September Fair Page 7

  It took me until nearly three o’clock in the afternoon before I’d been to all the corners of the fair. Now was as good a time as any to research the special State Fair edition of my “Battle Lake Bites” column. Ron’s wife had gratefully handed the food column off to me when I had started at the Recall last spring. I’d changed its name but otherwise kept the mission: find food representative of Battle Lake specifically, and Minnesota in general. What better place to do that than the State Fair? And the research would help to distract me from the thought of seeing Johnny’s band tonight, the only spot of true excitement I’d experienced since Ashley’s death.

  Kennie’s news when she’d arrived, that Johnny’s band was scheduled to play at the Leinie Lodge Bandshell tonight, had turned out to be true. The bandshell was a roomy stage by the Space Tower. I’d checked out a great rockabilly band there last night, eager to scope out Johnny’s locale. The setting drew big crowds, and I was sure this would be an exciting night for Johnny.

  I’d seen his band play once or twice around Battle Lake, before I knew who he was. The Thumbs’ music was an original mix of folk and rock with a bluesy edge. Johnny had started the group with three high school buddies. When they graduated and went their separate ways to college, they’d jam in the summer and play at parties, but they didn’t get any more organized than that until three of the members settled in and around Battle Lake to start their grown-up lives. Johnny had been the wild card, intending to return to Madison to begin his graduate program in horticulture this fall, but a convergence of events had kept him in Battle Lake. Since he was taking a year off, he was focusing his extra time on the band. Apparently, it was paying off.

  I mosied over to the bandshell for one last peek before heading to the food stalls. The stage was empty, but people were sitting around on the grounds, picnicking and generally taking a rest from the fair. A lot of families had blankets, but most couples were sitting on the ground. I was about to make my way to the blooming onion booth when a group of three young blondes wearing tank tops snagged my attention. They were up close to the stage so I had to crane my neck to check them out, but two of them looked like Christine and Brittany, the flower-placing team I had met outside the Dairy building the day of Ashley’s death. I didn’t recognize the third.

  I walked over, at first keeping to the perimeter so as not to draw attention to myself. When I was within fifty feet, I verified that they were the two runners-up. Brittany wore her hair in a jaunty ponytail, and Christine had hers fully feathered in a retro-Farrah flip. They both looked shiny and full of life, as did their companion. I would have loved to have been able to listen in to what they were talking about, but there was no way to slip in close enough without them noticing me. I settled for the direct route and clomped on over.

  “Hi, remember me?”

  Brittany shaded her face against the mid-afternoon sun and looked up. “Sure, you’re that girl from Battle Lake,” she warbled. “From the newspaper. Mira, right?”

  “Right. Mind if I join you?”

  “Not if you buy us a beer.”

  I scrutinized Christine to see if she was joking. Her blue eyes were dead serious. “How old are you guys?”

  “I’m twenty-two,” Christine said. “Brittany is twenty-one. Megan here is twenty-one, too.”

  I had an ethical dilemma for two whole seconds, which is how long it took me to realize murder always trumps underage beer buzz, and I’m pretty sure the latter is what I was dealing with or they would have bought beers on their own. Besides, as Midwest farm girls, these three could have drank me under the table if I was still in that habit. “Be right back. What kind do you want?”

  “Lite,” they all sang in unison.

  I returned with three frothy plastic cups. The beer smelled bitter and wonderful on this steamy day, and I was glad to hand off the temptation. “You a Milkfed Mary, too, Megan?”

  “Yup. I came in last.” She said this matter-of-factly, and I liked her for that.

  “I ran into Janice. She said you guys aren’t staying at the dorms right now. Where’re you at?”

  Christine wiped off her beer mustache. “The fair officials put us up at a Days Inn down the road. They assured us we’re moving back to the dorms Monday and getting back on track with our regular duties on Tuesday, though.”

  “What are those duties exactly?”

  Brittany shuddered. “The big one is sitting in that sick booth with a bunch of butter. Like, how gross is that going to be? Janice says the show has to go on, though.”

  “And they’re using the same refrigerated booth Ashley died in?” I couldn’t believe that the authorities would allow that before they’d closed the case.

  “Yeah.”

  Christine chimed in. “Lana Sorensen’s first. She was the first runner-up, but now she’s the queen. She gets her butter head carved after some bogus mourning ceremony where the crown is officially passed over to her on Tuesday.”

  Megan elbowed her. “I told you not to say it like that. Besides, you’re next. Right after Lana.”

  Lana, the Milkfed Mary from whom Ashley had stolen something, according to these guys. “I am amazed they won’t let you skip the butter-carving part of the pageant. It does seem a little gruesome.”

  “You don’t know gruesome,” Christine said, her tongue loosening up from the beer. “If you had to see the type of stuff we had to put up with—taping our boobs, putting hemorrhoid cream under our eyes so they don’t look puffy, starving ourselves to fit into those stupid gowns. These beauty pageants are a tough business, even if this one is better than most. Of course, the sponsors are down our throats all the time to make sure we keep up appearances.” She chugged her beer for effect. “It’s like we’re little kids being babysat. Today is the first time any of us have been on our own since Ashley died, and we had to sneak out to do it.”

  Megan added her two cents. “Ya, Janice keeps a tight watch. I’m a light sleeper, and sometimes I wake up and she’s just standing next to one of our beds.”

  The other two girls shivered. They’d heard this story before. “What’s she doing?” I asked.

  “I dunno. I sat up once to ask her, and she shushed me back to sleep. I think she’s checking in on us. She takes her job real seriously.”

  I already knew that. “Why do you put up with this pageant?”

  Brittany shrugged. “Different reasons. Some of us have been on the pageant circuit our whole lives and we’re just used to it. Some do it for the money. The Milkfed Mary winner gets a full scholarship to college and $10,000. That can come in pretty handy. I think Ashley did it for the fame.”

  “I guess she got that,” Christine said darkly.

  I looked up at the sun dropping closer to the horizon. “You guys have curfew?”

  “Not if they don’t know we’re gone. We’re supposed to be on lockdown.”

  “What’re the three of you doing tonight?”

  “You’re looking at it,” Christine said. “There’s a rockin’ band here in a few hours. We’re scoping out the cherry spots. You wouldn’t believe how hot the lead singer is. Did you see the posters? His name is Johnny something.”

  “Leeson.”

  “That’s right. ‘Mrs. Christine Leeson.’ How does that sound?”

  They giggled, and I fought a flame of jealousy. Johnny had always been the pied piper when it came to the ladies. They loved that effortless smile, his easygoing personality, that wavy hair, and those strong hands. He had never paid much attention, and I didn’t know what business of mine it was anyhow. I’d made a clear point of telling him we were just friends. Gawd, it’s bad enough when adults play games with each other, and here I was doing it with myself. “Have fun. Maybe I’ll see you all later.” They waved happily at me, all taut and blonde and smiling. I tromped away.

  I’d surveyed most of the food booths since I’d arrived but only eaten at the tame ones—Salem Lutheran Church for breakfast, Chinese food or tofu-on-a-stick for lunch, gyros or a bucket
of salty, fresh-cut French fries for supper. If I was going to find food representative of Battle Lake, however, it needed to be a little bit quirky, a tad unexpected, and flirting with inedible. I strolled past the deep-fried Twinkies and the pudgy pies, the latter appearing to be cherry pie filling deep fried in a white bread pocket. I stopped at the Low-Carb German Meat Rolls and waited my turn in line.

  “Excuse me, what’s a German meat roll?”

  “Sliced beef rolled around diced pickles, sautéed onions, and spicy mustard.”

  My mouth watered a tang, but it had been years since I’d eaten red meat. Swallowing something that was smart enough to find its way home creeped me out. “Thanks.” I moved on to the adjacent booth as twenty people took my spot.

  The next stall featured blood sausage. On a hunch, I walked around to the back of the booth, where I saw empty boxes that had once contained beef blood, heavy cream, and lard. My stomach twisted, but I decided that if I walked away from everything I wouldn’t eat, “Battle Lake Bites” would never have become the popular column it was. A woman walked out the rear door and tossed an empty pig intestines box on the pile.

  “Hi! Sorry to bother you. My name is Mira James.”

  She shook my hand. “Karen Hipple. What can I do for you?”

  “Can I ask how you make your blood sausage? I write a column for the Battle Lake Recall, and I’d like to feature your recipe in our State Fair issue. I’d give you credit.”

  She smiled. “Sorry. It’s a secret.”

  “Not even a hint?”

  She indicated the boxes. “Not beyond what you see here.”

  “Thanks anyways.” On my way back to the thoroughfare, I almost bumped into a fairgoer cradling a cardboard plate full of the sausage. It looked like coiled, bloody slugs. Gagging, I made my way to the Scotch eggs on a stick booth. “Excuse me, how do you make your eggs?”

  “They’re pork sausage over hard-boiled eggs, fried and put on a stick.”

  Of course they are. “What do you put in the pork sausage?”

  “Are you allergic?”

  “No, I’m writing a recipe column.”

  “Sorry. Trade secrets.”

  Ach. This was going to be harder than I thought. I dragged my feet to the Schraufnagel’s Famous Loaded Brats booth, not feeling hopeful. “Hi. Yeah. I’m writing a recipe column. I need your recipe. I’ll give you credit. You in?”

  The kid behind the counter looked confused. “They’re just brats.”

  “What kind?”

  “Pork. The cheapest.”

  Lips and buttholes. I pulled out my notepad and wrote that down. “And what do you do with the brats?”

  “You can come in back and I’ll show you, if you like. The owners won’t be back until the suppertime rush.”

  I raised my eyebrows. I’d been invited behind the wizard’s curtain. “Thanks!” I let myself in the back door and was rewarded with the acrid smell of sauerkraut and mustard blended with the primordially delicious aroma of cooking bacon. If that smell could be canned and put into a hair dryer, there’d be a lot more happy women and well-coiffed men in the morning.

  The booth, which was really a trailer outfitted to be a kitchen, was crammed tight. I squeezed between boxes and deep fryers to interview the kid, who didn’t look more than seventeen. I read his name tag. “This your summer job, Greg?”

  “Yeah. My parents own the business. They make me work every State Fair. I’m missing a canoe trip with my buddies this week. Last summer it was baseball camp.”

  Ooh. Bitter son. Perfect source for secret family recipes. I prodded him. “So, first you take a cheap pork brat.”

  “Yup. From Sam’s Club. Generic sausages.”

  “Then what do you do with it?”

  “It’s gotta be raw.” He grabbed a sample sausage from a plastic bin. It was limp, grey, and would get a XXX rating if it starred in its own movie. He slapped it on the white laminate countertop. “You slice it the long way, like so. Then, push the insides as far into the skin as you can.”

  The pallid meat made a gooshy sound as he shoved it around with his fingers. I smiled wanly at the line of people outside lining up for their very own tube steak. They poked their heads up toward the window like chickens trying to see into the corn bin, but the trailer was set four feet off the ground, and they couldn’t view much past the front counter.

  “OK, then load the channel you just made with sauerkraut. The more, the better. It kills the aftertaste on the sausage. Once it’s full, you pinch it closed and wrap the whole brat, stuffing and all, with raw bacon. You gotta use toothpicks to keep the bacon in place at the ends. If we have time, we grill the whole works on low heat. If we’re busy, we deep fry it.” He dropped it into a fryer basket, and the grease sizzled and spat angrily at him. The smell of frying bacon doubled.

  “How do you know when it’s done?”

  “It floats, like so.” The enhanced wiener rose to the top, the toothpicks and ends of the bacon black and crispy. He grabbed it expertly with a pair of tongs and inserted a stick into the bottom. Juices ran down the circle of wood, and he handed the whole package to the grateful woman at the front of the line. I watched her slide him a five as she bit into the volcanic bratwurst. She opened her mouth to let heat escape and then bit down again, the bacon crunching in her teeth.

  “Do you want me to use your name in the article?”

  “Please. It might piss off my parents enough to fire me.”

  “Deal. Thanks for your time, Greg.”

  He didn’t respond, already too busy frying up brats to sate the hungry crowd outside his window. These sausages were preloaded, so he just pulled them out of the fridge and dropped them in the hot grease.

  Outside, I noticed the smell of frying oil clung to me even after I put distance between me and the Schraufnagel booth. I decided to distract myself with a deep-fried Nut Goodie. “Any chance I can get back there and see how you make the magic?” I asked when I reached the front of the line.

  The woman laughed as she traded me heaven on a stick for a fiver. “No chance.”

  “Thanks anyways.” I walked and munched, making my way back to the Airstream. I hadn’t showered that morning, so my plan was to rinse off, and prep myself for The Thumbs’ State Fair debut tonight. Johnny and I were just friends, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to look good.

  In an unusual turn of good luck, Mrs. Berns and Kennie were nowhere in sight when I returned to the trailer, though their presence lingered in several unpleasant ways. I grabbed a pair of cutoff jean shorts, a white T-shirt, hairbrush, shampoo, toothbrush, and towel, and headed to the public showers. The water pressure was good, though the floor had that slime of the perpetual wet. I made it quick, got myself toweled and dressed, and headed back to the trailer smelling like cucumbers and sandalwood.

  I brushed my hair and braided it so it’d dry wavy. Slapping on a single coat of mascara and some lip gloss, I settled in to organize my notes and type the “Battle Lake Bites” column, which I thought turned out quite nicely:

  State Fair Food Edition: Fry, Baby, Fry

  For those of you who couldn’t attend the Minnesota State Fair this year, the Recall is bringing the fair to you. Today’s issue reveals the secret family recipe for Schraufnagel’s Famous Loaded Brats, a State Fair standard, shared with us by Greg Schraufnagel. The recipe is simple but delicious. One bite, and you’ll be hooked.

  Schraufnagel’s Famous Loaded Brats

  6 servings

  ¼ cup olive oil

  6-pack uncooked bratwurst (pick your favorite brand)

  6 slices bacon

  1 16 oz. can sauerkraut

  Toothpicks

  Slice open the bratwurst the long way. Push aside the innards. Stuff each wiener with sauerkraut and squeeze shut. Wrap the whole brat in bacon, starting at the top end and working your way down. Pierce the bacon with a toothpick at each end so it stays tight. Using olive oil, cook over medium heat on stovetop, covered. When both bacon
and wiener have lost their grayish hue, place them on a grill for 5 minutes or until crispy. The broiler setting on your oven will do the same. When cooked to your desired crispness, place in a bun and serve. Or, if you want to do it the State Fair way, insert a popsicle stick and enjoy!

  I considered sitting on the article. The Recall only came out once a week—Mondays—and so I technically had only one deadline, which was noon on Saturdays. I figured if I parsed the articles out all week long, though, Ron would think I was working extra hard. I decided I’d rather just get it out of the way and e-mailed him the recipe before settling in to read for two peaceful hours. That’s what I told myself anyhow, but in the back of my mind, I was hoping Johnny would track me down at the Airstream. To that end, I practiced various provocative poses as I read until I got bored with being a silly girl and just fell into the story.

  A half an hour before Johnny’s band was supposed to go on, I unbraided my hair, ran my fingers through it, and stepped into the still-warm night. The sun was settled on the horizon, throwing out tangerine and purple shadows. The air smelled like caramel apples and clean straw, and all around the campground, people laughed and talked about the fair. Because the campground was really just a designated parking lot, campfires weren’t an option, but some people had brought their own barbeque grills and were clinking beers in a toast and passing the ketchup. It felt very communal and summery, and I strode to the concert site with a spring in my step.

  Just going to hear good music, in the open air, on a balmy, late-summer evening, at the State Fair. What wasn’t to like? When I arrived at the bandshell, I looked around to make sure I didn’t see anyone I knew before buying a mineral water. Being incognito felt good after so many months in the fishbowl of Battle Lake. I stretched a little mentally, relaxing into the evening.

  I was paying for my water when I felt the tap on my shoulder.

  “I told Mrs. Berns that you’d come dressed like a refugee. Would a little makeup kill you?” Kennie’s face wasn’t helping her argument, as it appeared to be drowning in green eyeshadow, blue mascara, peach-colored blush, and coral lipstick.