It was a simple plan. Simple. Wholesome. True. Invite the offspring over, go to the Tomball German Heritage Festival. Eat some sausage. Drink some beer. Maybe see if I couldn’t find a good price on lederhosen. Eat more sausage. Drink more beer.

Now it’s worth mentioning that, in my mind’s eye, the Tomball German Heritage Festival, which is held twice a year in Tomball, Texas, looks like this:

Which is totally ridiculous because I spent a great deal of my youth in Tomball, the city named for a man called “Tom Ball”. That’s right. The creativity capital of Harris County, Texas. When we first moved to the area, the population of Tomball was right around 1,200, most of which came from the same three German immigrant families.

A quick fact check indicates the only 100% accurate piece of information in that last paragraph was the bit about Tom Ball. All else is as I recall it with my mind-taint, rubbed all over it. It’s not really important; I’m setting a tone over here.

Life in Tomball in the 70’s and 80’s was dreary if you weren’t gifted athletically, Lutheran, or one of those three families. It was also exceedingly uptight. Think “Footloose” without Kevin Bacon or Dick from “Third Rock from the Sun”. There are times I really want to write something called “Tomball Stories” because there are so many, but some people need to shuffle off their mortal coil first.

The Tomball of today is spiritually unrecognizable from the one I lived in. I mean, it’s still Tomball, with its proud German heritage, conspicuous affluence, commitment to juvenile sportsball, and the wall of separation between those who won the socio-economic-genetic lottery and the people at the local Walmart. But at the same time, Tomball has grown rather chaotically. The have a sex shop now, (I’m very proud. Seriously.). They have a meadery with a tasting room. They sport some excellent restaurants in which I will never eat because of the hype. I’m not willing to pay for hype. Damned shame really, but that’s on me.

Oh, and Tomball is the home of Paradigm Brewing Company.

You may recall Paradigm if you watch my YouTube channel. I reviewed their “Coco Loco” a while back. It was quite lovely, as I recall. Not a fan of their “Southern Bock”, however. In Texas, Bock should probably be left up to Shiner and no one else. Rather like flavorless carbonated alcohol water should be left up to the experts at Miller and Bud Light. Those people know flavorless carbonated alcohol water and all these seltzer folk need to give up and go home.

Anyhoo.

As I opened with, it was a simple plan and if I had stuck with it, everything would have been OK. I would have had sausage. I would have had beer. And I would have left it there. But…

My wife indicated she would not be coming to the German festival with us as she is still dieting and didn’t want to be out in the sun, heat, crowd and food. OK. Not a problem. One of our local night markets was having an event that night (Spring Equinox Celebration) at my favorite Bayou City Brewery, Saint Arnold’s, so I figured I could take her there afterward. She declined the offer and instead opted to come to the German festival after all. Cool.

Now in the meantime, I had wondered if Paradigm was going to be doing anything for the festival since they are a local brewery and all, so I visited their web site. Nice site, by the way. I noticed they had a restaurant on at the brewery. Awesome. I immediately looked at the menu. Very nice. A little “let’s forgo creativity and draw in the hipsters” for my taste, but honestly the purpose of most restaurants is to sell alcohol and with brewery restaurants, that’s doubly so. In the end the delicious sounding trendy stuff was largely irrelevant, rendered so by something they call “M.O.A.B” or, the Mother of All Bratwurst. Originally it was a simple plan. And now, it was officially and irrevocably fucked.

Ya’ll don’t really know me. You’re just someone who managed to stumble across this nonsense. Even if you do have a relationship with me, I would still argue that you probably don’t really know me. Does anyone really know anyone? I could discuss it, but we’ll save that shit for a different day. The point is, if you knew me, you’d know how extremely single minded I become about whatever it is I want. To the exclusion of all else, even to my detriment.

My desire to hangout with my Offspring at the German Festival, over indulging in bratwurst and beer became all about bratwurst and beer, the former more than the latter. I no longer needed to go to the festival. I could just take my family to the brewery instead, keep my wife out of the sun and the crowds, let my son crash with us for a nice visit and still achieve my goals. It was all about the bratwurst, right? No. Of course it wasn’t.

There are a couple lessons here. My admittedly poorly defined “spiritual path” revolves around one thing: We were created to experience existence. I have no idea what the hell we are supposed to do with that knowledge as, by the time you’ve gained enough experience, you’re generally too old to benefit from it. You also can’t pass it on because a) experience is subjective and any lessons learned are from the position of the individual having those experiences and b) young people think you’re too old to be able to relate to them. B is probably a function of A on some kind of instinctive level now that I think about it.

My lessons, for me and me alone, from this experience are: 1) “Fuck you and your tunnel vision. There are other things to see.”, and 2) “Unless you are in complete control of every variable, delayed gratification is a sucker’s game.” or “Call ahead, even if you think it’s stupid.” I think my wife’s lesson was “Don’t go to a street festival when you’re on a diet.” No idea what my son walked away with. I never know. It could have been something really profound, like “able to get Jews and Muslims to sit down over a ham sandwich and discuss their differences” level of profound. It could have also been, “You know? I’ll bet green tastes like corduroy.” He may be right. I’ll never know because the power of bratwurst compels me.

Now, tossing in the Paradigm Brewing Company’s restaurant into my simple plan for Saturday shouldn’t have been a big deal. It was close enough to the festival and we could just hit it on the way there. I still had to go to the event even though it was no longer my purpose for the day. Honestly, if we had stopped on the way, my best laid plans probably would have worked out perfectly.

But we didn’t. Ya’ll saw that coming, right?

Once again, I must depart from my narrative and discuss the menu at Paradigm Brewing. There are many things, hipster and trendy, I genuinely wanted to try despite being hipster and trendy. I’ve got this moustache and an Instagram and all. The Thai Brussels sprouts, for example. The pork belly bites. Everything with the words “pulled pork” in the name. Except the Hipster tacos. I have to draw a line somewhere. All of their brews, naturally, specifically the Pineapple Blonde. But there was that damned bratwurst which, because of the audacity of the name, in the face of the German Festival, coupled with my desire to not go overboard calorically, meant I would be forsaking all else for the rest of the day, for what “promised” (I may have romanticized it.) to be tubemeat Nirvana. Ok. Back to the story.

We went to the Festival first, early enough to avoid the mid-day massing of people. We are three different people who have three different styles of getting through crowds. My wife is short and has an ability to dart through a crowd like she’s running away from a hostile pursuer, presumably me, I guess, as though through an asteroid field. At least that’s how it feels. I swear to God, she ran under one bow-legged fellow’s legs at least once. She goes where I can’t. My son, on the other hand, hangs back doing whatever the hell he does. Me, I’m in the middle, trying to maintain a visual on both of them so we can avoid that whole awkward waiting around for the other person to show up thing. Fuck off. It's our dynamic.

So the usual happens. There’s a parade. She goes one direction, he vanishes. I’m trying to keep up with both while not looking directly at anything I might want to eat, delaying gratification for the big finish at Paradigm. I don’t even have a beer, nor was I planning to until the brewery. Oh, this is going to so good! Like Tantric tubemeat, which is a pretty good name for a band, if you think about it.

She is successfully located. He’s not. The crowds are getting busier. The sun is out. Twenty or so long minutes pass, made longer by relativity. My wife is baking. She’s noticing donuts and not getting any happier. There’s a guy named Pham selling “Chicken on a Stick” and other Vietnamese delights at a German Festival. Were there no MamaBratwurst at the end of the line, I would have spent enough money on Pham’s products to send his kids to dental school. I’m starting to get annoyed.

My son is off fixing a stapler for some woman who dropped it. For 30 fucking minutes. He can be single minded, too. And I can’t get pissed because my son is a genuinely kind man and he’s in the middle of doing a good deed. The pressure is building.

PHAM! DONUTS! PIEROGIE! WIFE! BRATWURST! CURRYWURST! FRIED SHIT ON STICKS! STRUDEL! BEER! HEAT! CROWD! LEDERHOSEN!

FUUUUUCCCCCKKKKKK!!!!!

He finally concludes his stapler based adventure and we carry on. I get a blowmolded plastic boot full of dunkel. I needed it by that point. I wish I had gone with the plastic novelty stein instead. Live and learn.

With the office supply drama concluded and calming beverage acquired, we carried on, moving from shadow to shadow to keep MrsDamnCook out of the sun as much as possible. I mentioned she’s rather smallish. She’s also fair skinned as goes with the being redheaded territory. Because of her size, hats are not an option, other than children’s or novelty hats and that’s never going to happen. Despite being married to me, personal dignity is important to her. So we tend to keep to the shadows. It’s cool. It adds to the familial creepy mysteriousness we’ve cultivated over the years.

We’re close to the carnival midway and I’m mostly through my footwear shaped beverage containment device when I spy the Tilt-a-whirl, my all time favorite carnival ride that I’ll still get on as an obese middle aged man. Wife and son are resting in the shadows and I beg their indulgence while I go hit the tilt-a-whirl. I haven’t been on one in decades and never after a plastic shoe full of beer. The Offspring motions as though he were coming with me and warn him off. I mean, I would have loved to have had him with me, but he was working on the second plastic bootful of beer and I had no desire to be spewed on. I could either deal with a stapler or the blowing of chunks in one day. Not both. Not when there was sausage on the line.

Anyway, the Festival is over for us and I go fetch DangerVan and pick up my family. The time has come.

We arrive at Paradigm, which is a really nice place nestled on a piece of land with some nice pine trees they chose to leave intact. Being from here, and watching my past slowly get paved over in the last couple of decades, I really appreciate their choice. They also offer outdoor drinking and dining, so it adds to the atmosphere. I don’t eat outside, usually, that’s where they keep the heat and bugs and shit, but if I were so inclined, Paradigm’s backyard would be a nice choice.

We get seated and I post this video to Instagram as is tradition, explaining where we are and why I’m there. After I make the post, the waitress sheepishly informs me that because of the German Festival, ya’ll remember - Pham. Crowds. Fuck tons of uneaten bratwurst everywhere. Staplers. – the mother of all bratwurst was not available. Sometime inside me died a little. I’m “pissapointed”.

I order a beer, the Pineapple Blonde. It was quite good. Very light with a clean finish. Another good choice for the impending summer heat. I’m still pissed, though.

Everything on the menu is available, except the one thing I was there for. I made another post. My son ordered the Hipster Sprouts. Wife got a brisket burger and distributed her tater tots, which were very nice, to the Freelance Stapler Mechanic and me. I ordered the sausage appetizer, which was a bit salty, but good. I also ordered the pork belly bites which were quite delightful. The situation called for it. All of the edibles I put in my face were quite good. Wife didn’t like the burger, but I think she was still experiencing donut regret.

I get that. Ask me about my bratwurst.

I did sample some of the brews while we were there. As stated, the Pineapple Blonde was quite good and I’m really looking forward to the summer heat, outdoor grilling with the bugs and shit, and the Pineapple Blonde. I also had something they call “Revelation” which I posted about on Instagram. Amazing beverage. Very chocolaty. 11% ABV. Small pours due to the ABV. Very, very rich. Like really loose Black Forest cake batter which tied in nicely with the German theme of the day. I could easily see reaching for it during the Christmas season.

I tried the Heartland Hefeweizen, which was nice, but not overly noteworthy. I’m not saying it was bad or that I wouldn’t buy it, I like Hefeweizens in general, but I wasn’t wowed. Honestly, I don’t think you’re supposed to be. I also tried the La Birra, which I didn’t overly enjoy. I don’t know if it was good for the style or not, but it did not suit my palate. As always, your mileage may vary.

Overall, the experience at Paradigm was enjoyable. Nice place. Trendy menu. Really nice brews. Tolerant waitstaff. I could and would easily go back. But I wouldn’t order that fucking bratwurst, just out of spite.

We returned to our hermitage. I got peckish. Kroger was visited. Bratwurst and sauerkraut were made. Lessons were learned. And while it wasn’t the day I had planned, no one died, the was no police involvement, emergency personnel were not engaged, and we all still love each other. And really, that’s good enough.