When I came to Canada, my older brother told me that Canadians were turned off by English people who went on about how good things were in England.
“You’re in Canada now,” he said. “Get used to the Canadian way of life.”
My first job in Canada was at Bell Telephone. I was involved in a new twelve-hour-shift experiment. There was nothing wrong with the shifts themselves, but the way Bell organized it I was on nights one week and days the next.
So when I arrived at Fran’s Restaurant that morning in 1973 for breakfast I was bleary-eyed and not with it. I had just come off a twelve-hour swing shift.
A sweet lady named Rose worked there as a waitress. She gave me a menu, and I saw “oatmeal porridge.” I was concerned that this didn’t sound much like English porridge, but I remembered what my brother told me and decided to eat whatever was served. I made myself promise not to compare it to English porridge.
Service was slow that day, and it seemed like an eternity before Rose shuffled over to my table with the bowl, unceremoniously putting it down in front of me with a small jug of milk. Hungry, I looked down at it, thinking that it looked more like molasses than porridge, but then I heard that little voice inside telling me that I was now in Canada and should do things the way Canadians do.
I ate the contents of the bowl. It seemed a bit sweet to me, and it was cold, but as I was about to complain, I heard that little voice again.
As I was sitting back thinking that life in Canada was going to take getting used to, Rose came over with a steaming hot bowl. She put it down, looked confused, and said, “What did you do with the brown sugar?”
Toronto, Ontario