I’d like to introduce to you a small village nestled in Norfolk County, Ontario. Granted they didn’t ask me to make this introduction and they might even be shy or bashful in me doing so, but still I feel the need to introduce you.
So meet Waterford, and Waterford meet… my favorite reader.
Waterford, Ontario is home to 2,500 villagers, and if you are to go by one of the strangest opening paragraphs in a Wikipedia article the
Yin Family are notable residents being that they are of the rare Chinese variety of Waterfordian’s. They run a Chinese restaurant there, and (if one can assume from their inclusion on Wikipedia) are the talk of the village with sentences that begin with, “do you’s know what them crazy Chinese folk were up to the other day?”
Originally a railroad town along the Canadian Southern line, trains had all but stopped coming to little Waterford at the turn of the 20th century. The village’s growth was halted, and those that remained turned to agriculture.
That is until someone dreamed up Pumpkinfest.
Ah Pumpkinfest, or as the locals call it “Tricking Cidiot’s into Traveling Hours to Fill Some Guilt Ridden Need to Take in Some Agriculture.”
Some four years ago my sister gave into the need. Little is known of how she came to be aware of the pumpkin harvesting festival, though I suppose a lot would be known if I asked her, but picking up a phone and calling her is far above my duty to this column.
Regardless, she convinced my brother and I to pile into the car, whisked away on several hours of journey to the promises of midway games, pumpkin pyramids, and, as my sister promised, “the best tasting pumpkin pie you’ll ever have.”
The promise of pumpkin pie, and the best of our lives at that, was enough to drag us out of the comforts of the city. Before long we were surrounded by the darkness of country roads, and the eventual, inevitable realization that we were lost.
A dimly lit convenient store appeared about this time, the way such a store spookily appear in a slasher flick, first to the relief of the travelers, but before long between blows by an ax they are wishing they had never stopped.
Not to disappoint a man sat on the old convenient stores wood veranda. Perhaps on break from his local militia duties he donned a skinhead and matching camo pants. He glared at us as we approached the store; I was convinced we were heading straight for shallow graves; our bodies months later would become the topic of town conversation.
“Did you hear about them bodies they dug up in old Roy’s tobacco field?”
“Ah, I imagine he’s mighty pissed, all them fascist cops trampling round there he’ll liable miss the harvest.”
Did I mention I graduated with honours from Small Town Stereotyping School? Though that D I got in ‘Introduction to Alabama Inbreeding Jokes’ nearly cost me my diploma.
Needless to say my Cidiot minded fears were not shown to be true, instead we got the much needed directions as well as several packages of salt and sugar laced carbs.
We were back on the road and before long we had arrived, I could practically taste that sweet pumpkin pie.
Before we could dig in my sister insisted we take in the other sights and sounds of Pumpkinfest, a short-lived plan as it seemed we had missed the fest side of things. After lost induced detours we had arrived to late, the midway was closing up. The much raved about parade had long since marched by.
But we could still have pumpkin pie!
No, we couldn’t.
In all the snack shacks and restaurants, and amongst all the fair tents hawking fake tattoos and your name on a grain of rice, there was no pumpkin pie to be found.
We traveled from end to end of the village, but nothing. Lit in the glow of a pumpkin pyramid I
could hear the theme music to The Twilight Zone kick in as we gazed across a field to a sign that read “No Pies Available This Year!” In case the exclamation mark added insult to injury a second sign had been tacked on above reading “Sorry”.
The town was pie dry. It didn’t just say ‘No Pumpkin Pie’, it said ‘Pies’. Apple, Strawberry Rhubarb, or Boston Cream. Why if this sign was correct the odds of finding Chicken Pot Pie or even a Pizza Pie were slim to none.
How had such a thing happened? How had an entire village rallied together to ban a delectable treat that had dated back to 2000 BC? What had led to this decision? Some tragic pie related accident that had shocked and horrified the citizens of Waterford? Not even the Nazi’s, whose bans, restrictions and all around authoritarianism has spawned the annoying quip when faced with some new rule, “what is this Nazi Germany?”, had ever gone so far as to ban a pastry.
It didn’t matter what had led to Waterford’s backlash on pies. There were none.
I tell you this story because we had vowed never to return, that is until now. This Friday we’ll return to Waterford’s Pumpkinfest, curious and anxious to see if the Pie Ban of ’03 has yet to be lifted.
I’ll keep you posted, but at least I know if worse comes to worse I can always visit Yin’s Restaurant, serving “Chinese and Canadian food without a buffet!”
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