Where can you find corn on the cob, zeppoli, and my son throwing up in a bouncy house? You guessed it! The
Its days like these that I feel damn sorry for country folk, people who don’t get to smell five kinds of roasting meat, incense and intense B.O, all in the same inhale. But I, after all, was raised on some of the best street fairs around. When I was a kid, my grandmother would take us to the fairs near her house in Bensonhurst, where it looks like winter in May from the confectioner’s sugar billowing from the funnel cake stand. Oh, grease, how I adore thee! Kiddie rides! Ponies! Ring toss stands where you could win a barely-alive goldfish!
Yes, I love me a good street fair, and I thought yesterday was a whopping success, as we got through with no whining, begging or harassment. I don’t mind a little vomit as long as no one’s whining about it. Of course, the other parents minded quite a bit. No sooner did Primo make the telltale gagging sound then I heard mothers yelling, “BILLY! MILES! TATIANA! Get out of there RIGHT NOW!” Thankfully, it wasn’t the great deluge these things can be, but just a sputter, the result of a convulsive cough which my son has developed, thanks to this infernal allergy season. It also occurred right at the exit to the bouncy house so I was able to hastily clean up the offensive area before the CDC tracked up down.
Getting Seconda out of the bouncy house was another story. They make these things so that grown-ups can’t get it and you just have to stand there, peeking your head over the inflatable wall shouting, “GET OUT! DO YOU HEAR ME! YOUR BROTHER JUST THREW UP!” while your child jumps up like a bionic person, her head thrown back in laughter and total defiance.
The unfortunate upchucking episode did not stop me from getting the kids corn on the cob immediately afterwards. There are no rules in a street fair, man. But if there was, eating salty, buttery corn on the cob, right there on the pavement, would be one.
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