![]() ![]() I wasn’t hungry had been my first thought, but I followed signs further and further away from the highway, terrified I wouldn’t be able to find my way back. I even debated stopping once I saw that first sign, a hand painted arrow on the side of the highway. I still can’t remember why I had been driving my mom’s car alone up there…but do seem to remember the Tragically Hip a-blaring… It was a super sunny day though and I had cranked the tunes. ![]() I found ‘my’ chip truck maybe ten years ago somewhere between Toronto and Trenton, though I can’t for the life of me remember where I’d been going or why I was out that way. It always seemed like a small miracle when Mom or Dad or Papa would pull over and a small white-turned-rusty truck would just be perched there on the side of the road. Or a Creamsicle carted around by a teenage boy on a bike? Delish, though I could do without the bells and that horrible tinny ice cream truck song.Īs a city-girl, chip trucks were also imbued with the mysterious quality of being out on concession roads and small highways en route to lakes and cottages and towns with just one main street. I’m not a street meat fan, but ice cream trucks? Awesome. There’s something fabulous about eating outside, on the side of the road and there’s also something exciting about eating from a vehicle. My uncle used to talk about one from his childhood and I before I had even seen one myself, I could picture it exactly. ![]() ![]() Chip trucks always had a mythological quality in my family – the savoury cousin of the ice cream truck. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |