Back in the CLFN--the de-urbanization continues.

It's been over a year now since I moved back to my home community of Curve Lake from the big city of Toronto. And in that time, I've noticed some changes from when I left two decades ago, both in the community and in me. Let's just say it's taken some getting adjusted to. You can't order a pizza, or Chinese food, or anything unless you have it delivered by Purolator. I'm still scanning the Reserve for a good dry cleaner. And I've given up waiting for any form of rapid transit system to stop at my place. I can only wait outside my house for so long.

Obviously I think it's me that's changed the most, not my community. I've been infected with a disease called urbanization. I always say I've gone from being a Rez Indian to an urban Indian to an urbane Indian, now I have to go back to being a Rez Indian. I have to de-urbanize. I have to go back to being an Ani-shnawbe from an Ani-snob. Believe it or not, wine doesn't always have to come from Australia. Spam is more than e-mail junk. Pick up trucks can be a symbol of status.

As a man who made his career and living in the theatrical arts, I've come to grips with the fact the Reserve doesn't have a sizable theatre district. Evidently me and my house are it. But it is home and like all homes, it has its own set of lovable quirks.

Last December the community had a Santa Claus parade that was delightful to watch. About a dozen trucks and flatbeds rolled past a sizable showing of Curve Lakers, showcasing the community spirit. But when Chinese New Year came around, let's just say I was severely disappointed by the community participation. Same with the Oktoberfest and St. Patrick's Day festivities. Not a single float or parader to be seen. Again, I was it. And don't get me started on the Gay Pride Parade. My girlfriend and I waited around all day for that.

Living in Toronto has obviously affected my home-grown taste buds too. I am cognisant of the fact Curve Lake doesn't have a decent Thai restaurant. However, there is still a rather severe learning curve to be acknowledged.

Not that long ago I was making dinner and realized I'd run out of flour. So I hopped in my car and drove to Buckhorn, a local small town to pick up a small bag of said ingredient. The woman behind the counter, whom I believe was from Curve Lake, recognized me and we had a nice little chat. As I was paying for the flour, she casually commented, "Oh flour. Frying some fish?" I looked back at her rather puzzled.

"No," I said. "Making a nice chicken piccata." Now it was her time to be puzzled. Evidently back home, flour's only good for frying fish and making Indian bread. I just wished I liked fish. It might make the integration happen much more smoothly.

And while on the topic of food, there was this other incident. I had stopped for lunch at a little roadside fast food joint on the Reserve. I always believe in contributing to the local economy whenever possible, especially since they might be relatives.

I notice the menu has that iconic symbol of Aboriginal delicacies, fried baloney on a saucegun (fried bread). It had never been a favourite of mine, though my mother to this day still enjoys a good pan-fried hunk of baloney. In some circles it's referred to as Indian steak. But I long ago decided that I don't think I could ever be that "Indian." I preferred my baloney raw and unprepared. Still bleeding if possible.

Be that as it may, I ordered an Indian Taco, a hearty and tasty concoction of fried bread, chili, tomatoes, lettuce, cheese and hot sauce.

As I waited patiently in line, a gentleman came up behind me and ordered the fried baloney special. So there I stood, watching this teenager pull out a thick roll of baloney, cut of a sizable slice, grab it with tongs, and hold it in the deep fryer. She was deep frying baloney. I've been to 16 countries around the world and that was a new one for me.

During my time in Toronto I wondered if maybe I had, somehow, been kept in the dark regarding the latest technological advancements and developments in the culinary preparation of baloney in Curve Lake. However, even my mother shuddered at the thought, so I wasn't alone.

It's still a long journey to feel at home, but I believe I'm halfway there. I just need to find that middle ground. How about something like ... baloney tartare. I betcha it would go over big.

THE URBANE INDIAN

Drew Hayden Taylor

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