Six Hundred Corn Dogs on Opening Day

The First Basket

The first corn dogs went into the oil at eleven-forty. I dipped each one in the batter, twirled it so it coated even, and laid it in slow so the oil would not jump.

There is a sound good batter makes when it hits hot oil. It is not a crackle exactly. It is more like rain starting on a tin roof. Steam came up off the pot and the smell came up right behind it.

The first boy in line was maybe ten. He had a halter rope still looped over his shoulder. He handed Lacey a five-dollar bill and she handed him a corn dog in a paper boat, and he took one bite and closed his eyes.

“That’s the good one,” he said. “That’s the same as last year.”

I wanted to cry right then, and it was not even noon.

Finding a Rhythm

The pot holds six corn dogs at a time if you are careful. Each batch takes about three and a half minutes. If you keep it moving, you can do about a hundred an hour off one pot.

I am not a fast talker but I am a fast fryer. By twelve-fifteen I had found a rhythm. Dip, twirl, lay in, turn, lift, shake, set on the rack. Dip, twirl, lay in. Over and over.

Lacey took the money and handed out the corn dogs. She called out “Next, please,” and “Ketchup’s on the end,” and “Thank you so much,” in that bright clear voice she uses at church when she reads the announcements.

The heat was something. It was ninety-one degrees that afternoon, and I was standing over a pot of oil at three hundred and fifty. My red ponytail stuck to the back of my neck. My yellow tee was soaked through under my black apron before one o’clock.

Lacey kept a jug of water by my foot and made me drink every time she handed out ten. She counted. I know she counted, because once I forgot and she said, “Mama, that was eleven,” and stood there until I drank.

The Ferris wheel turned slow behind the line. I could hear the calliope music off the carousel and the far-off thump of the loudspeaker calling the next class to the show ring.

Across the Midway

Kayla’s taco stand was lit up across the way. Her cords ran straight across the midway from my power pole, taped down with orange tape where people walked. Her menu board was bright and her awning was crisp and green.

Nobody was in her line. Not one person.

I do not say that to be ugly. I felt bad for her, honestly. She was standing in her window looking across at my line, which by then ran past the ring toss and around the corner of the funnel cake stand.

Once, I caught her eye. She looked away first. I did not know what Trent had told her about how she got that spot. I still wonder.

Trent walked past twice that afternoon. Both times he looked straight ahead. Both times he slowed down a little near my table, like he wanted to say something, and then sped back up.

The second time, Lacey said, “Hi, Trent,” in her plain polite way, the way she says hi to anybody.

He said “Hey, Lace,” without stopping. His ears went red. I saw it.