Just the other day, after having finished Michael Ondaatje’s wonderful The Collected Works of Billy the Kid, I picked a couple of grapes at the Superstore, and ate them as I strolled. I have, in the spirit of full disclosure, from time-to-time thrown caution to the wind and parked in employees-only spots behind private businesses, but only at night or on weekends when no one is there to call the tow truck.Ī late-teen dine-and-dash from a downtown Halifax eating establishment is the closest I have come to an actual felony, although there may be a long-ago Carleton University phone bill that is still outstanding, to which I plead the statute of limitations.īraving the wrath of the HRM’s dog patrol, I have, again usually under cover of darkness, walked my hound where no dog is supposed to tread. I use this term subversive, as you probably gather, in the broadest possible manner, because I have always been a law-abiding, colour-between-the-lines type: other than the Resolutes Amateur Athletic Club, and the Queen Elizabeth High Facebook group, no membership in dubious organizations for me. Second, as well as hitting the taste buds just right, there’s the tiny thrill you get from committing a small, subversive act like starting the day with something that nutritionally is undeniably bad for you. Pie is magnificent at any time of the day, but there is something about having it in the morning, in place of the ole yogurt and granola.įirst, it involves no effort on the part of the chef. The other night as a sleepover gathering wound down, the subject of what to do with the leftover pie came up.

Outrageous acts of everyday rebellion