Dear Canada Customs,
You suck. Perhaps you think that’s too strong of a statement. Actually it’s not. That’s the PG version of how I feel towards you. My husband was gone for a week. Left me alone with his two children. They’re technically my children too, but they’re mostly his during difficult times. In return I asked for one thing, and one thing only. I asked him to bring me back a cinnamon roll from Isles Bun & Coffee in Minneapolis. Actually I asked for half a dozen, but that’s beside the point.
The rolls from Isles Bun are gargantuous doughy creations loaded with cream cheese frosting. Sort of like Cinnabon but not mass-produced and sickly sweet. Just sufficiently sweet. And they have extra frosting at the counter that you can slather on if you’re having an ‘I need extra frosting’ kind of morning.
So being the smart man that he is, my husband found a way to stop at Isles Bun to pick up the requisite item. He got one for himself too, so it wasn’t entirely a selfless mission. He ate his on the spot while mine was laid to rest in a styrofoam container.
Everything was going according to plan until you laid eyes on my cinnamon roll in its styrofoam nest, and decided to detain it. Basically, you refused a cinnamon roll entry into your great land. Not a piece of fruit that could carry ‘crazy diseases’, or a piece of raw cheese ‘rife’ with bacteria, or even meat laden with mad cow disease. A cinnamon roll. Made of flour, and eggs and probably sugar and baking powder. Baked. Covered with some frosting.
What was the problem, exactly? Were you hungry and in need of a snack? Did you suspect there were dangerous weapons, or narcotics, lurking in the dark creases of the roll? Is cream cheese frosting now made with unpasteurized dairy products? Or was it because the container was made of styrofoam and you’re far too ‘green’ to allow such an unrecyclable substance?
Either way, when I picked up my unshaven, puffy-haired husband at the airport. I did NOT want him to hold me tight while whispering ‘I have some bad news’ in my ear. Followed by ‘they wouldn’t let me bring in your cinnamon roll.’
It seemed he felt the need to restrain me in order to pass on this particular piece of information.
Can I just tell you that I tucked a quart of dulce de leche ice cream in my carry-on all the way from Bolivia to Indianapolis in the 1990’s? (Years before Haagen Dazs thought to make some.) No one even batted an eye at that. Perhaps they thought the nasty mess would be punishment enough.
I could probably try to sue you, but somehow I think I’d come out the loser, since you North American Customs folk seem always to be in the ‘right’. So, instead, I’ll be dropping off my children for a week so you can take care of them, starting tomorrow.
You’ll need a cinnamon roll or six by the end.