Oh, Christmas Tree!

Every Christmas needs a tree. This year, with the rest of the family heading west to Rossland, we were determined to get a tree for the house. The local hardware store was selling trees, and we watched the supply dwindle until there were none left and we were left with no choice but to go hunting for a tree ourselves. Naturally, this happened under the cover of darkness three days before Christmas


I found a saw in the basement, and we all headed out in Roxanne's '88 Celica to find us a little piece of Christmas. Here is the photo play-by-play of our late night adventure:

Hip-deep snow is ideal for tree hunting!

This tree is just a little too Charlie-Brown-Christmas. Let's keep hunting!

This tree should do!

To infinity, and beyond!

The face of a lumberjack.

Roxanne lifts a branch. Garth lifts a tree. Well done, team!

I can lift a whole tree! While wearing insulated coveralls! Awesome.

The Selkirk sisters: Keeping Christmas sexy.

It fits!

I'm really excited to be sharing the back seat with our tree!

Chris's knee prevented him from coming on the hunt, so he does his part by figuring out the intricacies of the  tree stand.

Icicles! From Wooco! There is a good chance these are older than I am.

The finished product! Sure it's a little bald on top, but it's really the adventure that counts!

My favourite Christmas ornament!

The Christmas tree star...A Selkirk family tradition for 50 years! We inherited the star to replace the impish angel that tried to light the tree on fire on Christmas.

Found! A Little Piece of the Ottawa Valley

For those of you who don't already know, Roxanne and I (and our baby brother) spent a number of our formative years living in luxury in the heart of the Ottawa Valley. Amongst the locals of a town called Deep River, our luxury was the great outdoors: a massive forest in the backyard (climbing trees with a skipping rope as a "harness"), patches of wild blueberries (painstakingly picked for Mom's baking), and sandy beaches (oh, the beaches!)...

The Ottawa Valley. Gorgeous, oui?

Pine Point Beach in Deep River. Beautiful sand. Unfortunately, I assumed every city was accompanied by a riverside beach.

More of the Valley. Stunning in the autumn. Beautiful red maples. Medicine Hat turns yellow for autumn. Okay, enough of the Valley pics. I'm aching with nostalgia!

Before I get too carried away droning on about my childhood, I'll refocus by mentioning another great feature of the Ottawa Valley: chip wagons, aka chip trucks.

What is a chip wagon? Simply put, it's a truck that sells chips (fries). The fries are fresh cut, deep-fried to a crispy deliciousness, and covered with a plentiful assortment of vinegars, salts, spices, and/or ketchup. The trucks don't sell much else, although you might find cans of pop, pogos, or poutine.

The ubiquitous chip wagon.

This is probably Jake, and he certainly looks like he loves his job! Note the limited menu. Yes, people make a living selling nothing but sliced potatoes.

Of course, knowing nothing else, I assumed every town was thoughtfully dotted with chip trucks, a conception that was abruptly shattered with the family move to Medicine Hat, Alberta in 1997. The experience was a culture shock in many other ways (no trees, no blueberries, no beach), and the closest I've come to a chip wagon since is the annual family discussion of how nice it would be to open one some time.

For the past thirteen years, my memories of street-side deep-fried potatoes have been fading, while the nostalgia for many things Ottawa Valley related grows. Then last Saturday, everything changed.

It all started when our posse made a trip down to Trail with a stop at Canadian Tire. In the corner of the parking lot was a trailer selling food: advertised $1 coffee and all-day breakfast! On the drive out of the parking lot, I asked Roxanne to glance over and see exactly what kind of all-day breakfast could be sold out of truck.

Answer: "Fresh cut fries!"

Jim's Joint: $1 Coffee! All day breakfast!

To be fair, fries are not the all-day breakfast offered at Jim's Joint. Roxanne, a fellow potato enthusiast, honed in on the best part of menu and shouted with glee, completely abandoning my original inquiry. Before Garth knew what was going on, I pulled over and Roxanne and I were up ordering a fresh batch!

Looks like not being situation in the Ottawa Valley requires a more extensive menu of offereings to make a living.

How fresh are the fresh-cut fries? The chip vendor was peeling them right there! In the truck! A quick slice through the chipper and then into the soothing warmth of hot oil, the fries simmered and steamed until crisped to perfection. 

A bucket of potato peels! And these aren't just for show! I saw him (Jim?) peel the potatoes on site!

Action shot! If you look closely, you can see the steam from our simmering potatoes.

After being tossed lovingly into their respective boxes, Roxanne and I slathered them generously with vinegar and happily marched back to the Jetta for the ride home. You can be certain we'll be back! 

Small and medium fry boxes. Carbs. Grease. Perfection. We barely made a dent in these...so many fries!

Golden crisp on the outside, fluffy on the inside. Exactly the way a fry should be.

An Assortment of Events and Observations

Unlike the last few posts, this one isn't going to have cohesive theme or a well-told story. It's simply a collection of stuff that I've been saving up until now.

Isn't this gorgeous? I don't know how anyone can hate snow!

Lovely :)

Local folks lined up at the thrift store. I really wasn't kidding! 

Like every ski hill thrift stone, this one has a corner of crutches. If you have relatives visiting you for a ski trip, you should probably make this bin your first stop.

The sexy fire of our basement wood stove.

Bagels. My latest baking adventure. It was challenge to find a recipe that didn't demand the use of a food processor or standing mixer. You would think bagels didn't exist before the invention of either of those culinary machines! I don't have a Kitchenaid standing mixer yet, which is mostly because I can't decided on a colour, and partially because they're $300-$500. If you, dear reader, are feeling generous this holiday season you should know that I'm leaning towards orange.

We left the house for beer night at 9pm, when we came back around midnight, there were signs in the snowbanks warning of snow removal. We thought it best to wait until the morning (and sobriety) to move our cars. At 8am, we were being warned they would be towed. Rossland is serious about snow removal!

This picture doesn't look like much, but that's because it isn't anymore. This is the front street post-snow removal. Prior to this, we had to parallel park our way into two spots wedged between giant mounds of snow. Even the snow we had piled close to the road from shoveling the sidewalk was scraped off!

The first sunny day in Rossland (Dec 4) since we moved here on October 25!

The parking meters in Trail. I don't think the prices have been raised in 30 years. Twelve minutes for 10 cents! You can pay for parking just by digging under your couch cushions or peeking in the washing machine...

Glorious Times at the Local Legion

Several weeks ago, our posse of three made our inaugural visit to the town's only pub on a Saturday night. We drank a little beforehand while playing a newly invented game of "Spiderdrunk"...a game involving that week's thrift store find of Spiderman Yahtzee Junior (no reading required!) and some inventive new rules. This pre-drink however, was not enough to soften the blow of finding out drinks at the pub cost $6! Each! After one drink (all that was in the ski bum budget), we trotted down the hill to our cozy home with the resolve to obtain personal flasks to make it through the winter.

Life was looking grim for a couple of days, until a suggestion came from our landlord: The Legion. As luck would have it, there are two really great reasons to drink at the Legion: one is $3 highballs and the other is $2.25 beer. And those aren't specials, folks - those are the regular prices!

It turns out that on Fridays, the Legion is the place to be. If you show up after 10pm, you won't be the youngest by 30 years, either! No one seems to mind paying the modest $3 cover (it is jam night, after all) for a plentiful supply of cheap booze backed by locals strumming out classic tunes. I'm told that if I frequent the Legion enough, pretty soon I will know what time it is just by the song that the band is playing! 

The Legion Band

The Legion is barely a block away from our house. I took this picture below to illustrate the proximity.

The Legion - Just a short stumble

Like every other Legion, this one has the world-famous meat draws. Every Friday and Saturday and 4:30, tickets are purchased and numbers are drawn to win packs of raw meat! Roxanne and I finally made it over there this week. We walked the half-block to the Legion at 4:20, hoping to get in, win meat, and continue with our Friday night plans.The Legion meat draw proceeds in the following way:

1. Four tickets for $1
2. A ticket is drawn, and the winner goes to the fridge to take their pick of available meats (whole chicken? ribs? pork roast? So many choices!)
3. Twenty minutes later, another ticket is drawn and a choice is made between the remaining meats. This continues until all meat is claimed.

The meat fridge. A treasure trove of delicious prizes!

Roxanne and I thought we would be in and out in 15 minutes. I don't know how long the meat draw lasts, because we didn't wait around to find out. After an hour, they had only drawn twice, and with places to be we had to head out. The bartender said she would keep our tickets and let us know if we won when we came back later that night. I'm sad to report we did not win, which is such a shame, because the better part of that hour was spent discussing elaborate plans for the whole chicken.

It's now obvious that the meat draw is a lengthy event to encourage the purchase and consumption of cocktails and beer. This would be fine if it didn't start are 4:30. Who wants to start drinking at 4:30? I may be a ski bum, but even I like to wait until after dinner. Most of the time.