I was quite pleased earlier this year when I learned that British Columbia has a fledgling maple syrup industry, mostly around Duncan on Vancouver Island. But unfortunately, by the time I learned it existed the spring sap flow had ended for the year. So that story will have to wait.
The idea of hammering spigots into trees and turning them into taps for a delicious liquid has fascinatinated me, and no doubt you too. Yet, being a Westerner, I've had almost no opportunity to see the maple farmers in action as they're concentrated in Ontario and Quebec. A major part of Canada's heritage is missing from my soul, sob, sob.
How pleased I was, then, to come upon a bit of that heritage as I wandered about the Wednesday afternoon farmer's market just outside Via Train station on Main Street in Vancouver. Not only did I avoid doing a story about rutabagas, a part of my life became more complete. Sugaring Off 
It is hard not to stop short when you walk by the Nestor's Coffee bar in Vancouver's Arbutus Mall. Some people might do so when they smell the java, or see the Nestor's sign that tells them the business was established in 1929. That makes it the second oldest coffee shop in Vancouver, behind the much more famous Murchie's. There was a time when four Nestor's shops dotted the city, but now there is just one left. But most people would not stop to reflect on how this business got overtaken by big franchise operations.
Few things grab your attention in life more than a price increase, particularly in these so called low inflation days. There you are, going along from day to day knowing that that morning cinnamon bun costs exactly $3.14 when suddenly - WITHOUT WARNING (aside from months and months of Bill Vander Zalm mysteriously reappearing on our TV screens but you always quickly clicked away) - that bun costs $3.40. Oh, the saturated fats coursing through the veins just burble with outrage. The HST, you learn, is to blame. But death and taxes, what can you do, aside from signing a petition and recalling the government? 
Is it summer already? Don't you feel slightly cheated that this glorious season has arrived with almost no warning? Spring was decidedly spring-like and during those 92 days between March 21 and June 21 temperatures rose above 20 degrees on just five days. Last year, amid much fretting about global warming, we hit 20 degrees on 18 of the first 21 days of June alone. Friends, we have reason to feel miffed.
I know anything is possible in this world and nothing should surprise us. But I am still somewhat shocked when one of the biggest retailers of computers in the city is a drug store. For no good reason this offends my sense of the way retail commerce should be conducted. It harkens back to a time when flower shops sold flowers, hardware stores sold hardware, and drug stores sold drugs, 'notions' and candy. My past has damaged me psychologically, made me unfit to appreciate the new realities of commerce. 
For decades, we've seen bicycle couriers scramble about downtown streets, weaving in and out of traffic as they speed from office to office. Though some might suggest (to put it mildly) that they put themselves and others in danger - few could quarrel with the proposition that theirs is the fastest delivery method availble to their customers. 
Back before I gave up the demon rum in all its forms, I used to make my own beer. I read a book extolling its virtues with a line I'll always remember. "Beer, wine, bread and cheese - the very first processed foods. When I drink homemade beer, I commune with the ancients." Considering my connection to the makers of pyramids almost made the awful swill I produced drinkable, but after a while I gave up. 
I remember the day like it was yesterday. Imagine me, a poor, defenceless 11 year old minding his business in the park when suddenly a chance encounter with a malicious plant sent me into paroxysms of pain. Never mind that I was trying to capture a feral turtle sunning itself beside a pond at the time. Never mind that I had to climb a chain link fence to get near the reptile. No, my friends, no such transgressions ever deserves the punishment of stinging nettles. 
Full disclosure time now. I have an interest in this story. The miracle of honey production has fascinated me ever since I was a kid on the prairies. Manitoba creamed clover honey sent me into the most wondrous sugar high. As a teenager, I once spent months poring over a bee catalogue imagining myself as an apiarist (that's fancy for beekeeper). But I lived in the city, everybody knew you could not raise bees in the city. 
Ever since my first story about the Norwegian Codfish Club, I have liked the Scandinavian Centre in Burnaby. The idea of organizing monthly meetings for people to chow down on cod drowning in butter confirms my belief that frivolity is a most worthy human trait. 
Who does not want to make a splash at these Olympics? I am not speaking here of mogul and half pipe skiers up at Cypress Mountain, where melting snow means splashes are possible but not desired. No I am referring to that Holy Grail of all Olympic activies - marketing. Even before the games begin, Vancouver is awash with billboards from the Olympic Committee thanking official sponsors for pouring big bucks into these games. Call them good corporate citizens, but they clearly hope for a payoff in sales somewhere down the road. There's no sin in that, I suppose. Even poverty activists are using the games to highlight the ongoing housing, unemployment and social service problems the city faces. There's no sin in that either. From a marketing standpoint the Olympics help to focus the mind, offer up a stage that can be seen around the world. But I ask you, is it a sin to use food to make such a marketing splash? Not just a little bit, tons and tons of food. Whatever you think, you have to admit, it's pretty good marketing. 
