a summer night, the parade of stuffed animal prizes bobbing in the crowd above the heads of toddlers in strollers.

But I don’t go to the Fair to play games or go on rides.