Travel opens minds with many people. The chance to see different people living in different situations is always a plus, not because the traveler is lured into sympathy, or sympathy that reaches condescension, or feelings of superiority (“There but for the grace of God—“) but because it generates an opportunity to experience life outside of ourselves and an understanding that we are not better or worse off, we are just different.

So it is with this sign that my recent traveling companion, Jim Coleman, noticed when we were  in Indianapolis for the Brickyard 400:

Notary and fruit. Fried notary.   We quickly admitted that we had never had notary, fried, stewed, boiled, broiled, barbecued, or any other way. Beer-batter fried notary. Breaded notary. Notary with apple chutney. And fruit. Add pineapple and you have Hawaiian Notary, we suppose.

Maybe having notary with fruit was something the new fry cook brought with him or her. Until then, perhaps the place served plain notary and business had started to drop off so a new chef was hired to bring new tastes to the notary.

Since this sign was at a gas station/convenience store, we were left to wonder if notary could be sliced and sold in a deli sandwich (cold or microwaved) with lettuce and tomato included in the pre-wrapped package—packets of mayonnaise, catsup, and mustard sold in separate squeezy things.

We also don’t know if this is a place where the police get their fried notaries instead of doughnuts. Must be a reason it wants them to be blessed.

We didn’t have time to sample fried notary, unfortunately. We were on our way to a friend’s place for some fine Italian food. There is such a thing as an Italian notary but the place we went to didn’t have any. I guess we’ll just have to go back to Indianapolis another time.

We’ll let you know if notary tastes anything like chicken.

Although we didn’t get to taste notary, your traveling observer can tell you that he has tasted—-get this now:

Pasties. 

For those whose minds are infiltrated by the seamier side of entertainment, pasties are known as things with or without twirly tassels that add, uh, titillating movement to some stage performances in places usually favored by men.   If you get my drift.

But if you are in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and you see a sign for Pasties, chances are you’ll be walking into a family-friendly eating place, not some version of a bar.

In fact, Calumet, Michigan has a mid-August annual Pasty Fest. And not a shred of clothing is shed to show off the pasties there.

Up there, Pasties are baked pastries. You can make one in your home. You take a flatbreak pastry circle, put some uncooked meat or meat and vegetables on top of it and then fold the crust in half to create a pastry semicircle. Crimp the edges for form a seal and bake it.

Don’t try to wear it. Eat it. It’s good.

Although the word is spelled the same, it’s pronounced “Past-ee” when referring to the food. It’s “Paste-ee” when referring to the dancing accessory, likely because it is somehow pasted on.

Pasties, the food,  seem to have started in England as a way for miners to carry cooked sandwiches to work with them. They arrived in the UP (people up there are known as “Yoopers.” If you want to see one without driving all the way up there, stop by my house. I have one living with me.) with various European ethnic groups that showed up to work the cooper mines.   You’ll also find them as part of the culture of the Iron Range in northern Minnesota.

Wonder how a notary pasty would taste.

(photo credits:  Your humble observer, alamy, npr)