I’ve already eaten all the good ones so now what am I supposed to do one do with all the leftover Christmas cookies?
Christmas trees too — done, pack ‘em up and ship ‘em out. It’s over. Next up, my birthday in which I get to keep all my cash … yay!
O Smoke’s Poutine!
Our curds and gravy man!
Honest fries in all thy boxes tan.
With drown’ed spuds we fork thee up,
The True North obviously!
From far and wide,
O Canada, we know you love poutine.
French fried poutine gravy and curdy!
O Canada, we know you love poutine.
O Canada, we know you love poutine.
—
The official cold-weather anthem. Night nips these days – ‘fo ‘sho. Single digits at night. And moist. That rain again. Well, I believe that poutine can assist with this. I don’t believe anyone has ever attempted to prove poutine was in any way good for you so one should never be burdened with any delusions when consuming it. This also pretty much guarantees it’s delicious.
I got mine with sliced beef at a nearby Smoke’s. One day I talked to a friend of Smoke Putinerie’s owner, Smoke Junior. The smiling sticker that continues to make the rounds around town are of Smoke Senior, in memoriam. Or so I’m led to believe.
They’re not glamorous locations, I feel I should mention. Often not staffed by glamorous people. But in the coming seasons, Smoke’s is a warm and tasty hearth on vast cold city nights.
As I’m sure I’ve already mentioned, the terminus of the CNE marks the official end of summer here in Toronto. Yes, the Grand Old Lady once again shutters her carnie abodes, winterizes her hot dog stands, and abandons the Exhibition grounds to make way for more indoor, agriculturally-based pursuits.
And a Grand Old Lady she is, probably because of all the foods that abound within the burgeoning fair. It’s the main reason I went this year! :)
Between the vagaries of my web development work and daily life — “minor” updates to glade.ca that turned so easily into a complete three-week site overhaul, that challenging Levi’s “Go Forth” campaign, endless TD Canada Trust banners, assorted Purolator stuff, birthdays, and a visit to Canada’s Wonderland (Behemoth is pretty kick-ass, I must say ), I’ve hardly had room to swing a cat through my schedule.
Just as well – Ollie probably wouldn’t have taken well to it.
I finally managed to convince one of the agencies I work with that the term “independent contractor” isn’t merely a figure of speech (that and the liberal use of the term “employee” – why do I keep running into this?!), so I was looking forward to doing some work from home and mixing in healthy doses of blogging. But fate, being the filthy whore she is, pulled another steamy week out of her ass.
That window fan I’ve had going non-stop for about three months now has simply been circulating oven-like heat throughout my living room, over the exposed chassis of my computer and two surprisingly warm monitors (programming with just one monitor is a sort of punishment), and right back at my puffy, bloated face. Oh yeah, and it’s allergy season again.
Anyhow, I finally ran out of excuses tonight and took it to the streets.
In roughly ten to twenty years from now, crossing over the Bloor viaduct, you’ll probably be able to wander into any establishment and order a classic Torontonian Greasy Danfurd — or something of that nature.
Oh, we already have the Greasy Danfurd now, in case you didn’t know, and it’s already something of a classic. It has hairy bare chests, gold medallions, girls names Roula / Toula / Voula / Koula / etc.-oula, and small, innocuous-looking elderly men that you just know are mob leaders of some sort.
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