Lileks: Lamb fries are a cruel simulacrum

The list of new State Fair foods came out this week, and there are two reasons I don't want to talk about them. Well, three.

Gripes #1 and #2: Lamb Testicles.

This is not a euphemism for some other food. That is what they are. Poor lambs. You wonder why someone looked at those things and thought "now there's a snack waiting to happen," but I suppose you could say the same thing about eggs. If you're wondering if they call them something else, like "Orbs d'baa," or "Deep Fried Sheep Portions," the answer is yes: Lamb Fries.

Ohhhh, no you don't. This contravenes our common assumptions about fries. Fries come from potatoes, not dangly bits that may resemble them. Even "steak fries" are potatoes. This is why people who sell Veggie Fries are compelled to add "veggie," as a warning: NOT ACTUAL FRIES, BUT A CRUEL SIMULACRUM. If we extend the term "fries" to include disconnected lamb bits, we lose our trust in the word. "Would you like fries with that?" can never be the same, because you have to ask, "You don't mean testicles, do you? Because there's been some recent confusion on that issue."

Every year we get something exotic like this; one year it was alligator, then ostrich. Some day, lamprey. Armadillo. This will end with horse, which was what people suspected was in the hamburgers 110 years ago. It will sound delicious, too: "We use only the finest dead horses, hand-trimmed, dry-aged, rubbed with a special blend of herbs and spices to cover up the horrible, horrible horse taste, then placed on a seeded non-gluten roll of imported cardboard and served with cedar chips." Secretariat on a skewer! Nobbin on a dowel! No.

Here's a suggestion. If you're going to sell lamb testicles at the State Fair, don't tell anyone. Call them mystery eggs, wool fruit, anything. After the Fair's over, that's when you take out an ad and say "Oh, by the way, that stuff you loved? It was this."

There are other new food items, of course -- camel burgers sound interesting. Hump meat or rump meat? We'll find out. Bacon ice cream sounds delicious as well, and the best part is that the melted stuff at the bottom of the bowl doubles as gel for the defibrillator pads. The Minnesota Wine Bistro will offer Wine Smoothies, which will be a welcome break from all those chunky, chewy wines we have to put up with.

It's a world of bounty and delightful innovation. And there will still be people who walk past all the new offerings to sit in the air-conditioned church diner with some coffee and pie like they did in 1967, and that's just fine, thank you. There's room for all.

Gripe #3: It is too early to talk about the State Fair. Which I am doing here, I know, but they started it. Look, guys. It's June. Don't be the Target Seasonal Section, which has the massive child-mortifying back-to-school stuff up after the 4th. We know you're coming. You're the Fair, after all. The great glorious machine that springs to life in August, the woodchipper into which summer is fed. It's not like people hear about lambikins-in-ramekins and think "I wish this precious interval of green and blue would speed up already so I can get in some ambulatory eatin'." You don't have to whet our appetite. We'll be there. Honest.

I suppose it's normal to expect them to think we can't wait, but we can. We mark summer in our own ways, with our accumulated traditions -- the dance of June, the boastful 4th, the taste of high July (the filet mignon of summer) and the long yawning sprawl of August. Kids go to camp. (You hope.) Kids return. (You hope.) Families trundle off to take pictures in front of something big for the Christmas card. Every day is the same play with the same plot, and you rarely notice that the show ends a little sooner than it did the day before. If you do, you push it aside. Winter is a world away.

By the way, this heat this week! The torpor! The soupy air through which nothing can move except nimble skeeters. The constant drone of air conditioners like a far-away fleet of bombers. The merciless fist of the noonday sun. Summer, in all its full-strength glory!

As the lamb said after they took the first one off: Lord, when will this be over?

jlileks@startribune.com • 612-673-7858