The Flaky Peace Treaty

As the holy season of Christmas approaches and we find ourselves all wound up in ribbons, wrapping paper and to do lists as long as Branch country in a squall, I thought we all might appreciate a sweet sprinkling of lightness to cheer our hearts a little.

And so my mind wandered to all the whimsical and curious pieces of everyday life in our the unexpected and warm chats with Henry as he makes his daily trip out to Gussie's Ground, to the sun rising in what can only be described as a burst of light washing over Branch, to tonight, when we all gathered at Fr. Devas' house for a cup of tea and a renewed sense of community. All wonderful things. But then my mind wandered further and alas, it landed on the humble little bun. Yes, the bun.

It’s flaky and light, filled with delicious cream and raspberry jam and it’s perfectly paired with a cup of hot, sweet tea as the darling Ryan Snodden waxes eloquently about the sunny Winter forecast. (By the way, there should be a sommelier for buns and tea).

You do know what I’m talking about. Well, what I’ve really described is a flaky. Now, based on the place of your birth, you are now doing one of two things. If you are from Branch, you are shaking your head up and down saying “You wouldn't fool her" and you're also calling the shop to see if Michelle is still there so you can get a flaky for yourself. If you are from Point Lance, our St. Mary's Bay neighbours, you are shaking your head furiously from side to side in silent protest, pointing your finger at the computer screen, talking about cakes and sprinting to your cupboard to haul out a bun box that inexplicably says “cake”. Believe or not, this post is not written in the spirit of divisiveness, focusing on the ancient tribal feud that is the bun-cake debate. Instead, it is offered as a Christmas peace treaty to our allies in the southwest, Point Lance and to the Cape Shore crowd as well. The reasonable people of Patrick’s Cove rarely weigh in, although it is rumored that they affectionately call a flaky a pie.

How should our peace treaty begin?

Should we all meet on the Top of the Cross and have a grand and elaborate tea party with a giant flaky (which would technically be a cake)? We could drink tea and eat flakies until midnight, at which time a small row would break out when someone from Branch would inevitably get cross about the flaky being called a cake.

Should we stay true to our maritime roots and meet in a fleet of longliners off the Cape, where both bays meet, all hands eating a Joe Louis or better yet, a rosy pink billot log?

Or should we host a big do on Green Hill where buns and cakes are officially renamed buncakes or cakebuns, the announcement being made official perhaps by the fine people at Vachon or even Trudeau himself? Kelly and Melvin would cut the first buncake.

So, while this post is a departure from my more serious reflections, there is immense value in shining a light on laughter and indeed, on what we share in our rural communities, our own dialects, our own traditions and yes, even our our very own debate on pastries!

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