We live in a glorious age of cultural exchange.
Yikes, that sounded like the start of a college essay. A bad college essay. Let’s start over.
These days, it’s easier than ever to share with people across the world. We can consume culture from practically anywhere. You don’t have to travel to Japan to devour sushi. You can watch films from Argentina, Zimba, and everywhere in between. Want authentic Parisian clothing? It’s a simple mouse-click away.
Isolated cultures are becoming more and more rare. We trade and exchange ideas, customs, and thoughts daily. Everything gets absorbed into our massive monoculture.
There’s a lot to criticize about this current state of affairs. It can rob cultures of their flavour and individuality. And there’s always a cadre of culture warriors ready to pounce on any claims of “culturally appropriation.”
I try to keep a positive outlook. All this exchange allows for a lot of creativity. We can remix, change, and customize cultural items to our liking. How else do you think we got the california roll, sloppy joes, and the Dorito Locos Tacos Supreme? (Alright, that last one might not be so good).
Sharing cultures allows us to experience new things. We can see the world from our perspective. Overall, it’s great.
HOWEVER.
All that said, there are some things I can’t let slide. There are some things that need to stay in their lane. Some things don’t need to be remixed or touched up. Some things are perfect the way they are.
I know this sounds horribly exclusionary. I know I shouldn’t have such a knee-jerk reaction. I know I shouldn’t be a hypocrite. But I can’t help it.
One thing that should never be tampered with is poutine. For me this is a quintessentially eastern-Canadian dish. Quebec to Nova Scotia is poutine territory. It’s the perfect late-night, less-than-sober snack for a long stumble home. It doesn’t need any changes.
So I felt no small degree of horror when I saw poutine in Yorkton. I was attending the Wine, Beer, and Spirits Tasting Festival. A friend went to get a snack and returned with a small bowl. I could instantly tell it was poutine.
My gut reaction was derision. I scoffed. I refused to try any. I couldn’t believe that poutine existed west of Quebec. I’ve never made poutine, but I took a weird sense of pride about the food’s home.
Of course, this was complete nonsense. There was nothing wrong with the poutine. It looked just like the dishes I’ve had back home. It’s a pretty simple recipe to replicate. There’s no reason people across our fair country can’t enjoy poutine.
I think you have to let go of instinctive culturally biases. If you get too caught up with pointless pride, you’ll only tie yourself in knots. Just chill out. I’ll try to live by that.
But if anybody touches the donair, we’re going to have a problem.
