Once again, the State Fair is over. Once again, I didn’t drive to St. Paul to eat food on a stick. Ever since I stopped eating hot dogs, the fair has lost its allure. So have local TV news shows which broadcast from the grounds. It seems all the television personalities care to talk about is what they’ve had to eat. Then they poll members of the audience to find out what they’ve pigged out on, too.
     Everyone gets giddy talking about the silly things you can get on a stick at our great Minnesota get-together. I’ll admit to a hankering for corn dogs in the good old days when a yearly visit to the fair was a must. I even tried a pork chop on a stick once. It was too pricey and spicy; no substitute for a Pronto Pup. Another year, my husband couldn’t wait to test skewered walleye which he graded an A+. It smelled like a potential stomach ache to me.
     So does Spam on a stick, made from the Minnesota product that usually comes in a blue and yellow can. Any time I passed the booth where it was sold, or another fairgoer walked by munching the ham and pork creation, my belly did a back flip.
     We never ate Spam when I was growing up. It was on the forbidden food list because it reminded my father of Army mess hall meals during his WWII stint. The very smell made Dad sick, he told us. I never knew anyone who ate Spam until I was first married and my mother-in-law guaranteed I would love her Spam and Velveeta sandwiches as much my new hubby did. She sent us home with a grocery bag full of the mouth-watering (her words) rations. Bright yellow cheese and Spam had been mashed together to make a thick spread, then slathered on a hot dog bun, each one then rolled into a piece of waxed paper and twisted at the ends like a Tootsie Roll.
     "Warm them in the oven at a low heat until the cheese begins to melt," she instructed me. Pre-microwave, it was no small chore to get the timing just right. The aroma turned my tummy. When my hubby said they tasted even better when accompanied by the sauerkraut his mother had included in the bag, my stomach lurched. Sauerkraut was another food that was never on the table in my childhood home, but I had experienced its fermented assault on my nostrils.
     The cabbage concoction had been served at the boarding school I attended. It announced its presence hours before lunchtime. The acrid odor made its way from the basement kitchen of the dormitory building, through the underground tunnel, and up to the third floor of the academic building where I held my nose and tried to concentrate on my English teacher’s words. I always skipped lunch on sauerkraut days.
     "You’re on your own," I announced to my husband when he reiterated that sauerkraut is a perfect side dish to a Spam sandwich. He opened the jar and I almost gagged. It was Miss Lutz’s sophomore English class all over again.
     I told him he could eat all the Spam and sauerkraut his heart desired. On paper plates. In the garage. When I wasn’t home. It seemed like a fair deal to me.