O Canada

Good Country, Bad Tune

            I’m Canadian, lived here my whole life, but I can’t remember the words to our national anthem. The lyrics aren’t forgotten, per se, just temporarily misplaced. I can mangle my way through the anthem at a hockey game— memory cued by the collective consciousness, confidence aided by Molson Canadian beer— but if unaccompanied, I’m lost. I take a shortcut at the prelude— “O Canada/ Our home and native land/ True patriot love/ in all Our Son’s command”— a left at the gas station near the scarecrow that resembles Don Cherry, to arrive circuitously at the conclusion, “O Canada, we stand on guard for thee”. I’m missing the middle. I know there’s something about glowing hearts, our free land (ironic given you must be a billionaire to own in Vancouver or Toronto), and maybe a part about Celine Dion, but I can’t string the words together without taking creative license.  

Emotional Eating

Way to the Heart

        Growing up, my mom’s cooking was undoubtedly one of the best parts of life. Holidays were feasts and weeknights were sprinkled with elegant dishes like Croquette St Jacques, all the more impressive as a) my mom worked full-time, and b) I grew up in Thunder Bay, try finding Croquette St Jacques on a menu in the 1990s and early aughts.

            My mom also cooked very healthy meals, packed with fresh ingredients and vegetables, which as a finicky toddler I didn’t necessarily appreciate. At babysitters’, I’d eat canned Heinz Zoodles and other processed foods laced with toddler cocaine, a.k.a. sugar. “Why can’t you cook like Auntie Karen?” I once asked my mom, perplexed why her homemade pasta sauce didn’t give me that crazy high like Aunt Karen’s Chef Boyardee.

How to Ruin Dinner Parties

In Robos We Trust

My celebrities crushes are Jaime Oliver and Elon Musk. I live to eat and Jaime Oliver’s the cutest TV Chef*, hands down (*runner up is Chef Ben from Below deck). As for Musk, well, it seems I have a thing for bad boy tech entrepreneurs who want to save humankind; as also evidenced by my love for my partner, Kory (who, in addition to creating internet-connected indoor farming systems, also lets me cook for him, which requires a sense of adventure and lack of risk aversion in and of itself).


While Trashed

You can’t go home again, especially after you’ve suffered embarrassment on reality TV. A few years ago, I was a contestant in Season 1 of The Bachelor Canada. I didn’t last long, so I empathize with the women about to get dumped on TV.

After my first-and-only rose ceremony, I was hungover or, more probably, still drunk. The cocktail party wrapped filming as the sun came up and I hadn’t slept a wink. I was put in a white van filled with skinny women with puffy eyes and wine breath.


A Masochist's Guide to the Happiest Place on Earth

           Disneyworld, the happiest place on Earth? I think not. Forget the lines jammed-packed with Crocs, khaki shorts, and sugar-high children who can’t stand still. Never mind the crowds, and dodging strangers’ family photos like landmines on your way to a restroom. Let’s talk about the rides. The nightmare-inducing, deep-rooted-trauma-causing rides of my childhood.