Minnesotan Decadence

There is a slight chill in the air. A hot and humid streak in the waning moments we Minnesotan's call summer has passed. The breeze has with it a cooling affect reminding us that fall is just around the corner. And with it, the Minnesota State Fair.

I let my mind wander. Images of tailgating and endless conversations about what teams will go all the way and which teams are in a rebuilding year. Sitting around the grill, watching slabs of meat sizzle away releasing aromas almost pornographic to the palette. Bonfires. Allowing oneself to be wrapped in the warm embrace of glowing embers. Too much to drink, sliding to that gray area between sobriety and Did-I-Say-That-Out-Loud?

I have no idea whose memories these are, or how they got in my head, but I hold onto them as long as I can. Letting them replace the all-to-often bouts of manic weeping and drowning of my emotions in beer and gravy.

As I sit on my patio, the wind blowing gently through the few remaining hairs on my head, I watch my beloved dog roll around in what I can only hope is a pile of her poop and ponder: what food symbolizes this moment? This time of year in Minnesota?

Perhaps it isn't so much a specific food as much as a genre. The blissful red-headed-stepchild of the food pyramid: Fried Sh*t.

First I pose you a question: what is decadence? Let me take a step back for those of you not familiar with the word. In an age of civilization that is rapidly starting to think the word "please" is spelled p-l-z or the words "you are" is u-r, I will used to semi-useful and often misleading Wikipedia to set u on yer path.

Decadence can refer to a personal trait, or to the state of a society (or segment of it). Used to describe a person's lifestyle. Concise Oxford Dictionary: "a luxurious self-indulgence".

You've gotta love an online encyclopedia that uses, as a reference, a dictionary. Perhaps the idea of using a dictionary has been so lost that only thanks to hyperlinks that one is ever even used.

Decadence. A state of a society. I like that, let's start there.

I have willingly put myself within the outskirts of the subculture known and largely despised the world over as food critics. A group of self-important undereducated know-it-alls that were scorned by a surly chef at some point in their upbringing and decided to take it out on hard working men and women that willfully got into a career of serving other people.

And it seems, that the moment one appoints themselves to be a critic of others, they defy gravity and all that Newton taught us, leaving the pull of gravity and hover high above the heads of more simple people. The people that go to Olive Garden for their fancy night out. The people that eat fast food out of necessity as much as desire.

What is decadence in a food culture that appreciates foremost the rare and the financially indulgent? The White Truffle. Foie Gras. Louis XIII.

You have to get the idea of money out of your head. Money doesn't matter.

Don't get me wrong. Money matters for most things. I still dream about the day that I could find out that it doesn't buy happiness, but as that day is unlikely to happen, I must focus on the achievable. In the world of food, it doesn't have to be expensive to be decadent.

It's very definition suggests that decadence is purely subjective. Southern Minnesota farm country and downtown Minneapolis will not share a view on what is the penultimate of indulgence. And I say "Thank f***ing God!"

You want to know what decadence is? Really? It is eating something that you feel a little guilty about. For some it is spending $80 on a steak. The idea that you sank your teeth into a cow's ass and soon enough it will come out yours.

For others it is that Lindor Truffle you had to eat at Christmas, as it taunted you from the candy bowl. What the hell? They were on sale at Target. Forget the calories and indulge.

Decadence is pleasure wrapped in guilt. It is everything that makes the State Fair worth going to. And with the taste of fried-everything still lingering in my mouth from the last time I stepped on the hallowed grounds over a year ago, I feel I need to talk about the glory of the Fried Oreo Cookie.

At some point, people realized that you didn't just need to subject hunks of protein to batter. You could do the same thing to snack food. Fried fat covering sugar covering congealed fat. Glory glory Hallelujah. Each layer presenting a new adventure in all that my fellow a**holes turn up their noses at.

Batter giving away tenderly to the oil soaked cookie. The nostalgia of keeping a cookie dunked a little too long in a tall glass of ice cold milk dances around the tongue as texture and sentiment marry in an union that will most likely be deemed unholy by the Catholic Church.

And just when you think it is over, your brain reminds you euphorically that there is still the frosting in the middle. Soft, almost gooey from the fryer is coats the inside of your mouth like some disgusting metaphor that I will save for when I have a larger and more crude fan base.

Walkers-by turn up their noses, scoffing at the indulgence as they prize themselves for taking the healthy option of eating a butter drenched ear of corn on their way to the All-You-Can-Drink Milk stand for a whole milk enema.

Pay them no mind. If possible, time it out so you exhale at just the right time to release a cloud of the powdered sugar coating your confection immediately into their path. A more socially acceptable version of blowing cigarettes smoke into the face of an adversary. Watch them cough and gag in an overly dramatic rendition of revulsion. Wallow in your own corpulence.

As I am yet to even address someone that might fancy themselves as a detractor, let's look at the idea that maybe a fried cookie is just too much fat. Too much sugar. Too much grease. Too much fun.

And if you didn't buy it, don't complain. Don't look down on it as an evolutionary step backwards in the Minnesota food culture. In fact, look at it for what it is: a hybrid in a class all it's own. It is a treat. An indulgence. Don't eat them for breakfast, but don't feel the need for self-flagellation either. Forget it, look it up.

This is fried Americana. The tradition of the Oreo cookie Minnesota-ized to feed the frenzy of Fair goers that expect new levels of insanity each year. Enjoy it, savor it. Then get another.

This isn't caviar. This isn't pate. This is a Fried Oreo Cookie. And it is Minnesota decadence personified. Look on us Oh World and weep for you do not know the pleasure we live.

Next Blog: Black Knights and White Castles