Where Ketchup will travel

This morning I found myself putting ketchup on my omelette. Something apparently to be frowned upon, here in the Negev desert, or anywhere else in Israel, for that matter. The last time people looked at me like that was when I put my salt on my watermelon. "Enhances the taste!" I said, to their shocked and disapproving stares. It doesn't take much to reaffirm that you haven't yet quite landed, despite spending the last 35 years of your life in this adopted country (who actually was doing the adoption?)

At times like this I always blame my Canadian side, or use it as an excuse, at least. Unlike our American cousins to the south (or across the seas, in my case), our under belly hasn't been exposed in countless sitcoms detailing all of the trivial and gruesome details of American life. (I do ask all South and Central American residents to excuse me for borrowing a part of your identity to identify the United States of America population, but it is just easier this way - call me lazy.) A few Canadian sitcoms do make it all the way here, and some are well received on Israeli soil, but at the most they are considered "quaint". Actually, Canadians on the whole are considered "quaint" here. So I can basically blame almost anything on my Canadian heritage and get away with it.

Perhaps the biggest advantage, or disadvantage (depends on the day of the week, snow storms and whether the Leafs will make the playoffs) of being a mishmash of Israeli experience and Canadian roots, is that nobody will take responsibility for you. "You're not really Israeli, are you?" "How can you still call yourself Canadian?" Actually, this sits quite well with me, unless I am taking it standing up. Being naturally a social misfit (apparently this goes back to my young elementary school days, possibly even kindergarten, but there were no podcasts back then to document any of this) I will use anything offered to explain the unexplainable.

And don't even get me going as to whether a Canadian pronounces it ketchup or catsup. The last time I was in Canada there was a discussion about this (I'd use argument, but Canadians are not often wont to argue, unlike Israelis, who just wait for an excuse to argue). Even Canadians couldn't agree on one pronunciation. It possibly is connected to different generations. Do I still get a generation being away this long?

And corn on the cob. When I first saw corn on the cob in Israel, it wasn't even fit for Mavis the cow. They claim it has gotten better over the years, but Israelis still don't realize that you should only eat corn on the cob when it is hand-picked the same day on a farm and sold at a roadside booth, somewhere like Finch and McCowan. Although the last time I was at Finch and McCowan all I saw was building development. Is nothing sacred?

So, for all of you Canadians still out there in the mother country, and you Israelis who are still wondering how all of these immigrants made it in here, I offer you a slightly different look at identity mislaid, sometimes lost, and occasionally gained - here, and in further entries to come. How about it, eh?