That said, there was MORE to be done that weekend. Jammin' on the James, a Lindy Hop dance workshop was all weekend, so I spent the rest of Saturday and all day Sunday experiencing the kind of pleasure and deep embarrassment that comes from being a 31-year-old beginner at anything, much less at dancing. That said, I had a heck of a time, listened to Dixie-land jazz that included a sousaphone, and ended up having dances with my hubby that made me feel that I might have learned a bit about Lindy Hop after all. Which is good.
But thrilling as all this may sound, it is not the reason I'm writing. Oh no. I'm writing, ever so briefly, about funnel cake.
|Photo courtesy of user Lorax & released under the GNU FDL from Wikipedia|
1st taste: Oh yum! Hot, sweet, buttery dough, chewy and perfect!
2nd bite: Oh god! The taste sensation continues!
3rd gulp: MUST EAT ENTIRE FUNNEL CAKE! NOMNOMNOMNOM!
4th mouthful: *pause to catch breath*
5th go: I feel funny.
6th bite: Is that my liver twitching?
7th bite: Oy. Shoulda stopped at bite number 6.
I gave the rest to Jefferson, who not only ate all of his, but finished the last 1/3 of mine. We then shook our booties (and the powdered sugar off our fronts) for a few minutes to the Afro-Cuban harmony madness of the Pedrito Martinez Group, and then waddled home. That was at 5:30pm, and it turned out that the funnel was to be our dinner. Mostly because we both felt if we ate anything else, our livers would go on strike. Blergh. Who knew that I'd need Tums after a little fried dough. (Okay, a LOT of fried dough.) And considering my suffering, you might ask if I had the chance, would I do it all over again?
Yes. Yes, I would. And you know what? At next year's State Fair: you betcha I will.
Now, time to go train for that half marathon. I wonder if they'll allow waddling as well as jogging?