“Onion rings in the car cushions do not improve with time.” ~Erma Bombeck

You know you want them….onion rings that is. If you are anything like me.

Onion rings and I go way back. I remember being a small child, going for road trips to Calgary in my parents burgundy ford station wagon. Somewhere along the way we’d stop for fast food, which was a totally novelty (the nearest McDonald’s to my house when I was a kid was 100km away). Sometimes it would be A&W, and when we stopped there I always got the onion rings. I remember my mom telling me that onion rings had onions in them. No…no they didn’t. I like onion rings, but I hate onions. They can’t have onions in them.

My love affair with onion rings continued in my teens. I spent my summers working as a camp counselor at a wilderness camp in norther Saskatchewan. We were paid a pittance, and we only got one afternoon and one night off every 10 days–good times! (No really, it was *great* times… some of the best of my life). On our one precious evening off, we’d go down the highway to Caribou aka every gas station/restaurant/bait/general store you’ve ever been in. Being underage, we couldn’t drink. But we could order onion rings by the heaping plate full, and feel like we were living large with our precious freedom.

Two decades later and I can’t say no to their battered crispy goodness.

For National Onion Ring Day, I declined to make my own (I’ve never deep fat fried anything in my house, and I don’t want to start now). I also don’t think this is a food calling out for re-invention. Rather, I headed down to my local fish and chip shop (Fairfield Fish and Chips) where I procured an order of their rings wrapped in paper (nearly instantly translucent from the oil), then newsprint. Add a splash of vinegar, and indulge. I’m happy to report I didn’t eat the whole thing…

~Dea

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