for the longest time ive had a love affair with americas hat.
the white space between the US and santa claus
the smooshy place above the 49th parallel.
to be honest i didnt truly know what was attracting me to the magnetic north.
but now i do.
its the poutine.
the deliciously melty cheese curds
the rich brown gravy
and the sentimental french fries of the queen’s loins.
may sound gross to you sweetheart, but you dont know the poutine ive been forking into my gaping maw.
its come from trucks and drive thrus and over counters and into my heart.
ask my cardiologist.
the free one at the corner medical hut which dot the rues here in canadia.
anywhere you go here in the 51st state, there are pretty girls, hockey teams, igloos, and people basically holding out bowls of poutine for you.
not only does this magical food taste great but it stays warm for hours on end.
some say it’s permahot because its the Devil’s food, but you cannot demonize this delightful side dish.
and why would you want to?
in the olden days, im told bearded men driving brightly coloured stagecoaches would slowly wander through the streets tooting curved rams horns and kids would poke their heads out of windows.
PUTINE! (as it was spelled back then) PUTINE HERE! the gentlemen would yell.
children would beg their mums for a loonie and if they were lucky to get one they’d toss the coin in the air and slap it with a hockey stick toward the calliope
the man would snare the coin in the air with his stovepipe hat and prepare a bowl. a little monkey would emerge and hustle it up to the fortunate child’s window
and all would be well in that little speck of canada
city of love
nation of warmth
land of earmuffed maidens skating in cute circles on frozen rivers waiting for america to take notice.
well, baby, we have.