What else is there after a ride on the Cyclone at Coney Island? There is a height requirement of 54 inches to ride the Cyclone; Ferdinand reached 54 and one half last week, so the three of us drove out to the far edge of Brooklyn. For the past two years he has tried to convince the lady at the whitewashed wooden booth that he was definitely big enough for the ride and wouldn’t fall out. The window where she takes the cash is strategically placed like a judge. For the past two years, it’s been a quick once over and a “You’re too short.” without losing an ash.
When we got about 10 feet from her perch on Saturday, Ferd stopped me and said, “Mom, this is a life event.” “You’re right,” I said, “for the two of us.” They have an excellent track record, but there is not a plank or a nail that looks safe on the Cyclone–not when you’re 20 feet from it or 5 feet from it. The lady made him stand against the mark 3 times before she let him through. He was checked again at the turn style, and once more before boarding. I checked to make sure that everyone from the last load was living and then got locked in to the seat next to Ferd. Ferdinand crossed a benchmark, and I let him do it. He was beside himself with happiness when he got off, even though at the bottom of each crashing fall he whispered to me, “Mom, I’m not sure I can do this anymore.” Then he wanted to have another go. Impossible for his teammates. We were trashed, wiped, leveled.
When we came home, I made him corn dogs. 1 cup corn meal, 1/4 cup flour, 1/4 teaspoon of salt, 1/2 teaspoon of baking powder and a little beaten egg, about a third of one maybe. Pack this around an organic hot dog, heat up an iron skillet, and give it a little pour of olive oil. Sear on all sides and serve on a stick–chopsticks from take-away are perfect. (Don’t forget buttered peas.)