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How do you stop a Polish army on horseback? Turn off the carousel.

Since we’re moving in a few days, and things have been crazy hectic around the house, we’ve been remiss in properly entertaining our children. We need every spare moment to pack, clean, and/or paint something, so more often than not we plop Charles in front of the TV with a sippy cup of milk. It’s “television as babysitter,” something I detest. We try and find time to play and read, but it’s become very secondary. So on Monday, we determined that dangit, we’ll do something fun.

The Wilmington Polish Festival has been going on for over fifty years. It benefits St. Hedwig’s Parish, a local Catholic church of some note; I’d enjoy sharing some of its history with you, but unfortunately the parish website is silent on the subject. I can report the following: the church has been there for the entirety of my existence, and I’ve never been inside it. Since they’ve had the festival for 52 years, I assume the church is at least that old.

How can you tell a Polish neighborhood? By the toilet paper hung out to dry.

We had gone last year with Charles, and had a pretty good time; he rode a few rides, we ate some fair food. I would have liked to have gotten actual Polish grub, but the line into the food tent was like a Soviet bakery. This year we hoped would be better, by going on the first day of the festival, as soon as it opened (5 pm).

No such luck.

Sarah drove up from New Castle with the kids, and I headed down from the office. We met there around 5 by a ticket booth, which was closed. The line into the food tent already stretched a hundred feet, and it wasn’t clear if they had started serving anything yet; the lady at the information desk reported that things were a little crazy on the first day, the volunteers weren’t organized yet. They would start the rides as soon as things got in order.

Why couldn’t the Polack change a light bulb? All he had was a twenty-dollar bill.

My parents met up with us around 5:30, and the ticket booth still wasn’t open. We got in an “alternate” food line that according to the annoying tween girls in line “behind” us (by the time we got into the tent they had somehow butted in line in front of my wife, although to be fair, my wife is a wonderful person, but has no sense for how to stand in a line such that people realize you’re actually in the line and don’t get in front of you) was for “Polish seafood,” which was an unfamiliar cuisine to me. I have a well-known rule about beer: if there’s a beer on tap that I haven’t tried, I have to try it. The same rule applies to food: I gotta try everything once.

Once we got inside, we realized that each tent was serving the same thing. This was not well advertised, however, so one line was just 75 feet shorter. Fine by me. We also realized that “Polish” seafood is identical to American seafood: crabcakes, shrimp, and a breaded whitefish. We all got Kielbasa plates at astronomical prices and sat down to eat.

At the Greek festival, which we’ve been to for the last few years, lines aren’t a problem. There’s only one line, at the gyro tent, because that seems to be the only Greek food Americans like, although why they come to the Greek festival to stand in line for one when every deli in Wilmington produces a quality gyro I don’t understand. We always get stuffed grape leaves and souvlaki and my favorite, the lamb sandwich. (It’s like a cheesesteak, but with lamb, on pita. Succulent.) Most of these items are served at different stations, so you may have to make a couple stops, but you never stand in line for more than a few minutes. The Polish festival does food in the style of Communism: one central location, and a lot of waiting.

Did you hear about the Polish man that locked his keys in his car? He had to use a coat hanger to get his family out.

While we were finishing up miniscule pieces of Polish sausage, Charles ate two micrograms of chicken fingers and noticed the rides had been activated, so he was off. Sarah charged after him, and purchased a wristband that allowed him free access to whatever he wanted. My parents and I hung back with Josephine and the stroller so we could finish our beers, and my father, the kindest and gentlest man I know, shared with me a hilarious Polack joke that I will not recount here because it is in ridiculously bad taste.

We wandered off to find Charles and HW, holding Josephine in my arms because she was a little hungry, a lot tired, and a bit overstimulated by noise and lights. When we found them, Charles was having the time of his life, riding the carousel, a moonbounce, a train, some jeeps. There was a motorcycle ride, but it went up in the air and he panicked a little bit at that. Eventually, he discovered a large obstacle-course thing, featuring a ball pit and a small angled climbing wall, and went through that something like 4,000 times while the rest of us retrieved corn dogs.

I love a good corn dog. Let me tell you: these were not good corn dogs. They tasted like they’d been fried in vinegar. I suspect the milk in the batter had gone bad, and wondered if I’d spend the evening on the pot. I ate it, though. Don’t let anyone ever tell you that I waste food.

A bar customer asked the bartender if he wanted to hear a Polack joke. The bartender pointed to a large man at the end of the bar and said, “He’s Polish.” Then the bartender pointed to a burly policeman near the door and repeated, “He’s Polish.” The bartender finished, “Now think about whether you want to tell that joke, because I’m Polish, too.” The customer replied, “I guess I won’t tell that joke after all. I’d have to explain it three times.”

After a while, we were starting to flag, and Josephine was getting downright irritated at the lack of a breast in her mouth, so we skedaddled. Here’s the final report: go to the Polish Festival. It’s running through Friday, although rain may put a damper on the festivating. Be prepared to stand in line and pay too much for too little food, but then also be prepared to watch your kids tear around like maniacs on a bunch of rides at ridiculous prices. It’s a nice middle-ground between the Greek Festival, which doesn’t really offer much in the way of rides or games, and the Italian Festival, which now charges an entrance fee and therefore can suck it.