Posted on September 17, 2014 under Storytelling with no comments yet

A large waffle lineup at the Farmer’s Market

 

 

How does a young family lay down roots in a small community?

One waffle at a time.

Sometimes you just have to go with your gut instinct. And if it happens to be lunch hour, you simply go with your gut.

I had often seen the unmistakable yellow “waffle wagon” behind the parking lot at the Post office and at the Farmer’s Market. But only this summer, I’m sorry to admit, did I wander over to sample the goods produced by Alexandre and Nicole at Authentic Belgian Waffles.

Food trucks are popular in many of the large cities in our country, but you don’t see them too often in small town Canada. And more often than not, the fare can tend to be a tad on the greasy side.  Not that I object to some fries or onion rings from time to time.

My granddaughter and I were visiting the library, and at the suggestion of my wife we strolled through the back parking lot as midday approached and took our place in a short lineup. Good thing we got there early, because the lineup swelled as the lunch hour crowd arrived shortly thereafter.  We placed our order and they took our name.  The other people waiting for their food were regulars.  You can just tell.  They come for the food and a chance to get caught up on the news with friends.

My name was called and we headed over to the gazebo. It was one of those amazingly glorious summer mornings.  We sat on the steps with the Brierly Brook gurgling behind us.  The first bite I took was pure bliss and I was immediately hooked.

The food service industry is brutally tough. Especially a seasonal food business.  I don’t see many people in downtown Halifax lining up to get fish and chips in the dead of winter.

It would appear that Nicole and Alex have all the right ingredients for success. The food is very good. Most if not all of their raw material is locally sourced.  They believe in home-grown businesses just like theirs.  They also have the service part well honed.  On my second visit, they remembered my name.

This story is not just about another food option for the residents of Antigonish. It is about entrepreneurship and the need for citizens of our community to support the many young couples and individuals trying to make a go of it in tough economic times.  They work hard, but more importantly, they don’t expect to “have it all” right away.  They love Antigonish and want to stay here.  They want their young families to be immersed in the rich culture that saturates the area.

This young couple is about to make the next big leap. They will keep their wagon, but when the cool winds of fall and winter start to blow, they will be moving indoors to a new permanent location.

I also happen to know that Nicole is a belly dancer. She gives lessons and offered to show me a few steps.  This is not a pretty visual.  If I were to be seen in public busting some belly dance moves, I am quite certain that I would be quickly whisked away.  (No doubt – Editor)

This dynamic duo is determined to put down roots in Antigonish.

No waffling here.  Let’s welcome and encourage Alexandre and Nicole and others like them.

 

 

 

 

Posted on September 15, 2014 under Monday Morning Musings with no comments yet

Frank sporting his 60’s look

 

 

When you get older, the “wow” experiences are few and far between, unless you count getting out of bed a wow experience. I do ! I attended a book launch on the weekend in Inverness for my good friend, Frank MacDonald. It was one of those days that I would have cheerfully stayed at home. You know how it goes. You commit to going to an event and when the day arrives, the forces of nature collide and the last thing you want to do is jump in a car and travel for an hour and a half.

Frank’s book, “Tinker and Bell” is the saga of two Cape Bretoners who head to San Francisco in the 60’s at the height of “hippiedom.” Not sure if this is a word but, what the hell, you know what I mean. When I received the notice of the launch, it was advertised as a “beach party.”

We gathered up our granddaughter ,Alison and hit the road. I was tired before the wheels even got moving. I figured this to be an endurance test and was already contemplating the moment my head would hit the pillow later in the evening. We arrived at the parking lot at the beach in Inverness. It was full. The road into the beach , bisecting the Cabot Links golf course, was lined with vehicles. It was sunny, a perfect temperature and a slight breeze.

As we headed to the beach, I noticed a lot of people dressed, well, like hippies. As we got closer to the beach, we came to a second parking lot and this was roped off, no doubt for dignitaries. Dignitaries of sorts. The lot was full of vintage, period cars and trucks. A long lineup had already formed ,to purchase Frank’s book and have it autographed. We headed down to the beach with Alison and could hear music.

On the beach, four musicians, four of Cape Breton’s finest rockers, we’re belting out Steppenwolf’s “Magic Carpet Ride.” The vibe was absolutely amazing. I watched the most amazing display of guitar playing I had seen in years…maybe ever. Brian Doyle was amazing and for one tune, “Spooky”, none other than Scott MacMillan, stepped out of the crowd and did some licks.

I thought I died and went to heaven. The afternoon should have been called “The Magical Mystery Tour.” As I stood and watched the spectacle, I thought of all the transplanted Maritimers living out West who ache to be back home to be a part of these special gatherings. You simply could not reproduce this anywhere else on the planet.

… And there was free coffee, tea and oatcakes. It was easily the best two hours of the summer. I put a video on my Facebook page of the band. Check it out.

I had many other things to share today but I had to tell you about the beach party.

Coming up here on Wednesday, and in this week’s Casket,  is a profile of the Waffle Wagon. I can make connections with just about anything. Nicole and Alexandre are two people who aren’t going out West. They are trying to make a go of it in Antigonish where they want to raise their family. The story is not about their delicious waffles but about their willingness to carve out a living here. Like most of us who call Antigonish our home, they want their kids to be immersed in the local culture. Stay tuned for “No Waffling.”

Have a great week.

 

Brian Doyle and the boys

Posted on September 12, 2014 under Storytelling with no comments yet

Missing car keys? Rubbish, I say

 

It’s not that easy being green Having to spend each day the color of the leaves When I think it could be nicer being red, or yellow, or gold Or something much more colorful like that

It’s Not Easy Being Green – Kermit the Frog

People have been recycling for centuries. I grew up in a big family and only the oldest boy or girl got something new to wear.  With eight children in the house, the rest of us got hand me downs … saving the environment one T-shirt at a time.  Except that it was born of economic necessity and back then most things were used over and over until they wore out.  There are many other examples over the centuries of how people have re-used or repurposed household items.

But over the past 25 years or so, recycling has become the centrepiece of waste management programs in virtually every town and city in the developed world. We have been trained to put our food scraps in the composter and to sort all of the other waste.  In our house, like most, we have separate bins for paper products, another for plastics and a third for money backs.  And one for containers that the food bank can use.  Not to mention the indoor and outdoor compost receptacles.  And yes, we even have an old fashioned garbage can for that handful of items that don’t neatly fit into any other category

I should be a pro at this but I recently found out that, despite my best efforts, I had allocated an item in the wrong place. To err is human, to forgive, divine.

Back in the days when I was on Town Council, I was the chair of the recycling committee. I was a greenhorn, for sure.  Several of us toured the province visiting communities who had been doing this for quite some time.  No point in reinventing the wheel.  Of course, our children were getting educated at school about the evils of solid waste dumpsites and were quick to point out transgressions.

If there is one basic law of recycling, it is that the rules are the rules except when they’re not. Just when you have finally figured out where everything should go, when you are a veritable Ph. D in “reduce, reuse and recycle,” you discover an exception that everybody knows about except you.

My wife was away a few weeks ago and I decided to treat myself to some take out, which came in a Styrofoam container. It had the #4 recycling logo on the back.  I dutifully rinsed it in warm water at the conclusion of my meal and fired it in with the plastics.  Styrofoam is not something that enters our house often.

The missus arrived home from a weekend of babysitting, exhausted. In a matter of minutes she had somehow misplaced her car keys.  It took me all of five minutes to discover them, where else, but in the composter.  They had been tossed in there, along with an apple core and a banana peel, as she unloaded the car.  We had a good chuckle and went to bed.

Like one of the Seven Dwarfs, I set out for work on Monday morning, whistling as I went.

When I arrived home for lunch, it was obvious that the garbage police had been to the house. The Styrofoam container had magically transplanted itself from the plastic bin to the kitchen table.  Yogic flying was my first guess.  Emblazoned on the cover of the container was the following: “Styrofoam. Not Recyclable! No! No! No!” A copy of the Eastern Solid Waste Management program rules lay beside it with the words “Styrofoam is always garbage” highlighted in yellow.  There was a P.S. on the side of the packaging: “Do not write a story about this.”

The following text message was sent from yours truly to the recycling policewoman. “Ahem, I got your subtle recycling reminder – you’ll find your keys in the composter.”

I received her reply: “Even Steven!”

It’s really not that easy being green.