Once upon a time I heard about a magical dish from Canada called, poutine. French fries covered in gravy and cheese curds? How could this NOT be an American thing? Immediately upon hearing about this delicacy, I researched how long it would take to get to the nearest Canadian city. With only one single turn the entire 809 miles, it would take 12 hours straight north to get to Winnipeg from Kansas City (my home at the time). I was wiling to go by myself, but I knew my friend Seve would be up for a foodie adventure, so I called him and we set it up.

We set out early in the morning, and our plan was to get to our Airbnb in Winnipeg by nightfall. We stopped and ate somewhere in South Dakota, and closing in on North Dakota we drove into a full on blizzard. We were in my tiny Pontiac Sunfire and had to pull into a gas station to wait some of the storm out. After waiting what seemed like an eternity and no end in sight, we decided trying to inch our way along would be better than waiting in a sketchy truck stop, so we headed back out.

It was brutal. Solid white, my body aching from the hunching over, and tight grip on the wheel, and barely any progress. The only positive was that we were the only people on the road; though that probably only really proved how stupid we were for attempting the trip. Bit by bit we were making our way, and I was determined to get to Winnipeg. As the sun started to set my hopes were dashed as we saw a sign declaring the Canadian border closed due to the blizzard. Seve and I had to scramble to find a motel to take us in, and the snow was starting to pile up on the roads. The first drift we hit was tiny and powdery. The next one slightly larger and denser. Pretty soon they were overtaking the road, and going through them was making me nervous. With darkness approaching and the snowbanks getting larger by the second, Seve assured me we were close to the motel. All of a sudden a snowbank loomed large directly ahead and it was obvious there was no avoiding it. Seve looked at me and yelled, “Floor it!” We hit the bank and definitely went airborne just as the town came into view. It was terrifying.

All we had with us was a bottle of Jameson, so we asked the front desk if there was anywhere to eat in the cluster of buildings they called a town. We were pointed to the gas station across the street, so we had microwave sandwiches and Jameson shots for dinner. And it was perfect.

The next day the border was open, and I finally got to taste poutine. It was worth every strained muscle in my body. We ended up eating it multiple times over the next few days, and I was never disappointed. We also ended up visiting a few local breweries and coffee shops - pretty much all there was to do with about 2 feet of snow on the ground. All the people were insanely nice - the stereotype stands - but were very confused why we would head north for spring break instead of south like everyone else. I’ve just always liked to be different, I guess.

The trip back was much less eventful - other than being harrassed by US customs over some grapes I forgot I had packed and brought, which they confiscated…even though they were from the US. It was another successful adventure with Seve, and the beginning of a love affair with poutine.