Quebec City – The Cupboard of My Mind

Flying above Quebec flooded my mind with memories. Memories of walking through the winding streets of Quebec City, exploring the Appalachian Mountains, sleeping in a camper, or fishing in the bubbling creeks. A living photo album.

The St. Lawrence River, a dark blue ribbon. Ile d'Oreleans, a green gem in the middle of the St. Lawrence, covered with the patchwork of farmland. Montmorency Falls, a gold-white wall of water crashing and thundering into the water below.

Good memories.

I hadn't been to Canada in over 20 years. But it was like visiting an old friend. You picked up the conversation right from where you left off as if nothing had changed. The smells, the sights, the French language. About the only thing that really changed was my appreciation for French Canadian food.

Poutine. So much poutine. The crispy fries. The cheese curds that squeak with every bite. And the sauce... oh, that salty, flavorful gravy.

The hot chicken, bathed in that same gravy sauce, drowning rotisserie chicken meat, and soaking thick brioche bread slices.

The flavors and the hearty meals, healing to the soul.

Traveling and food always go hand-in-hand. The food is a true reflection of a culture. Chain restaurants don't cut it, although Poutineville gets a pass.

It wasn't just the food that snapped me back to a different time. It was walking the old streets of Quebec City. Standing on the uneven cobblestones, watching street performers in the square. People sitting on the steps, watching. Captivated. The castle walls blocking their view of modern buildings. The castle towering behind. A city built in 1608.

The wilderness of Quebec called my heart. The rolling Appalachian Mountains in the distance, remembering when we drove to those mountains as kids. The pine-scented trees stained in my memory.

We explored the wilderness, but only briefly. Visiting the town my grandfather grew up in, Wendake, a reservation for the Huron-Wendake Nation. The Chief's house with totem poles guarding the door. Imagining my grandfather living there as a child.

We walked through a Huron-Wendat light show, the story of the creation of the world through their eyes. Lights flickering in the maple tree forest, dancing in the leaves like stars.

Ile d'Oreleans gives you a different flavor of Quebec culture. One that beckons to true French Canadian origins. A maritime flavor sprinkled with agrarian spices.

The seaway painting the air with salt as the tide uncovers waterlogged shores. Crabs and crustaceans scrambling for cover. Massive ships gliding through the water. Sailboats accenting the skyline like white commas.

The island's interior is home to the gold and green patchwork of farms. Rolling hills, like a wrinkled blanket. Wheat fields that shiver with the bronze reflection of the sun. The earthy smell of manure and farm animals mixing with the smells of the sea.

It's the breadbasket of French Canada. The cupboard of my mind.