The Canada Thread

Thieves in Quebec have made off with a massive haul of maple syrup worth up to $30 million in an unusual burglary targeting the world's most important association of producers of the Canadian confection.

Quebec provincial police are investigating after the Federation of Quebec Maple Syrup Producers, in an inventory check of one of its warehouses, noticed that a large number of the barrels it uses to store its maple syrup were empty.

The warehouse, in St-Louis-de-Blandford, 160 kilometres northeast of Montreal, held about 3.4 million litres of bulk maple syrup and is part of a global strategic reserve of the sticky liquid.

The federation of producers said the Sûreté du Québec and an auditing firm are determining exactly how much the thieves took.

"The St-Louis-de-Blandford warehouse had been secured by a fence and locks, and visited regularly," federation president Serge Beaulieu said in a news release.

The statement said the syrup was being held at the warehouse temporarily while the finishing touches are put on a new storage facility in nearby Laurierville, Que. It was supposed to be transferred over the coming weeks.


If the entire warehouse's contents were stolen, it would represent more than a tenth of Quebec's 2012 harvest, and more than a quarter of the federation's inventory.


The stock of syrup was insured, the federation said, so its members will not lose financially.

The Federation of Quebec Maple Syrup Producers is the industry association for the province's 7,500 producers, and administers a bulk sale system with quotas on individual operations. The federation also keeps nearly 13 million litres in syrup in three warehouses to stabilize global supply and prices.

Quebec produces three-quarter's of the world's maple syrup. The province's output hit 33 million litres this year, down about five per cent from last year but way up from the lean harvest of 2008.

Courtesy of the Mother corp.. or CBC

The Canadian crack spider.

A Canadien Classique.

Another classic.

And another..

'Twas early in the spring when I decide to go
For to work up in the woods in North Ontar-i-o;
And the unemployment office said they'd send me through
To the Little Abitibi with the survey crew
And the black flies, the little black flies,
Always the black fly no matter where you go;
I'll die with the black fly a-pickin' my bones,
In North Ontar-i-o-i-o, in North Ontar-i-o.

And the man Black Tobey was the captain of the crew
And he said, I'm gonna tell you boys, what we're gonna do:
They want to build a power dam; we must find a way
For to make the Little Ab flow around the other way
With the black flies, the little black flies,
Always the black fly no matter where you go;
I'll die with the black fly a-pickin' my bones,
In North Ontar-i-o-i-o, in North Ontar-i-o.

So we survey to the east, survey to the west,
Couldn't make our minds up how to do it best;
Little Ab, Little Ab, what shall I do?
I'm all but goin' crazy with the survey crew
And the black flies, the little black flies,
Always the black fly no matter where you go;
I'll die with the black fly a-pickin' my bones,
In North Ontar-i-o-i-o, in North Ontar-i-o.

It was blackfly, blackfly, everywhere,
A-crawlin' in your whiskers, crawlin' in your hair;
Swimmin' in the soup, swimmin' in the tea,
And the devil take the blackfly, let me be.
Black flies, the little black flies,
Always the black fly no matter where you go;
I'll die with the black fly a-pickin' my bones,
In North Ontar-i-o-i-o, in North Ontar-i-o.

Black Tobey fell to swearin'; the work went slow,
The state of our morale was a-gettin' pretty low;
The flies swarmed heavy; hard to catch your breath,
As you staggered up and down the trail a-talkin' to yourself
With the black flies, the little black flies,
Always the black fly no matter where you go;
I'll die with the black fly a-pickin' my bones,
In North Ontar-i-o-i-o, in North Ontar-i-o.

Well now, the bull cook's name was Blind River Joe,
If it hadn't been for him we'd 've never pulled through;
'Cause he bound up our bruises and he kidded us for fun,
And he lathered us with bacon grease and balsam gum.
And the black flies, the little black flies,
Always the black fly no matter where you go;
I'll die with the black fly a-pickin' my bones,
In North Ontar-i-o-i-o, in North Ontar-i-o.

And at last the job was over; Black Tobey said we're through
With the Little Abitibi and the survey crew!
'Twas a wonderful experience and this I know:
I'll never go again to North Ontar-i-o
With the black flies, the little black flies,
Always the black fly no matter where you go;
I'll die with the black fly a-pickin' my bones,
In North Ontar-i-o-i-o, in North Ontar-i-o.

And the black flies, the little black flies,
Always the black fly no matter where you go;
I'll die with the black fly a-pickin' my bones,
In North Ontar-i-o-i-o, in North Ontar-i-o.

by Wade Hemsworth.

The Log Drivers Waltz, my favourite, sung by Kate and Anna McGarrigle.

Fifty Shades of Eh.

•••

He pulls the leather strap tight against my left wrist. I wince.

“Sorry,” Christian says. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay.”

“I’ll loosen it a bit.”

“Don’t trouble yourself.”

“Honestly, it’ll just take a minute.”

“It’s fine, Christian.”

I gaze upon him with my intrepid eyes. My mouth, which is also intrepid, curls into a sly smile. “Did you remember the clamps?” I ask.

“Canadian Tire was closed. But I found a bunch of clothespins in the garage.”

I swoon. My breathing quickens. My heart beats a frantic tattoo as I surrender myself to the anticipation of languid erotic pleasures and several hours of splinter removal. Why, oh why have I fallen for someone so Canadian—so okay looking, so gainfully employed, so . . . nice?

“I need you to fill out some paperwork before we go any further.” His face impassive, Christian hands me a single shiny sheet. He draws close—so tantalizingly near that I can sense his energy, his essence, his Head & Shoulders—and whispers: “No more than three toppings, or they charge extra.”

He hums a few bars of Nickelback and I’m helpless, trussed up and pressed into his brother’s old futon from university. Christian sighs.

“I’m damaged, Ana. You just don’t get it. I was born to a successful pediatrician . . .”

“Well, that doesn’t sound so—”

“. . . in Winnipeg.”

“Oh. Oh, Christian. I’m so sorry.”

“You’re not the one who’s sorry. I’m sorry.”

There is a pause.

“Sorry,” I say.

My intrepid eyes cast around Christian’s Rec Room of Pain and across his many instruments of torture: the ball gag, the whip, the black gadget that with the press of a single button turns on the cruelest device of all: the television. Sportsnet, TSN . . . Oh Christian, stop teasing and turn it to CBC for the Leafs game! The chronic incompetence . . . the annual ritual of false hope . . . such delicious pain!

My tongue tentatively prods his and they join together in a slow, erotic dance. A tongue dance.

Blissful moments pass. Are they minutes? Hours? A dollop of something cold lands along the intrepid curve of my hip—splash!—and I am alert again. My body is electric, pulse pounding, skin alive with sensation. Desire. This is what desire feels like. “Sorry, spilled my beer.” The sensual gyrations of our relationship, all bump and grind and dancing tongue, continue.

Christian frowns at me.

“Why are you frowning?”

“Sorry,” he says. Now he’s smiling. The Earth shifts on its axis, tectonic plates slide into a new position, volcanoes erupt, trains speed into tunnels and other suggestive images. My inner goddess yearns to be touched by this tragic figure with the jaw of a lumberjack and the clothes also of a lumberjack.

“Do you like my beaver?”

“Sure, but it looks a little small next to the stuffed caribou,” I say.

“Damn rodent put up a hell of a fight. I still say it was worth losing my leg.”

He picks up a riding crop and limps over. I can feel a stirring deep within me, somewhere beneath my snow pants. This feels so different than the last time, so vital, so carnal, so . . . wait, is that the “Coach’s Corner” theme?

Suddenly, Christian is on top of me. He forces something into my mouth. It’s firm, so very hard. I curl my tongue around it and instantly recognize its elegant contours.

Timbit. Chocolate glazed.

“I only had enough cash on me for day olds. Sorry.”

I surrender myself to the sweet agony, and chew.

http://www2.macleans.ca/2012/06/24/forbidden-passion-unspeakable-politeness/?fb_action_ids=10152144706365005&fb_action_types=og.recommends&fb_source=other_multiline&action_object_map=%7B%2210152144706365005%22%3A10150990446053754%7D&action_type_map=%7B%2210152144706365005%22%3A%22og.recommends%22%7D&action_ref_map=[]


Sorry. lol

Wonderful, Ceili.
I enjoyed that!

<snicker>

love The Sweater

can't watch it now

I'll well up

Is that some kinda syrup guy?

(we have aunt jamima for that...)

Aunt Jamima, eh? A pancake on the lips, a life time on the spandexed hips?! ? Nope don't see it happening.. why?
Cue the bugles! Dah ta da daaaaaw.
The obvious hero above is Captain Canada!!
And yes, I'd imagine nothing but sweet maple goodness runs through his veins.

Captain America's little brother, eh?

cool...

I thought this was captain canada...

It's a big country, we have a few..

Love love LOVE this thread!

In other news:

My sister is the executive producer of Primeval which has been running for about 5 seasons in Canada. I got an e mail from her this morning with the exciting news that the show has been sold to an American channel: Sy Fy. Keep an eye out for it.

http://www.ctvnews.ca/canada/syrup-linked-to-big-quebec-heist-recovered-in-new-brunswick-1.981902


Smirk.

Courtesy of the Vancouver Province. It's mostly true..

hidden in bricks of cocaine.

stolen maple syrup....

you guys will just never quite get it.

are you still hiding randy quade?