boil that dustspeck
I noticed the big book of Canadian landscape photography at Paul's house this weekend; one of the gifts from my parents at Christmas. I realised that he received a whole plethora of Canadiana this holiday, including the obligatory novelty maple leaf boxing shorts (it really is unnerving when your mother buys your boyfriend underwear). I also tend to get a lot of Canadian-themed gifts, and I always think that my Mom has bought them all. But no, another bag of moose droppings, a new article of Roots clothing, and Laura Secord chocolates for the various seasons keep arriving in the post.
I had the thought that maybe we get all of these things because as Canadians, we desperately want the rest of the world to realise that we exist. If someone, somewhere, in some foreign land wears a Roots sweatshirt, Canada will become known. It's like each gift is a plea from Canada saying, "Go! Tell them about us! Tell them that we're here!" because otherwise, we're just that big chunk of cold that lives upstairs from America.
So the next time you eat one of those chocolates I put in the kitchen (Easter will be the next shipment, trust me), think to yourself "I'm eating Canada." Say it loud, but be polite about it.