If it's fried, it must be at the Big E

Today we made the pilgrimage to The Big E, the multi-state state fair in Western Mass, to do two things:

1) Eat disgusting fried food
2) Check out the farm animals

Let's take them in reverse order.

Cows!



Sheep!



Woolly and naked sheep!



Mexican wrestler sheep!



Just-back-from-jazzercise sheep!



Real Sheep of Beverly Hills!



Okay, enough of that. Now to the food.

One of my goals was to find a place selling deep-fried butter, which debuted at the Texas State Fair in 2009, hit Iowa earlier this year and finally (finally!) showed up on the East Coast.

Butter? Meh! How about this?



It was a tough decision, but we opted for the butter and the Kool-Aid.



The latter, it turned out, would be easy to replicate at home: the secret ingredient is Kool-Aid powder in the batter, with a generous amount shaken like sugar over the dough while it's still hot. Inside, they're a stunning color not found in nature.



And they were pretty good; the slightly tart flavor of the drink powder gave a nice contrast to the sweet dough.

And then to the other. The secret is to freeze the pats of butter so that they don't immediately soak into the dough. There's a pool of hot, cinnamon-sugary butter inside each ball, which means you have to eat them very carefully.



I liked the butter better; The Boy had expected a more salty, savory taste, so preferred the hot pink variety. Neither of us felt the need to eat anything else for a while.

After a couple of hours of sheep/cow/piglet/chicken/goat-gazing, however, we were ready for more. In particular, I had my eye on something I'd seen advertised in previous years but never tried: the Craz-E Burger.

All I knew was that you could buy t-shirts that said something like, "I finished the Craz-E burger!" which led me to assume it was either so huge, or so rich, or so labor-intensive to devour that the few who did so were hailed as champions.

Now I realize that it's because the Craz-E burger is crap.

Thing is, when I think "bacon-cheeseburger inside a doughnut," I imagine a hot, fragrant Krispy Kreme, fresh out of the oven, glistening with melted sugar, enveloping a patty of sirloin, cooked medium. The cheese is melting onto the meat; the bacon is crisp. The flavors dance together, varying levels of sweetness and saltiness playing off each other, creating a perfectly balanced whole.

This is what we got.





The doughnut was cold, the meat was gray, the cheese probably didn't even possess the capacity to melt. And yes, maybe I shouldn't have expected more from something served up at a state fair, but still. It was sad.

Thank goodness happiness was close by.





Hot, salty, with a crisp batter and perfectly soft cheese.

Then, as we have on previous visits, we headed to the houses of the individual New England states for dessert: rich, eggy Finnish pancakes with blueberry sauce;



and fresh raspberries.



And then, just because: a piece of bacon covered in dark chocolate. That's how you do the sweet-salty thing.



All in all, a fun trip, though not one we need to make again for another couple of years. The attractions were pretty much the same as on our previous visit (we later realized we'd taken photos of the exact same food stalls in 2009 as we did in 2011), and state-fair-food trends move so gradually that we're not likely to miss out on the next deep-fried delicacy if we skip a season.

Though I can't say the same about the spring line of sheep fashion ...

Things we ate at the Big E

We went to the Big E in Springfield, partly so I could get my annual fix of sheep and goats, partly so we could check out the terrifying midway rides, and partly because it was a beautiful day.

But mostly, we went to eat.

First, the things we did not eat:













Look! Fresh (deep-fried) vegetables!









Because when I think martinis and sushi, I think state fair.



The "Craz-E Burger" appeared to be the culinary apogee of this year's Big E; there were regular PA announcements reminding people of its existence, and souvenir t-shirts (doubtless only available in sizes L, XL, XXL) proclaiming that the wearer had survived the experience of consuming one.

I admit that I was tempted; I could hear it calling me out ("C'mon, what's the matter? Afraid you can't do it?"). But sanity won out.

And now to the things we did eat.

Corn dog, with a satisfyingly sweet coating and a perfectly done dog:



Mac and cheese, made with Massachusetts's own Granville Cheddar (could have done with more sauce and less pasta, but the cheese was great):



Completely delicious deep-fried cheese curds, with a slight crunch to the batter and a gooey interior:



This made The Boy very happy.



Then we switched to the sweet stuff, beginning with 28 donuts.



Okay, they were only small. But they still filled a bag:



Next, the very necessary flan-like Finnish pancakes, served with blueberry sauce:



Followed by fresh Massachusetts raspberries (see, that's two items with fruit!):



A small helping of lovely creamy rice pudding, courtesy of Down Home Rice Pudding (they also do chocolate and tapioca):



And then — oh, and then — the best thing of all. The food item we'd neglected to try on our previous Big E visit, and subsequently thought about for the next two years.



The deep-fried Oreo.



How to describe? It was like an Oreo with the bass turned up. Soft, warm, sweet; like a hug topped with powdered sugar. Highly recommended.

So the Big E was a resounding success as far as our desire to eat copious amounts of fried loveliness was concerned. We drove home with the smell of cooking grease clinging to our clothes, feeling disgusted with ourselves, and vowing to eat salad the rest of the week.

And debating whether to buy some Oreos. And a deep-fat fryer.

Racing bacon

We'd decided that the Big E was just too far to drive this year, even for hearty quantities of fried fairground food. However, Topsfield Fair was a more convenient destination, so we both took a rare day off work and went up on Friday to avoid the weekend crowds.

The food options turned out to be disappointing: we had passable corn dogs and fries with reconstituted gravy, though we did find an apple crisp with real fruit and a good cinnamon-scented buttery oatmeal topping.

But let's get real: we weren't there for the food. And while the llamas and goats and fancy show chickens and angora rabbits and Shetland ponies and falcons and ducks and Shire horses and bees were cool, we weren't there for them either.

Nor was this trip based around a desire to see the prize-winning 1,400-pound pumpkin.

Nope. It was all about Robinson's Racing Pigs.

We were at the track 15 minutes early and picked out a good spot on the turn, so we'd have a view of both the straightaways and the central water tank. Next to us was a tiny white-haired old lady, quite giddy with excitement, who told us she came every year just to witness this event.

The crowds gathered. The moment approached. And then, sadly, my camera died. Luckily, many other people have recorded before me, so I gratefully bow to their superior battery power.

And then the theme song began.



That should give you a pretty good idea of what was coming, no?

The premise of the show was this: the barker (possibly Robinson himself, though more likely a protegee in the Dread Pirate Roberts vein) herded four pigs into the starting gate. Then he divided the audience into four groups, chose a representative from each, and assigned them a pig, which he named according to a topical pun (e.g. Lindsay LoHam and Britney SpareRibs). The groups then were to yell encouragement to their pig, with the victorious assignee winning a voucher for a free slushy.

(Worth noting: when the pigs were given political-candidate names, 90% of the crowd rooted for BaRack-of-Ribs Obama. This is Massachusetts, after all.)

The pigs, for their part, were motivated by Oreo cookies waiting at the finish line: first piggy home got to snarf all the cookie before the others arrived, like this:



And then there were the swimming races:



I felt a little guilty watching the piggies perform for the benefit of baying crowds, I must admit. But then I remembered that the previous night I'd had braised pork shoulder with collards at Highland Kitchen, so really I was in no position to pass judgement.

Signs you live in a wealthy nation

Despite the calorifically good time we had indulging in fried food at the Big E last year, we decided not to schlep out there this time.

Which is a shame in some ways, as I was just thinking about one of the Big E's big draws: the butter sculpture. What could be more perfectly American than taking an unnecessarily large amount of food, shaping it into a whimsical approximation of a cow, and then throwing it out?

And then my co-conspirator Mike sent me a link to the site of Jim Victor, a Pennsylvania sculptor who takes food sculpture to a whole new level.

A roast turkey made from chocolate!



A Channel 10 newsanchor in parmesan cheese!



A rather coy Fidel Castro in vegetables!



There's more; so much more. If you want to see Columbus's ships in pizza dough, Ronald Reagan in butter or Mickey Rooney in chocolate (yes, a disturbing thought, I know), I suggest you go visit Jim's food sculpture page.

Meanwhile, I'll be in the kitchen with a picture of Larry King and a bag of walnuts.

All fried up

Today, on a whim, we drove out to The Big E, an expo that brings the farmers, crafters, vendors and carnies of the six New England states together in one place for the educational, homemade-soap-need-fulfilling, artery-clogging benefit of the general public.

We saw purebred Guernsey cows, insane-looking sheep, alpacas and llamas (not, apparently, the same thing). We saw baby chicks hatching, bees dancing in their hive and a whole passel of Clydesdales.

We watched old ladies spinning wool, little girls showjumping on ponies and a guy carving a wooden bear sculpture with a chainsaw.

And then we wandered around the midway, which was almost hallucinatory in its sensory-overload layers of color and sound, and watched people being flung through the air, rotated at high speeds, jerked in unnatural directions and generally terrified for their enjoyment.

And in between all of this, we ate.

Our first rule of fairground food: it should be something you can't get at home. So no french fries, no hotdogs, no pizza, no chicken nuggets.

Okay, we kinda sorta broke the rule with the first one, but we arrived hungry, and the little tiny donuts had just come out of the fryer.



But we got back on track once we saw the barbecued-pork-chop-sandwich place.



It wasn't the greatest sandwich ever--the chop was tasty but a little dry, and the whole thing only really worked because of the sauerkraut--but it was enough to hold us until we tracked down the ultimate country-fair food.

Finnish pancake with blueberry sauce. Rich and creamy, a denser version of flan. Exquisite.



I guess this is something I could, in theory, make at home--I picked up the recipe on our previous visit--but I stop short at the part that says Ingredients: 8 large eggs, 1 qt whole milk, 1/4 lb butter ...

Luckily, just around the corner from the pancakes (which were served under a sign that read "If it's not eggs, it's not breakfast"), we found fresh local raspberries in both red and golden varieties. A healthy-snack oasis in a fried-dough desert.



And so we were satisfied. For a while. Until we encountered a stall selling all manner of Puerto Rican snacks: arepas, chicharrón, alcapurria. Naturally, we were obliged to pick up at least one relleno de papa, a tennis-ball-sized sphere of deep-fried mashed potato stuffed with ground beef. And we both decided it was one of the best we'd had: a generously meaty filling, fluffy potato, and a slight crunch to the surrounding batter. (It is testament to its yumminess that it was gone before I thought to take a picture.)

Just as we finished inhaling that treat, The Boy spotted the cheese curd stall.

How could we not?



The batter was incredibly light, with a delicate crunch; the curds had a pleasant tanginess and were chewy but not rubbery. They'd make mozzarella sticks stare at their feet and mumble an apology.

By now it was getting late, so it seemed like a good time to find dessert. But what to try? The deep-fried Oreos or the apple fritters?

Winner: fritters. Check out the snowcap of powdered cinnamon sugar.



I know, I know; doesn't this seem like a disgusting amount of food? But in our defense, we didn't eat the entirety of every dish (some were just too humongously proportioned to manage). Plus there were all kinds of things we didn't eat. Like Freudian foot-long corn dogs.



And smoked turkey drumsticks.



And ... um ... this ...