Today is Monday, April 29, 2019. My hair is matted and reeks of BBQ, there’s a half eaten bag of kettle corn on my kitchen table, candy wrappers litter my pockets, my koozie collection has doubled, there’s a dull pounding in my head, my gut is wrecked, and my voice resembles a hungover Demi Moore. Mondays can be rough any time of the year, but ask any resident of the quaint town of Dripping Springs, TX, and you’ll likely get a unanimous groan that this particular Monday is a whole other level of rough. You see, today is the “Day After Founders.” Over the last three days my otherwise respectable little town transformed into something wholly unrecognizable, an alter ego of sorts, and there are quite a few of us humbly paying the piper for this raucous weekend of revelry.
Founders Day Festival (aka Founders) takes place every April (this year marked the 32nd anniversary of the festivities), typically the 3rd or 4th weekend of the month, beginning on Friday with a parade and culminating on Sunday with cook-off awards. Mercer Street and its surrounding offshoots are blocked off for foot traffic only, and what takes place within those few blocks over the course of about forty-eight hours is something most of us locals have a hard time putting into words. At the core it’s a cook-off competition, a carnival, a craft fair, a celebration honoring the Founders of Dripping Springs. Yet add those all together and it’s so much more than the sum of its parts. It is downright magical, eagerly anticipated, and totally deserving of an official city-wide recovery holiday.
You can actually feel it approaching. It’s tangible, akin to what folks refer to when they say football season is in the air. About a month ago I sensed it. Something about the breeze, or the angle of the sun, or maybe it was a faint whiff of BBQ smoke, but whatever it was it sent a shiver of pure excitement through my body, and like a schoolkid right before the holidays I could hardly contain myself. Visions of twist-a-whirls began to dance in my head.
I’ve never lived in a spring break town, but I imagine the locals in those destinations tend to fall into two distinct camps much like we do here in Drip. Founders: you either love it, look forward to it all year, and embrace it fully, or you stock up on essentials, hole up for the weekend, and avoid it like the plague. Because believe you me, you do not want to be running errands on Founders weekend. From the crack of dawn on Friday until the sun sets Sunday evening traffic is atrocious, parking is a competitive sport, and more than half the businesses in town are closed. The ones that are open are most likely out of everything anyway. Including the ATMs. Founders requires planning, dedication, and the love of all things redneck.
Months ago I informed my boss I needed this particular weekend off. That’s no small request given the fact that I am a wedding florist and April is the thick of wedding season, and we are smack dab in the Wedding Capital of Texas. But the Founders were shining down on me and by some fluke we weren’t super booked and I was released from responsibility. Most of it at least. I still had to go in for a half day on Friday. On my way to work I passed the festival site. It was buzzing with activity. Cones, caution tape, and barricades were everywhere. RVs, trailers, and food trucks lined the streets. But the thing that really got my heart racing was the carnival rides. I can’t explain it. I’m not an adrenaline junkie. I don’t frequent amusement parks. But there’s something about the sight of that ferris wheel that gets me downright giddy. It took all the will power I had to keep my car on course.
Pro-Tip: Take the weekend off. Monday too. You’ll need it. And while you’re at it, leave work early on Friday.
However, before I reluctantly made my way to work I had two stops to make. First, the bank. Cash is king and definitely something to stock up on beforehand. And if possible, get ones (more on that later). Next stop, DS Pharmacy. Now, I highly recommend a few first aid supplies (band-aids, sunscreen, ibuprophen), but that was not my mission. The pharmacy is one of a handful of local businesses that sells carnival tickets for half price, prior to the festival, while supplies last. This year they’d had them for sale since April 8th, and I got super lucky that they still had some Friday morning. They are sold in sheets of 40 (most rides take four tickets) and they are normally $40 per sheet. If you (or your kids) are going to ride the rides, you’d be crazy not to take advantage of this pre-sale at twenty bucks a pop (cold hard cash only). My kids are kinda “over it” at the moment, but in their defense, they both had to work (the older one actually bar-tended at Founders all weekend), so the tickets were just for me and my man-friend. As tempting as it was to buy two sheets, I limited myself to one, knowing that I still had the option to get a wristband on Sunday. When I first started coming to Founders with my kids I trained them from the get go: NO rides until Sunday. Call me a cheapskate; I considered it brilliant. Sure there was some begging and accusations of cruelty to put up with, but there was never the fight to buy just one more sheet. Unlimited rides on Sunday, but woe to the kid who filled up on Wild Bill’s Root Beer one too many times. One year my youngest had a soda hangover to beat the band and he turned green after the first few swings of the Pharaoh’s Fury. Pacing yourself at Founders is vital.
Somehow I made it through the next few hours at work without exploding and even churned out a pretty dang awesome bridal bouquet. On my way home to grab essentials I texted the man-friend regarding supplies. In response I received a photo of the conveyor belt at HEB strewn with three six-packs of beer (two Real Ale and one Shiner), one twelve pack of beer (Live Oak), and sixteen bottles of Topo Chico. Stay hydrated, my friends. One of the craziest things about Founders is the simple fact that you can BYOB. Sure beer is sold at various establishments, but there is nothing stopping you, including the local police, from hauling your Yeti full of cold ones up and down the city streets. Again, pace yourself. Because not only can you crack open a beer in the parking lot of Wells Fargo, many of the booths in the cook-off section are slinging liquor drinks for tips. Which brings me back to the necessity for dollar bills. But wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. First things first. The parade.
Founders officially kicks off with the parade on Friday, usually around 6:30. Preparation for this event (much like the whole weekend) is essential. Parking can be brutal, and unless you’ve got a coveted reserved spot with a friend or nearby business, plan to arrive a few hours early to get settled. In years past the city has offered shuttles from the high school but for some reason that was not available for 2019. Bring everything you think you’ll need, but keep in mind you’ll either have to haul it around, or be ok with leaving it stashed somewhere. My Founders essentials include: hat (the angle of the sun really is quite intense and you’ll likely be staring right into it during the parade), sunscreen (applied liberally beforehand and left in car), sunglasses, cash, koozie (don’t worry if you forget this, they fly off the parade floats like confetti), cooler with beverages (to be stashed at a friend’s booth), shoes that don’t hurt mile after mile (trust me on this one), and band-aids (in case you’re too stubborn to wear the comfy shoes, or they just simply give out). Unless you really want to set up camp, don’t bother with chairs. There are plenty of places to park your tush throughout the day, but if you’re like me you’ll be on the go most of the time anyway.
A strange thing happens to me at parades. I cry. It makes no sense whatsoever, but something about the camaraderie, the costumes, the roar of the crowd, it taps into my soul and I get over-the-top emotional and end up choking back tears. My earliest memories involve parades. I remember riding my tricycle in the 4th of July parade in Brookhaven, MS. My grandmother and grandfather were King and Queen of the Diamondhead, MS Mardi Gras parades. New Orleans was just a hop, skip, and a jump from where I grew up and I have a vivid image in my mind of the provocatively risqué Bacchus float one year. The love of the parade is in my blood. Sometime in the early 2000s I was in the Founders Parade, along with my husband at the time and our two boys. We were garbed in bonnets, vests, and calico prints while riding a horse drawn cart representing the Pound House (you know, the actual founders we are supposed to be celebrating…). The pioneer look, aside from being suffocatingly hot, was quite demure and respectable, a far cry from my all time favorite participants, the Trophy Wives of Texas. Infamous for their stellar fashion sense and complete lack of decorum, each year the crowd waited with baited breath to see what they could possibly come up with to top the last parade. There was the camo year, the hells angels year, the wedding dress year, but my absolute fave was the roller derby year. They have been MIA for a while now, and for all I know they got banned, but in my opinion the parade hasn’t been the same without them. These women knew how to work the crowd and sure as hell broke up the monotonous procession of doctors, politicians, and chiropractors. Years ago I begged to join their ranks, but my marital status (divorced) disqualified me from membership in their exclusive club.
Word must have gotten around that the lackluster two hours of back to back paid advertising was losing fans and thankfully at least one local business ramped it up a few notches this year. In fact, it was the talk of the town for weeks leading up to Founders. Whim Hospitality held a real live wedding on their float. Officiated by the one and only Pam Owens, local residents Alee and Tom were married right there on Mercer Street in front of thousands of their not-so-closest friends. I’d heard rumors that the bouquet toss was going to occur after rounding the corner from the Barber Shop onto San Marcos Street, so I made sure to be nowhere near that particular location. But as dumb luck would have it she tossed the dadgum thing (rather, things, there were THREE of them) straight at me and I honest-to-god had to dodge them. One landed in the unmanned chair right in front of me. I quickly turned my attention elsewhere until I was sure it had been claimed. We’ve got some odd traditions and that’s one that takes the cake. If I ever tie the knot again, it won’t be because I can catch well. With disaster averted, and the festival officially kicked off, I proceeded to get my Founders on, sans bouquet. (Photos below by Al Gawlick.)
The culmination of the parade is simultaneous with the commencement of the carnival rides. Even though I had a sheet of tickets burning a hole in my pocket I chose to focus my attention on food and beverages. You simply can’t do it all in one day and choices have to be made. For the first few years I attended Founders I had no idea what went on in the cook-off section. I mean, obviously there was some cooking going on. It’s impossible to miss that. Even if you somehow don’t notice the three blocks of BBQ smokers packed like sardines on the east side of the grounds, you will undoubtedly smell them. And you yourself will smell of them for days to come.
Pro-Tip: Don’t bother washing your hair until Monday morning. It’s a waste of time and shampoo.
Founders is home to the Dripping Springs Cook Off Club, unsanctioned as far as competitions go, but these folks are no less serious about their meat. And margaritas. And salsa. Approximately 133 teams set up camp on Friday and proceed to smoke chicken, ribs, brisket, and pork butts. On Sunday the dutch ovens and blenders come out and the tide shifts to salsa and chili. Most are there to compete and throughout the weekend they submit their entries to be judged. Once the official sample has been turned in there’s typically plenty left over and most camps make more than enough to share. Now, this is a tradition that needs some explaining. To the average Joe these look like booths selling food. Well, they’re not allowed to sell food, but they can give it away for tips. Finally, we get to the dollar bills. Some camps go great lengths to entice you in; others are less inviting and seem almost put out at being expected to share. It falls on you as the consumer to judge whether or not what they’ve got to offer is worth the effort, as well as how much you want to tip. The going rate seems to be $1/item, but I’ve seen way more than that get stuffed into a tip jar as well as absolutely nothing. Use your best judgement, but don’t be an oblivious jerk and walk away with food or drink in hand without ponying up.
Long before I knew I could eat like a queen from all the samples, my favorite festival indulgence was from the official food vendor section. In fact I used to refer to Founders as “Chicken-on-a-Stick Weekend.” I do still love it, and had every intention to partake of this particular delicacy, but truth be told, the only thing I purchased from the folks lining College Street this time around was a $6 bag of kettle corn. Trust me, carb loading is important for surviving three days of random BBQ, mystery drinks, and spicy hot chili. Just don’t forget to floss.
Each year there is a new food highlight. One time the office across from the Barber Shop was giving away giant trays of crawfish. I’m pretty sure I ate upwards of five pounds of mudbugs. This year the Mayor’s camp had a fish fry, and dang if it wasn’t delectable. And ohhhh, the fried green beans were the bomb. But the winner by far was the most basic of all. The team at Lone Star stole the show with their homemade tortillas. Fresh off the griddle, dios mio, they were heavenly blankets of gluttonous gluten. Again, don’t underestimate the value of carbs.
Eventually it was time to call it a night, remember — pacing is key, and the man-friend and I made our way back home. Saturday morning rolled around and it was time for Day Two. Breakfast consisted of leftover BBQ at his parents house (there really seems to be no end to the amount of smoked meat he and I can consume), and then we were off. During the drive we had a thought. We wondered how the judges were selected here at the Founders Cook-Off. Seeing as how we’ve both been to all or most of the Texas Top 50 BBQ joints, we consider ourselves quite experienced in the consumption and assessment of this particular cuisine. We figured there had to be some sort of requirements or at least an application to prove our worth, and surely we’d have to wait until next year. Upon arrival we made a beeline to the official headquarters and inquired. Turns out all you need is a pen or pencil, the ability to write your name on a line, and the capacity to show up at the specified time. Initially we both were a bit insulted that no one cared about our credentials. Next we lost a little faith in the competition itself. But ultimately we were excited to find out they still had slots open! As we expected, the page for brisket judges was full. Nevertheless we added our names to the alternate list. Our next chance to flaunt our trained tastebuds would be Sunday morning for the salsa competition. There were plenty of lines available there. (This should have been a clue.) We signed up for Round One with instructions to show up at 10:15 the following morning. Knowing what Saturday night here at Founders is like, I immediately set an alarm. Then we noticed there was no one signed up for the Final Round of chili (another glaring clue). Thinking only what an honor it would be to select the winners ourselves (not yet considering the ill effects of god only knows how much salsa and chili we’d be consuming), we signed on the not-so-dotted line. Feeling official, we set off to enjoy the day.
At this point I was more or less chomping at the bit to ride the rides, but as multiple friends pointed out, they are way more fun at night. I agreed to delay and instead we spent the afternoon gorging on samples and perusing the craft booths. In my opinion most of them are more along the lines of crap booths, and I’m not much of a shopper these days anyway, but there are always a few things that catch my eye. Last year I bought a collection of greeting cards with beautiful hand-drawn botanical sketches by a local artist. This year my spoils included a free pair of sunglasses and a mass produced, maybe made in Guatemala, friendship bracelet. In fact, the three of us got one: me, my man-friend, and Linda, the unofficial Mayor of Dripping Springs, but also the Matron of Barbwire BBQ Cook-Off Team. May our Founders Friendship never die.
Finally the sun set and I was able to convince my cohorts to cross the festival grounds and head to the rides. First stop: Pharaoh’s Fury. At four tickets a spin, it’s the seemingly innocuous boat that swings back and forth. Until you get in the back row and you’re at the very pinnacle of the swing and your whole body levitates off the seat. In fact, it’s hardly worth it if you’re not in the back, and I nearly forgot I was a grown ass adult and found myself ready to push some little kids out of the way who cut in front of us. Fortunately for all of us they picked the next to the back row. Last year it was all I could do to talk Linda into riding the ferris wheel. This year it took a bit of arm twisting to get her on the Fury, but she did it and even mostly kept her eyes open!
Fresh off the Pharaoh I found myself lured by a new ride. Located over in the kiddie section, it was by no means meant for wee ones. Aptly named Black Out, this thing looked like a suspended drill bit that swung back and forth until ultimately it crested the apex and came all the way back around, over and over, all the while the drill bit (the part the people are attached to) is spinning round and round. I stood staring, like a deer in the headlights, unable to commit, but nor could I walk away. Minutes later I found myself in line, holding tight to the man-friend, occasionally backpedaling, and realizing I was easily double the age of anyone else even remotely contemplating such an outrageous thing. Linda stood firm and well clear of the line, offering to record the whole affair. But wait, it costs TWELVE tickets?!? No way. We wouldn’t have enough for the ferris wheel afterwards. But ohhhh, like a moth to the flame, I couldn’t resist… And next thing I knew it was our turn. Everything unloaded from my pockets or securely zipped away, shoes off, I hopped on (emphasis on hopped, the dang thing was four feet off the ground). The questionable carny guy came around, secured our harness, and then the swaying began. A panicked explicative was shrieked, but within seconds I could be heard squealing, “Oh, I like this!” About halfway through I turned (as much as I could) to my partner in crime and asked, “have we been all the way over yet?” His laugh assured me we had. Seventy-two seconds later (we asked) it came to an end and I hoarsely trumpeted to Linda (and anyone within earshot) that I’d just had the time of my life.
For many who attend Founders the highlight for them is the big dance on Saturday night. Two stages are set up on the grounds and throughout the festival there are performances by local bands. Then there’s the main stage headliner on Day Two, and believe-you-me people come out of the woodwork for this shindig. Some even go home and get cleaned up with fresh clothes and fancy boots. Now I’ve certainly been known to cut loose during this part of the festivities, and there was definitely one year (2017) that found me center stage bouncing up and down like a teenage groupie to a Journey cover band, aka Departure ATX, but for the most part this is not where you’ll find me at the end of Day Two. That said, I must confess, I’m not real sure what all we did Saturday night after riding Black Out (I suppose that’s apropos), nor what time we went home, but I know it involved more time over in the cook-off section and at The Barber Shop. But ultimately we had to throw in the towel. We had important jobs to do the next day and we needed our rest.
Day Three dawned and there was no time for nursing sore bones or any other ailments. People were counting on us. I inhaled a Lara bar on the ride in, we stopped for triple shot lattes, and made our way to the grounds, which were definitely showing some wear and tear at this point in the game. There was a palpable haze over everything and the whole scene resembled a deserted amusement park right after the apocalypse. With time to kill before reporting to duty we strolled over to the carnival hoping to purchase our Sunday wristbands. The not-real-happy-to-be-awake-carny testily barked at us that they did not open until 11:00. So we returned to the official cook-off headquarters and waited to be called upon. The time rolled around and we filed in, along with a whole pack of other fairly worse for wear suckers, ahem, others. We were seated at six tables, with six people each. There were 97 entries; each table had roughly fifteen salsas to taste and judge. We were provided with a pencil, the official scorecard, water, a paper towel, chips, Saltine crackers, and celery. Instructions went something like this: Taste salsas in the order they are given to you. Use the spoon provided to apply salsa to your medium of choice. Do not eat directly off of said spoon. Judge each salsa by the four criteria listed on the scorecard on a scale of one to ten, by its own merits (or lack therof), not in comparison to other salsas. Record the score. Reapply the lid and pass the salsa to your left. If you encounter a particularly piquant salsa you may warn your neighbor, but otherwise please no communication. Repeat the process. Everyone quickly developed their own method. Mine was this: Open lid. Sniff. Apply salsa to small chip. Eat most salsa off of chip as to not infect salsa with chip/salt flavor. Finish chip. Record score. Drink water. Eat quarter of Saltine. Repeat.
You’d think that there wouldn’t be a whole lot of variation in salsa, nor would anyone submit salsa that tasted like ever-so-slightly doctored tomato sauce out of a can. Au contraire. There were a few that really stood out as horrible (smell = tin can), most were more or less meh, but as you can see from my scorecard, only four made it over the halfway mark as something I’d gladly consume. With only minimal damage to my palate I turned in my numbers and accepted my free beer ticket, an appropriate thank you for being up entirely too early on Sunday morning to taste salsa.
Slightly disappointed we didn’t receive some sort of official badge, or at least an “I Judged” sticker, we strolled across the street to visit with our equally Day-Three-weary friends at Barbwire (Booths 39 & 40), grateful we had plenty of time to recuperate before our chili judging obligation at 1:45. Barely fifteen minutes later the official lady from the headquarters check-in came calling. They needed more judges for Round Two salsa. Delirium had clearly set in because we both enthusiastically volunteered. Thirty minutes and another fourteen salsas later and the reality of what I’d done to my gut (and what was still to come) began to dawn on me.
Truth be told I have no idea how we spent the next few hours, although I’m confident it involved indulging of one kind of another, but ultimately we wound up back at headquarters at the designated hour, albeit slightly less enthused than the last time. However, apparently not everyone is quite so eager to judge chili. We were short two judges. A bit of arm twisting and crowd begging later, we found a couple more willing victims and the show was on. Twenty-one samples, twenty one spoons, and all you can eat chips, Saltines, and celery. Y’all, I’m just grateful this was the final round. There weren’t any that I had to spit out, but there were plenty that I sure as shit didn’t want more of. Let’s just say I ate my share of palate cleansing celery. I can’t even fathom what the first round judges endured. Nevertheless, we survived, got our free beer tickets, and went about our merry but gastricly challenged way.
Around 2:30 all the remaining die-hards and cook-off teams convene at the main stage for the last official event of the festival, the awards ceremony. First off is the chicken clucking contest, and that’s just something you have to experience for yourself. Suffice it to say, people practice for it. Next begins the cook-off awards. We paid close attention to the teams that won in brisket, keen to see if any of them were our favorites from our many excursions through the camps. As it turned out we hadn’t even sampled the top five, or maybe even the top 10, but we did find out one of our picks made it to the “final table,” or top 20. But with Founders 2020 already in our sights, we took note of the winners, found out where their booths are, and vowed not to miss out next year. Unless of course we get on the docket as brisket judges. Then they will come to us.
Being that it was total blind judging there’s no sure way for us to know if we picked the winners in salsa or chili. That said, we were able to get a peek and a taste of the first place entries in both categories. The chili was definitely one of the more memorable ones, fairly sure it made my top three. The winning salsa didn’t do it for me, nor did I recognize it, but later when I tasted Barbwire’s fourth place salsa I knew without a doubt I’d given it high marks in both round one and two. It truly stood out among the rest, in a good way. Which is why we had been adamant beforehand about not even looking at, much less tasting, anyone’s entries on the off chance one might look familiar. We wanted to go in entirely unbiased. This is serious business. I will not be bought.
With the awards over and the official end to the festival at hand we had one thing left to take care of: the long awaited Sunday wristband. Well, as it turns out, my hopes were dashed. They were available, but not for the “big” rides, specifically Black Out and Speed. Those still cost either 12 tickets or $10 cash each. Now, I had zero intentions of riding Speed, but I had big plans to ride Black Out at least twice. And the ferris wheel a few more times for sure. And the Pharaoh. And the Twister… But no, the carneys knew they could milk us for the big guns. There were a few choice words uttered to my comrades and I almost stormed off, but then in an uncharacteristically un-cheapskate moment I threw caution and $40 to the wind and all three of us, Linda included, rode both Black Out AND Speed. In hindsight that may not have been the wisest choice considering the twenty-nine samples of salsa, twenty-one competing chilis, three free beers, a few cups of kettle corn, and countless random samples all churning away in my belly. In fact, I think I’ll go on record advising against such a volatile combination. But hell, it was Day Three, you already know it’s gonna hurt. That’s what Monday is for.
Clearly I’m a glutton for punishment. My innards are still reeling from three days of unchecked excess, and yet as I’ve been typing, that bag of kettle corn continues to shrink down to inedible kernels, basically adding shrapnel to the war zone that is currently my gut. This was at least my 10th Founders, respectable, but nothing compared to my girlfriend who realized this year was her 27th! That’s some serious dedication, and I’m pretty sure she deserves a plaque. Anyhow, point is, even with my comparatively minimal experience, I’ve learned a few things over the years (obviously there’s room to improve in the overindulgence department). There is so much going on at this crazy little festival, and if you don’t know your way around you could easily miss out on some of the hidden gems that never make it onto the official website. Stick with me and I’ll lead you astray, whoops, I mean, show you the way. But be warned, evidently my powers of persuasion are impressive and you might end up a chili judge. Or upside down on Black Out. Just don’t end up like this poor Almond Joy. There’s nothing worse than wasted parade chocolate. Until next year!
