Achi news desk-
It was a gray, overcast day in April and I was standing in a Walmart parking lot in Ogdensburg, NY, wondering if I should re-evaluate my life choices.
I was meeting a salesman in a parking lot and was looking for his particular Jeep. Once I found it, I awkwardly waved to indicate that I was ready to collect my embarrassing purchase. A woman stepped out of the Jeep wearing a T-shirt that said “Scout Grandma.“ A young woman was following her.
“Cookies?” asked the woman, and I nodded. That one word summed up why I would come all this way and the patriotic guilt I felt for crossing the border from Canada into the United States to buy 54 packages of baked goods.
I was there to get the perfect cookies for my dad—a cookie connoisseur who brought his appreciation for cookies with him when our family moved from Florida to Ontario in the mid-1990s. Dad taught me from an early age that there is a fundamental difference between Canada and our southern neighbor: The Girl Guides of Canada sells three flavors of cookiesbut the Girl Scouts of the United States sells 12. When we moved north, Dad lamented the lack of options. Almost three decades later, he still misses his favourites, the Caramel deLites and Lemonades. (He sees my liking of the Toast-Yay as a minor betrayal.)
Two years ago, I surprised Dad with a bag full of these American cookies, procured from a friend of a friend who was visiting Ottawa from Maine. The treats were a huge success when I went to Guelph, Ont., while I was visiting my parents. As a follow-up to this success, last spring Dad and I planned to order enough American cookies to share with our colleagues and friends.
I felt like a bad Canadian as I put this order together. Where was my loyalty to my home country, and what about my love for vanilla Girl Guide cookies? More importantly, shouldn’t I be buying 54 Canadian packs? Dad’s longing for the cookies brought me face to face with my desire to spend locally.
The issue was complicated by my dual citizenship. I had spent the vast majority of my life in Canada, and here I was, not supporting the country where I lived. At the same time, maybe this is a way to explore my American roots in the most delicious way possible.
Then disaster struck, perhaps in revenge for being such a bad citizen. Our cookie link was no longer able to visit. The order was cancelled.
That’s how the cookie crumbles, as they say.
Except Dad would have none of it. It was in problem solving mode. He reached out to a New York newspaper, indicating he would have local scouting connections. He was put in touch with a woman in Watertown, NY, who would be visiting Ogdensburg with her Girl Scout granddaughter in the coming weeks. That would put her about 90 minutes south of me.
Then came the all-important question: Would I pick up the cookies?
The same guilt from earlier was bothering me. I was a believer in supporting local communities and buying 54 packs of American cookies could make me The Worst Canadian Ever. It would certainly be hypocritical of me to talk about supporting Canadians and then pop over the border to pick up an embarrassing number of cookies.
Clarity struck the day I made my decision to go to upstate New York for the cookies. It wasn’t about cookies or my citizenship — this was about Dad. He moved to Guelph with my family to look for better opportunities for us. He slept on my bedroom floor during thunderstorms because I was scared and didn’t want to be alone. He attended a number of dance recitals. He managed to do a difficult job to support my family.
I could never repay Dad for a lifetime of love and support, but I sure could buy him cookies.
Eventually, my boyfriend and I drove to Ogdensburg, found our new cookie contact, and mentally apologized to the entire country of Canada as we loaded our car. Once we were back in Ottawa, I started putting together a package of Dad’s cookies to send to Guelph.
I could have put a note in the box for him: Thank you for a lifetime of love. Thanks for the work I didn’t notice. Thank you for being present.
I didn’t write anything. My father is not an overly sentimental man. He would laugh and roll his eyes if he received something like that. The cookies themselves were the message, and I can confirm that he was delighted to receive the shipment.
I still feel some lingering guilt about the cookie odyssey, but I have found a way to even the score. I’m sure, over a lifetime, I’ll buy at least 54 packs of the Canadian version.
So if you need to find me, listen for a crunch – and you’ll find me with a Girl Guide cookie.
WATCH | Do you know what these cookies need? Some milk, in a bag or jug:
Milk bags first entered the Canadian market in the late 1960s. But why is bagged milk the norm in Ontario, Quebec and the Maritime provinces but not other parts of the country? The answer has to do with the metric system and user habits.
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