It's that time of year again. Flowers are blooming, grass is greening, noses are wheezing. And the birdies and the bees--um--well, they're doing what the birdies and the bees have done since time immemorial.
Springtime is a time of renewal. Mother Earth awakens from her languid winter hibernation, sheds her frosty mantle, and starts the cycle of life anew. Joanne and I get into that birds and bees thing and enjoy a little renewal at our house too. Just last week I renewed our AARP membership, the license for the '86 Corolla, and Joanne's health-club membership.
Springtime is also a time for festivals and street events. Here in Arkansas we have festivals for just about every activity, pastime, or interest that our wonderfully diverse community celebrates with gusto. On any given weekend you can load up the family and, in a matter of minutes, be arguing about which wonderfully diverse community event or festival to see.
For us gastronomes, festival time brings us to our penultimate raison d'être. I'm not talking about all those silly cookoffs where the same well-financed, semi-professional "team" wins year after year. You know the ones I mean: chili cookoffs, crawfish cookoffs, barbecue cookoffs, rib cookoffs, chicken wing cookoffs, and soy byproduct cookoffs. No, I'm talking about our wonderfully diverse community's ethnic food festivals.
A while back, Joanne wanted to attend the Turkish food festival. It is just getting a toehold here, and its culinary chops are not yet well-established. She had heard about it from our neighbors and friends who wanted to hookah us up with it. They told her that we would be able to see totally authentic Turkish Zeybek dancers perform in the streets and hear totally authentic Turkish singers knock out some killer bogaz havasi.
But the thing that got Joanne so enthused to attend was all the totally authentic Turkish food. When we arrived, she bypassed the dancers and the music and went straight for the billowing blue smoke at the far end of the street. Rich, aromatic flavors permeated the air like in some Istanbul bazaar. She waited in a short line for a few minutes and bought an Urfa kebap. She had it only half-eaten when I found my way back to her and said it was time to leave. None of the wonderfully diverse ethnic food vendors were selling hot dogs.
So ... we went home.
The next week we attended the Indian food festival. Joanne has a friend who is a Sikh and he was telling her about it one morning over coffee at Denny's. So we jumped into the freshly re-licensed Corolla and drove to it. When we arrived, we bypassed all the hoopla and music and Joanne made a beeline for the billowing blue smoke at the far end of the street. She stood in a short line and in a few minutes bought a steaming bowl of masala dosa and some chapatis. She was halfway through her dosa when I trudged my way back to her and said it was time to leave. None of the wonderfully diverse ethnic food vendors were offering hot dogs.
So ... we went home.
We also attended the Greek food festival, a well established, wonderfully diverse ethnic tradition here in our town. Because of its raving success, it practically takes a travel agent to arrange transportation to and from the crushing throng that seems to grow by legions every year. We took a private bus arranged by the festival organizers which dropped us off a mere mile and a half away from the crushing throng. With trepidation we engaged the fracas, and crushed right along with the throng.
When we arrived, we bypassed all of the hoopla and dancers and Joanne made a beeline for the billowing blue smoke at the far end of the street. She stood in a long line that twisted back on itself like one of those sideways figure-eight infinity thingies you had to make in junior high science class. In about three hours she scored a sizable chunk of pastitsio dripping with béchamel sauce and an equally sizable chunk of baklava on the side. She was only halfway through the rich, cinnamony chunk of pastitsio when I squeezed my way back through the crushing throng and said it was time to leave. None of the wonderfully diverse, ethnic food vendors were selling hot dogs.
So ... we went home.
A while back we went to the very first annual geek food festival. It was held at the old state fairgrounds. The geek organizers anticipated a huge turnout, and rather than suffer the crushing-throng dilemma of their nemesis, the Greek food festival, booked all 27 acres of the grassy parking lot.
We parked my '86 Corolla at the far end of the 27-acre parking lot which was already overflowing with countless other Corollas. Several '86 models just like mine. Wonderfully diverse food vendors were everywhere offering such tasty treats as gummy bears on-a-stick, s'mores on-a-stick, peanut butter and jelly rollups, and Joanne's favorite--pixie straw shooters. She was just inhaling her eighth line of pixie straw shooters when I casually strolled back through the crowd.
When we arrived, I had made a beeline for the far end of the 27-acre parking lot to the billowing clouds of puffy white steam where they were boiling hot dogs.
We stayed all day.
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Bill Rausch is a freelance writer from Little Rock. Email him at [email protected].
Editorial on 05/25/2015