Recently I helped out with a funeral at church. I have to say, it was quite a privilege. I mean, I spent all of my growing up years watching at the “church ladies” serving our congregation…making Swiss steak dinners, doing dishes after the pancake breakfast {naturally using those adorable church dish towels that all church kitchens seem to have}, working concession stands at the fair. As much as I dislike admitting that I’m a grown up, it’s very exciting to finally be one of those “church ladies” who is serving. I think is suits me.
This story is not, however, about church lady nostalgia. It’s the latest edition of Practically Canada Culture Shock.
Okay, I’ll admit…I’ve never written specifically about the PraCan culture shock. But I should have started a long time ago. Over the last year {almost 2!} I’ve alluded to how drastically different things are up here in the great, white north. It’s different like I didn’t know different can be. And the most charming thing about it is that the folks up here don’t even realize it’s quirky or offbeat.
They don’t realize that “normal” 80-something year old women don’t typically make social calls without complaint in -60 degree wind chills. It never crosses their mind to think that skirts and cropped pants aren’t usually worn in the “heat wave” of a 40 degree day. They poke fun at Wisconsin accents…but insist that rag is pronounced “reg” and bag is properly said “beg.” A casserole is a “hot dish” and the correct response to hearing about a friend’s weekend away is “Oh, for fun.”
It’s a different world up here.
I’ve seen a lot and been surprised by a ton. But nothing has taken me aback as much as the funeral food I prepared from behind the counter of First Baptist Church Minot.
I was put on sandwich duty. When I was shown buns, ham, and chicken I thought everything looked pretty regular. I should have known better. This isn’t Indiana, Florida, Oklahoma or anywhere else. This is PraCan…so there’s always a twist.
Sandwich instructions:
One bun split open. Spread margarine liberally one the upper half. Add one piece of lunch meat. Close bun. Place on tray.
Just meat and fake butter?!
Yep. And we made trays of them.
Next up, I was taught to make open faced sandwiches. Now, where I come from this means a bun split open with hot roast beef or turkey, topped off with mashed potatoes and covered in gravy. Or something vaguely similar.
Now, hang on tight. What I’m about to describe is not for the weak stomached. In Practically Canada, an open faced sandwich is made like this:
One half of a sandwich bun. Add a thick spread of Cheese Whiz. Top with sliced green olives from a jar. Eaten cold.
Folks, I cannot make this stuff up. And we made trays of them. And get this…they were the first to be eaten. When the mourners came down from the funeral service to the luncheon I saw folks stacking two or three of these bad boys on their plate. The ladies in the kitchen with me reminisced about how much they love open face sandwiches, and it’s such a bummer that they are only eaten at funerals.
What?!
It’s a funeral food. What I can surmise is that this delicacy is something quite special. While to the average PraCan outsider it may look like a disgusting sodium trove, to the natives its ceremony. Like the Matzah Ball on Passover. Like mulled wine at Christmas.
A friend who happens to be about my age, and not a native, came through the food line. I was busy on the other side of the counter pouring lemonade from one of those class church-kitchen-pitchers.
“Did they make you eat one of the open-faced sandwiches?”
“No one could ever make me to that. That is straight up nasty. Why do they eat that?”
“I don’t know. It’s funeral food. Maybe it’s like the bitter herbs of Passover. It reminds them of bad times and makes them feel sad inside.”
That’s a theory. And I think it’s pretty viable. It made me sad just to make them. I guess there are some things that separate the wanna be Practically Canadians from the natives.
xo
Amy
