Cotton Candy

Each year between Thanksgiving and Christmas our local Steam Railroading Institute operates "Polar Express" excursions as a fund raiser. They take passengers by train to the North Pole and Santa's Village (a surprisingly short 45 minute ride through the country from here). It's great for kid's and once at Santa's Village there is a large building filled with amusements and activities for kids as well as crafts and junk for adults to buy. It was there, this weekend, at Santa's Village, at the North Pole, that I discovered one of those bizarre twists in this modern regulated life.

Among the many concessions available was a cotton candy vendor. It was staffed by a young woman who appeared to be a junior or senior in highschool. Thinking this might be a good time to introduce Evan to cotton candy I wandered over and poked my head in the service window. The walls were lined with plastic bags stuffed with multicolored cotton candy, but she had the big round open metal tubs one uses to make the confection and they appeared to be on and ready for action. "Can you still make one of those pink numbers that comes on the paper tube?" I asked. She shook her head no. "The Health Inspector won't let us. He says it's unsanitary or something."

Unsanitary? Who cares, unsanitary! It's a friggin' Phyllis Diller wig of spun sugar. There's not one thing in the world to recommend ingesting cotton candy beyond its color, the experience of it melting on your tongue, and holding onto that paper tube as you pick, pull, and bite at the thing. Et tu, cotton candy? Would they cloak you in the false dignity of sanitation?

I walked away as much disgusted as disappointed. We re-boarded the train before departure time and ate the peanut butter sandwiches we'd packed. I didn't even stop to consider an Elephant Ear, French Fries, or Deep Fried Oreo-- all of which were available and all of which must have met the approval of the health inspector. Fat free spun sugar on a paper cone? Not on your life. Deep fried Oreo? Step right up.