Hmmm… thawed out of a western winter-peg icecube, laid out bared to be baked by the bay they call Quinte; sautéd and rapidly stirred-up in wee-little Brighton then tossed up the highway to be quick-fried on Queen street and stuffed into cannoli on College. Kneaded and pulled up and all over Toronto. Then put into the pan and flung down the freeway to be boiled in Brooklyn; simmered in juices of my own making in Greenpoint then poured softly and slowly into lower Manhattan. Tickled n' pickled on the playgrounds of Greenwich then mashed into mince meat in Dumbo under my bridges... I popped out of that toaster all of a sudden, and landed in… Trenton… Where I am from? Oh who only knows.. Southeastern Ontario, next to the rocks, water and trees over by that river, right over there, where I've been all along, served whole or raw, a little well done, sometimes fresh never frozen, sometimes rotten as cheese. ...you tell us; now how we're doing, as we aim to... to (be) easy.
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