Peddler's Pretzels & Pure-Breeds

You know you are in Peddler’s Village, Bucks County when the prolific population of Paris Hilton pocket-sized pure-breeds sport tennis bracelets for dog collars. These canines wear more “bling” than Snoop Dogg and his urban entourage. Further appalling (or hilarious) is the portable, eco-friendly, filtered water “critter” bottles with “Spot’s” initials in calligraphy toted by the pet’s parent. Meanwhile, my (non-pet) children slum it with Juicy Juice boxes. Not filtered. Not natural. Not monogrammed.

It was at the famed Scarecrow Festival this past Saturday that I found myself jealous of a certain bejeweled Bichon Frise. Apparently, covetousness and carb-cravings are concurrent conditions for me. If you cannot have a blinding, ten-carat rhinestone dog-tag, than you may as well have a Philly Soft Pretzel from a village vendor.

Truly, those divinely delicious glutinous delights are the common ground for Philadelphians of all class, race and faith. So, as my bling-less entourage savored the exorbitantly priced pretzel, I recounted a far simpler family pretzel time: Not long ago, before a world with omnipresent Purex dispensers, church-going suburbanites in mini-vans would actually purchase black market soft pretzels –with cash- from hygienically suspicious street vendors in the heart of South Philly. Gone are the days of “How did little Jenny contract oral herpes on the way to the shore?” discussions. Sigh. Sometimes, I sincerely miss the innocence of street vendor roulette.

I digress.

Foolishly, we chose THE most popular fall day to peruse the promenade of scarecrows. Every tiny pure-bred with their WASPy benefactor along with New Hope’s rainbow-sporting GLAD contingency descended upon Lahaska, PA providing a seasonably bucolic theater for an incongruous social merger. My kids loved it and seemed oblivious to the flamboyancy of “Bruce and Terry.” So relieved was I to avoid any politically incorrect toddler outbursts, such as this one from last week: While leaving the local shoe repair, Eowyn vehemently declared, “Why was that black man yelling at your Mommy? I do not like that black man at all!”

Now before the scowl of judgment knits upon your brow, know this: 1) Race is never discussed around my toddler. 2) The WHITE man was wearing a black shirt AND 3) The gentleman was literally deaf and was speaking as such. Try explaining this all to a precocious three year old. I have been doing it for over a week now.

I’ll conclude my commentary with this: Lovely fall day with the family. Disappointed that the definition of marriage has begun to unravel. Disappointed also that the definition of a scarecrow has as well. Used to just be the partnership of hay and denim overalls. At least the soft pretzel remains unchanged.