We should be ashamed. We have failed the people of this town.
We should hang our heads and walk down these lonely streets disgusted at ourselves, as we have no reason for the springs in our steps.
We do not deserve the sun nor the snow, and we wait with baited breath to see what swift Hell will be brought upon us for our sins.
Breakfast. The mere mention of the word should elicit elation.
I fear that in our tiny town, however, the reaction will be met with no more than a mere shrug of the shoulders.
Our lack of commitment to a communal breakfast place has left us cold, like an undercooked potato.
Breakfast options exist, to be sure, and they can be delectable, but where are the waffle makers? Where are the gallons of syrup waiting to be poured like a viscous avalanche onto my pancakes? Where are the pancakes?! WHY IS IT SO HARD TO GET PANCAKES IN A SKI TOWN? We have a main street, but we don’t have a main street diner.
We have thirty six coffee shops and too many herbal medicine stores and a fine cheese shop and all sorts of things in between, but I walk down main street and I weep, because I know there is not a waffle in sight.
My hope in writing this letter is that someone, somewhere will read it and understand; their passion for someone else making them breakfast unfulfilled for far too long.
Caroline Cooney (I don’t know who that is) said, “Breakfast was only worth having when somebody else made it for you.” What are we supposed to do? Make it ourselves? That’s insane.
My hope in writing this letter is that someone will throw down their job with little to no foresight or planning and they will say, “No. Not anymore.”
They will take the responsibility of providing an essential breakfast experience and they will thrust it upon themselves like a crown of thorns, donning the apron and holding the spatula high, a beacon of hope for all of Fernie to see, from the Airport to the Annex to all those other neighbourhoods. Downtown? Uptown? I was never clear on titles.
My hope in writing this letter is that someone, somewhere, elbow deep in batter with sweat on their brow will whisper, “This is for Fernie.”
Not me, though. I’m uhhh…I’m busy today.
Clearly.
A concerned citizen,
Michael Bull
Fernie
