It's a bit of a strange experience when you can stop, look at yourself, and come to the unavoidable realisation that you fit quite nicely into a stereotype. If only for a moment. I had that experience last night.
My wife brought up some pork chops for dinner from the deep freeze and I threw myself wholeheartedly into dinner preparation while she and our boy watched Chris Rock and the opening of the Oscars last night. I began with some garlic mashed potatoes while the BBQ was heating up. I then tromped outside to slap some pork on the grill.
Returning inside through the back door, I was suddenly struck by the image of myself: given the unseasonably warm temperatures for the end of February (about 5 above freezing at 6.30 PM), I was outside in just a pair of shorts and a tank top, wielding a pair of barbeque tongs, squinting at the meat on the grill that was illuminated only by the flame underneath and the poor glow of the patio light (more the former than latter), trying to see the BBQ sauce as it poured from the Bullseye bottle, and my two bare feet planted firmly in a pair of calf-high Sorel winter boots.
Truly a Canadian barbeque, eh?
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