By mid-March, I’m done with winter. In particular, I’m done with the lack of colour in my surroundings. The crisp whiteness of once freshly fallen snow that seemed so beautiful when it covered up the sins of the fall has deteriorated to those dirty-looking greyish mounds that seem to mock our hopes for spring, and there’s not a hint of anything green popping up through the ground.
In our apartment, filled as it is with light, our poinsettia has managed to flourish well past the festive season. The bougainvillea, while not covered in blooms as it was last fall, still provides a few hot pink flowers, and the hibiscus manages to work up the energy to produce beautiful yellowy orange blossoms every few days.
But this is not enough for my greedy eyes, so I’ve been bringing home armloads of cut tulips – greenhouse grown in Canada, in these new days of patriotic shopping – to jumpstart colour in my living space.
. . . and patriotism
Neither my partner nor I consider ourselves patriots. We don’t stand for the national anthem. We don’t go to Canada Day celebrations or wear red and white on July 1st. We’ve never owned or waved a Canadian flag. Generally, we’ve found nationalism, in a country built on the racism and genocide of colonization, offensive and dishonest.
But these are strange times, indeed. Much as I find it impossible to believe that this country could be consumed by the United States; many other things I thought impossible a few months ago have happened under the despotic rule of Donald Trump and his sidekick Elon Musk.
If the threats coming from south of the border – tariffs, annexation and the like – were directed towards another country, I’d likely be in the streets showing support for that country’s right to independence; perhaps even waving its flag.
But that’s not what I am doing, at least so far, despite the attacks on this country’s sovereignty. Instead, I’m engaging in shopping sovereignty.
There’s an app for that
I have an app – there are more than a few out there – that tells me whether a product is Canadian. Of course, there’s a lot of wiggle room for those who want us to believe their products are Canadian, and we all have different definitions of what makes something Canadian. Made in Canada? Assembled in Canada? Grown in Canada? Produced by a Canadian company? My own requirements are, at best, flexible.
I’m not going to confess to all of my consumer sins, but I’ll admit to a few. I enjoy the occasional Coca Cola. This week, I have made the switch to PC cola and, while it’s not quite the right flavour, it’s close and it will do. Despite the many problems with Loblaw, it’s at least a Canadian company.
My partner and I buy Charmin’ toilet paper – it’s the softest we’ve ever found — but it’s made by Proctor and Gamble, a massive American corporation. When our supply runs out, we’ll be switching to Royale, which is made by Irving, a Canadian paper company. I hope our tushes will support our small act of nationalism.
Cocktail time
Where it all comes home to roost is in the cocktail department. As in the early weeks of the pandemic five years ago, our evening cocktails have become critically important to the well-being of our souls during these difficult times.
One of our favourites – the paloma – requires grapefruits. Happily, we’ve found a Moroccan source to replace the Florida grapefruits we had been buying, so we can continue making this cocktail relatively guilt-free.
Over the past year or so, I’ve come to really enjoy bourbon, a corn-based whisky. Legally, to be called bourbon, it has to be made in the United States. I like bourbon on the rocks, with some freshly squeezed lime and/or orange juice. But I especially enjoy two bourbon-based cocktails: a Gold Rush and an Old Fashioned.
My Gold Rush is a variation on the original. I substitute lime for lemon juice and increase the quantity slightly. For one drink, mix together 2 ounces bourbon – or its Canadian substitute, see below — with 1 ounce freshly squeezed lime juice and ¾ ounce honey syrup, then pour over ice. (Make a batch of honey syrup by heating ½ cup honey with ½ cup water until they are well blended. Cool and keep in the fridge for quick cocktail making.)
For my version of an Old Fashioned, mix together 2 ounces bourbon, ½ ounce simple syrup and 4 dashes of your favourite bitters (the traditional recipe calls for Angostura; I use 2 drops each of ginger and orange bitters), and pour over ice. (Make a supply of simple syrup to keep on hand as above but using sugar instead of honey.)
About a week ago, I realized that my supply of bourbon was getting low, so did some research to find a Canadian substitute. Assisted by an article in the Globe and Mail as well as an LCBO employee who knew his way around the whisky aisle, I settled on Gooderham & Worts Four Grain Whisky. There are others that sound like they are worth trying, too, when I get through the G&W bottle, but for now I can enjoy my cocktails while also feeling slightly — dare I say it? – nationalistic.
After all, if Louise Penny can cancel her entire U.S. book tour, including a major event at the Kennedy Centre, the least I can do is find a Canadian substitute for American whisky, pop and toilet paper.