March of the Chickens (and Kohlrabi, Cow, and Fruit Tarts)

You were introduced to these guys a few days ago (see above). Now allow me to divulge the details of our brief afternoon rendezvous.

As a lifelong parade enthusiast, I've marched countless miles dressed in girl scout uniforms, cowgirl costumes, astride a runaway pony in Western saddle, and a calm horse in English gear.  For four perfect summers I wore the ominous black and orange of our illustrious High School Marching Band, sporting glossy white go-go boots and the shortest of short drill team skirts as I twirled flags, rifles, and the occasional pompom, baton, or prop.

I did it all for love. Yet, throughout these past four decades of parading I've never marched in my beloved Minnesota State Fair.

Friday, that gaff was righted. Inside the belly of the beast (a.k.a. giant chicken puppet) I danced and marched and found myself in step with the drum corps that lead us up Cosgrove and down Cooper. I screeched at teenagers and pecked at children. As part of the Eat Healthy Local Foods entourage we represented Renewing the Countryside. Ironic, considering earlier in the day I'd fortified myself with some crab fritters and an iced coffee.

It was stifling inside that plastic bag suit, and my arms were tangled up into the heavy bird head where one hand continuously tweaked my beak and the other created an opening to peer through. Eventually unable to see through the strips of white plastic that stuck to my sweaty face, the final mile became a death march. My kohlrabi friend L was a fellow survivor. De-birded and de-rabied, we found Tejas beer garden and replenished our Fair Force with a Beergarita.