The Ekka: Mexicantina

August 13th

Thursday. I turn up at the Show grounds early. After three days, my body is objecting less to both the hilly terrain and separation from The Silver Steed (and here I’d thought it was only my heart and soul that loved that glorious bike so dearly).
Plenty of time for a morning visit to the Poultry Pavilion.

Did I mention that I love the Ekka?

Things at The Mexicantina are slow; it’ll be just me and Terry for the next three days. Peter, his wife Leslie, and Abby are split between the two other stands.

Terry is a brassy broad in her mid-40’s. She’s loud, all fake-nails & frosted-lipstick, running a steady commentary on nearly every being that saunters by: about all the bogans (funny, as I somewhat considered her eligible for bogan-status); the scantily clad teens dressed like “thur givin’ it away;” how obese people repulse her -- “I don’t know what it is, but they make me feel physically ill… oh! There’s another one! No, I can’t look.”

None of this is said quietly.
I’m smiling and nodding to be polite, trying my very hardest not to pass judgement on her. And I’m doing surprisingly well.
Until around midday, when Terry – speaking to a customer – says, “Well, I’m not racist, but…”

At this moment, I’m making a bean burrito, my back to her, and I freeze. I remember a comedian’s bit – maybe Chapelle or Chris Rock – about how the words I’m-not-a-racist-but are without exception followed by a horrifically racist statement.

Terry does not disappoint.

From this point on, it is increasingly difficult not to judge Terry for all her outrageously judgemental comments. She decides I can’t take a proper break, despite the relatively easy pace of the day. (Later, Peter and Leslie separately ask whether I had a break. They each knowingly roll their eyes and say to make sure I do the next two days.)

I crack at 5:20, enveloped by a grumbly rain cloud of surliness. At 6pm on the dot, I take off my apron and say 'bye without offering the standard polite “is there anything you need me to do?” – secretly hoping that yes, yes there are helpful things I could do before leaving.

I trudge through the evening crowds to Divine Donuts.
“Hey Sunshine!”
“I need a hug.”
“Oooh. Do you also need wine?”
“Yes.”
In an instant, I’m seated on a crate, glass of locally-made wine in one hand, telling Tom and D’Jean about my day in the International Food area while they start to close up.

“I think I also need a chocolate donut without the donut.”
Tom smiles and comes over to my crate, carrying the pump they use to inject organic Belgian chocolate into the donuts.
“Open up.”

My chore in the clean-up is to lick the chocolate spoon and spatula. A dough ball is lobbed over and makes the most delightful thwack as it hits my leg.