Is That A Banana In Your Codpiece Or Are You Just Happy I’m Here?

When I invited friends to join my family at the Renaissance Faire, most of them noticeably cringed. At best, they viewed attendance as potentially medicinal — the educational equivalent of hammering a Kaopectate shot to rid yourself of the squirts.

But I’d spent my adult life imagining Renaissance Faire as a wondrous place, where elite bands of obsessives and misfits roam an ersatz enchanted forest. I pictured gallant knights, strolling minstrels, and fair maidens donning pointy princess caps. Not to mention all that Middle English bandied about: “Good morrow, Milady. How fare thee?”

So when I finally visited So Cal’s Renaissance Faire with my husband and kids, I was surprised to discover it wasn’t exactly Scarborough Fair for the romantically inclined; it was more like Burning Man for history dorks. Basically, if you put Game of Thrones fanboys, Steampunk fetishists, street performers, and mead enthusiasts into a blender, you’d whip yourself up a tall, cool glass of RenFaire.

Of course all of this makes for spectacular people-watching. There were serving wenches with cleavage trussed up so high and tight, you could balance your goblet on it. Knaves swaggered about in barely there man-tights, fitted to accentuate the family jewels. Who knew that history buffs were such a ribald, lusty bunch.

For good, clean family fun, we availed ourselves of a myriad of Renaissance sporting activities. While my weapons of choice are usually sarcasm and passive-aggressiveness, my sons preferred the cross bow, the sabre and the throwing star — which they hurled with such ferocious urgency, you’d think it was a live grenade.

While I can’t quite count myself as a Renhead just yet, I do give the whole affair a resounding “Huzzah!