“I appreciate camping, but that doesn’t mean I like it.”   A couple of weeks ago, as we struck down our tent in Fjord-du-Saguenay National Park just off of the St. Lawrence river in Quebec those words could not possibly hold more truth for me. To be fully enveloped in nature, to feel the wind rush through your tent, the glowing embers of a fire warm your hands, to see a lone falcon jetting along the skyline, or hear the sound of a pod of beluga whales bouncing off the hills are appreciable things. You can sit in nature and feel your smallness and insignificance and in some ways be comforted in that feeling. But, (and that is meant to be a big, bold but) living in nature also forces a return. A return to what we used to be, and inclement weather just compounds the situation. It is hard to keep clean while camping. The line between the clean you and the dirty you is thin. You try your best, but somehow you get sand in your sleeping bag; you have a shower, but there is a dampness to your clothes so it feels like you are putting dirty clothes on a clean body. You wake up in the morning and your hair smells like smoke and your neck is sweaty. It doesn’t matter how much organizing you do, you quickly become one with nature, and it doesn’t smell as sweet. You are reminded that without proper shelter you are becoming more animal than civilized human, and rain certainly does not help your lot.   We were stuck in our tent as the rain poured overhead. We had read our books, had our naps, and were becoming restless as the rain continued to fall. At one point there was reprieve. I quickly dressed in order to start dinner only to have the rain fall once more just as i was about to zip open the tent. “Damnit.” I have patience until I don’t, and it is amazing how quickly patience disappears once you start feeling hungry. Enough was enough. I wanted to be dry and cozy. I wanted to be full and content. Out of the tent and in the car we went. As we drove down an unknown highway, past the most beautiful flowing rivers and misty hills I had an image in my head. It was of the restaurants found in my hometown. These restaurants weren’t fancy, for sure. There were dim lit rooms, brunch buffets, club sandwiches, and thick and clumsy coffee cups. For some odd reason, in that moment, that’s what I needed. Twenty minutes down the road, the first restaurant we saw was exactly what I was looking for. It was absolutely wonderful in its guadiness with chipped yellow and red siding and flower boxes lining the porch. We walked into a packed room and sat at the nearest booth. As I opened a ridiculously long menu my eyes panned the room. It seemed like everyone in the small town decided to come here for dinner, and (i know this is a random tidbit of a detail, but I did find it odd) literally every single person was drinking a pepsi. Like, everyone. Pepsi. Diet Pepsi, and that’s it. My partner chose the club sandwich and I chose the salmon, which to be honest, if you are going to walk into one of these restaurants you never choose the salmon. The soup of the day, for sure, some fries, of course, but salmon, never. I will blame my uppity palette for the poor choice. After a brief confusing exchange with the waitress, where I had to remember the french word for hot, “Chaud. Yes. Tea. Chaud, Not Ice Tea,” out came our dinners. My oval plate consisted of a massive piece of salmon (a bit too dry and with little bones still in it) on a bed of iceberg lettuce with a side of salad, with, you betcha, iceberg lettuce. I looked at Troy and said, “Yup, this is exactly what I wanted.” Which brings us to this week’s episode, “The Ironic Nostalgia for Iceberg Lettuce.” Most of the time, for me, in order to enjoy what I’m eating food needs to have flavour. And when I talk about flavour I’m not just asking you to pass the salt. Ho