Ah, the Illinois State Fair – the highlight of my childhood summers. From about the third grade on, I sold produce from my grandparents’ organic farm from a makeshift stand at the end of our driveway. Every year I hoarded those earnings, my allowance and babysitting money, then blew it all on a gloriously uninhibited fair week.
Fair-going is nostalgic for me. There’s so much that triggers memories: horse shows at the Coliseum; the butter cow; the smells, sights and sounds of the animal barns; even structures such as the Exhibition Building, the Grandstand, and the 11th Street entrance gate.
Much has changed, too. The carnival lost a lot of its slightly sleazy romance when it moved out of Sleepy Hollow. Conservation World has been a nice addition. It seems as if there are far fewer booths marketing new products and far more with junky souvenirs.
The most dramatic change is fair food.
Sure, there are constants such as lemonade shake-ups, corn dogs, honey ice cream, saltwater taffy, cotton candy and wonderful Culler’s French fries. But before elephant ears, shrimp on a stick, deep-fried candy bars and other unwholesome treats arrived on the scene, most fair food – especially anything remotely resembling a main course or meal – was consumed at stands run by civic organizations, churches and even families. There were also commercial food operations that traveled the fair circuit, of course. Some had coils of sausage and heaps of peppers and onions on griddles in their front windows that sent out wonderful aromas. But the men who ran them always seemed vaguely sinister; and my folks regarded them, the food they served, and their obviously dubious levels of hygiene with deep suspicion. We stuck to the locals.
It was no hardship. A North End family ran a place across from the grandstand.
Serving such American-Italian classics as spaghetti and meatballs, homemade ravioli and garlic bread, it was the lone ethnic eatery on the fairgrounds. None of the others had anything even remotely spicy or exotic. No, what these places offered was something that’s almost disappeared today: pure, unadulterated, unprocessed, unprepackaged, made-fromscratch Midwestern comfort food.
The Chatham (now United) Methodist Church’s stand was one of the most popular. Like many others, it was a permanent open-air structure. For decades the same menu was served at a counter that ran around three sides of the stand: beef and noodles, barbecue sandwiches, slaw, baked beans and a huge assortment of pies, including such rarely seen varieties such as gooseberry and apricot, my favorite. Everything was freshly made in the church’s basement kitchen, including the pies, and then taken to the fair, the hot items transported in electric roasters that maintained safe temperatures during the trip. The noodles were handmade by the Methodist Men’s Group weeks before and spread out to dry in specially designed mesh frameworks. Virtually the entire congregation was involved. It was a tremendous endeavor and a profitable one that financed a new education wing and sanctuary. Even now, those involved have a touch of awe in their voices when they recall those times.
“We used a ton of cabbage every year – I mean literally 2,000 pounds,” says Marilyn Markus. “Can you imagine how much slaw that is? At peak times and when the political trains came down from Chicago, we’d have people waiting three and four deep behind each person sitting at the counter. Folks would stand for over an hour to sit down and eat.”
Fellow church member Phyllis Summers not only worked at the Chatham Methodist stand but also at the Home Bureau stand, which
