Top 10 Rum Bacon Bits

In this the meat of a three-part crumpwich series documenting the Cajun Migration, The Crumpets pilgrimage to the Queen’s landholdings to trace the embarkation of the Acadians in Nova Scotia.


Rum Bacon Bit #1: Canadian bacon, marked by its signature ham-like, juicy, lean, departures from regular bacon, does not compare to the product that emerges from ravenous swimmers, a propane stove, and a bottle of Cuban rum under a looming U.S. embargo on Cuban goods. With 14 hours before a border-crossing, the Cuban rum must be consumed, and what better way to do so than use it for culinary purposes in a provincial campground under liquor ban. Voila! The inflammatory taste of rum bacon—the new Canadian bacon standard.

Rum Bacon Bit #2: For the adventure-seeking enthusiasts, soaking up a host of “Highway 1s” on craggy coastlines on quests for sea-faring villages of ballad-worthy renown [read: Sherbrooke] is quite the wall-of-fog driving experience. Most rewarding is when the fog breaks to reveal groups of village children waving and chasing one’s vehicle amid joyous whooping and yawping—presumably at the sight of another human being.

Rum Bacon Bit #3: The bustling metropolis of Halifax seems to be the only urban center of significance in Nova Scotia, and despite the apparent lapse of rigid enforcement from what may be assumed of the British-esque guards who man the city’s central fort whilst iPhoning on duty, purchasing alcohol at Halifax establishments surprisingly requires two forms of government-issued identification including but not limited to: passport, driver’s license, social security card, birth certificate.


Rum Bacon Bit #4: Fast food chains in Canada, simply put, have odd variants. To order a burger from the A&W one must choose from a “burger family”: the papa burger, mama burger, and the special—“grandma burger.” McDonald’s also has its oddities in the double Big Mac and what must be a regional favorite—the McLobster.

Rum Bacon #5: Canada is quite fond of calling its educational/museum/historical sites “interpretive centers.” Example: Fort Bickerton Lighthouse Interpretive Centre. It could mean full sensory experience of place. Or it could refer to the confusion of visiting the Acadian National Historic Site, where the natural greeting is “Bonjour” and if one member of the party proceeds to converse in French, it is assumed the rest will do so as well. Interpretive.

Rum Bacon #6: Agriculture (along with fishing) in Nova Scotia appears to be the economic mainstay. Though the fields of fallow land during what seems to be a short-window optimum growing season would negate this observation, the stretches of wide open land—fallow or not—are quite astonishing. Alternatively, lawn care could be a close second for occupation choice. Any day, all day, somewhere lawn-mowers hum.


Rum Bacon Bit #7: Unlike many American state signs, Nova Scotia has its signage down to a gargantuan science for optimal tourist cam photography. Not only does every province seem to have larger than life decorative, engraved lighthouse carvings, but every exit has its own picture-book landscape road sign of what culture awaits in just half a kilometer.

Rum Bacon Bit #8: Do not try to be local and cultural and experimental by ordering a Canadian. Beer, that is. It may sound exotic: “I’ll have a pint of Canadian.” But ye b warned, if Bud-Light is lowest on the shelf, Canadian is rolling around underneath the rack. A much finer alternative is Rickard’s, which comes in Red, White, and Dark varieties.

Rum Bacon Bit #9: The temperature of the North Atlantic around Nova Scotia is between approximately 25-35 degrees during winter, and 50-60 in summer. Given that summer does not really begin until late June (if the abandoned tourist towns are any indication), one really appreciates Suburban seat warmers after a dip in the ocean and subsequent frantic dash to the heat-cranked vehicle on a dreary/foggy/windy/wallofogged day.

Rum Bacon Bit #10: Thankfully the U.S.-Canadian border patrol agents at Calais do not find it necessary to detain four whippersnappers bedecked in American flags waving Acadian ones bellowing “Viva L’Acadie!” and “Rule Britannia” in a Suburban full of wet tents, wet towels, wet clothes, unwashed camping utensils, half-eaten pots of jambalaya, and a backseat stuffed with sleeping bags and potentially-embedded Cuban cigars. The border patrol agents are much more interested in posing existential questions to the motley crew of Louisianans, Cajuns, quasi-Cajuns, Las Vegans, Knoxvillians, Americans with questionable allegiances, finance students-turned-lit, lit-students-turned-grad-students: “What ARE you?” and “Driving from Louisiana. To Canada. Camping. In four days of rain. And no one’s killed anyone yet?”

Such is “leave no trace” camping.

[Bonus Bacon (because it’s Canada): Nova Scotia, Canada’s playground of the Maritimes or some such thing, is actually on a different time zone in parts. It is in fact possible to drive around the island for days unawares of the time change and what time it actually is, but only because Canada’s signature aviary--the loon--signals when dawn has arrived. The loon, not to be confused with Canada’s monetary increment the looney, heralds the dawn with punctuated squawking yawp screams sounding like a bird with short term memory loss surprised every five minutes to discover that, “WHAAHH!,” it is indeed a bird.]

Most Wanted List: Sunrises from easternmost continental points (thanks, wall o’ fog)

Crump It Up List:

(Editor’s note: This list is by no stretch of the imagination exhaustive. With more than 72 hours of driving time and expert DJs and Library-of-Congress-size iTunes, what gets listed here is simply one perspective of “memorable.”)
“Go Do”—Jonsi, “Barrett’s Privateers”—Stan Rogers, “June Hymn”—The Decemberists, “Rule Britannia,” “Thundercats”—Reliant K, “Woods”—Bon Iver, “Galway Girl”—Steve Earle, “Paper Planes”—M.I.A., “Ignition”—R. Kelly, “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice”—Paul Dukas, “All of the Lights”—Kanye, “Albuquerque”—Weird Al, “Into the West”—Annie Lennox, “Scott Dowdin’” (to “Free Fallin’”)—T-Matt & G-Matt

Acknowledgments: Gratitude for The Cajun Migration exploration leg of the great roadtrip is owed to Pat—the empty nester Mountie dad who offered us lanterns, propane, light, hot tea, and showers from his campsite across the way, to the camp manager at Nimrod’s Campground (Ms. Nimrod?) who changed out of her pjs and opened her trailer to us for a campsite in the dead of night in desolate Sherbrooke, to the Halifax security officer who cared enough to ponder where we could find Guinness stew and in so doing offered the history of Halifax and gave suggestions for stellar interpretive centres, to the Border Patrol officers who, despite their best judgment, allowed us safe and unencumbered passage to and fro our various homelands, to Megan the cranky pub server who did in fact manage to bring three of the same orders to the table despite an initial bleak outlook, to the bullet-proof-vested liquor police who did not search our campsite, to the Book of Nova Scotian folklore for providing many a head-scratching riddle, to T-Matt for educating us all in the ways of the Acadians, to G-Matt for saving Bertha from being stuck-in-the-gravel/mud, to Mario for expertly handling the inquisition at the border patrol both times, to the Great Lob, god of the sea to whom sacrifice was paid but from whom our lives were spared, and finally to Longfellow—who made the quest for Evangeline so poetic.



Prequel (New England adventures) and Sequel (the majesty that is Buffalo) to follow soon.

Peace out Brussels sprouts, yo.

Top 10 Moonkey Calls

Prequel to the adventures of Canadian rum bacon, The Crumpets go vocal with monkey calls documenting the road-weary journey up the Eastern Seaboard to Canada.

Moonkey Call #1: The moonkey—a cross between a donkey and a moose—was invented over the delirious course of several 10+ hour driving days eventually resulting in the call of the moonkey, characterized by bellowing braying: Mooooon-key, moooon-key (to the inflection of the traditional donkey bray “heee hawww”).

Moonkey Call #2: The first natural stop for any good roadtrip is Lynchburg, Tennessee for a tour of Jack Daniels. While the distillery is in a dry county without enough voters to reverse the liquor ban, thankfully Jack’s newest product line Tennessee Honey Whiskey can in fact be purchased (and was purchased) in Knoxville.

Moonkey Call #3: New England is a smorgasbord for the discerning munchkin connoisseur as Dunkin’ Donuts are in ample supply. Though one begins to realize that perhaps it is not donuts that are necessarily more popular but coffee.

Moonkey Call #4: Along with an increase in Dunkin’ Donuts, vanity plates suddenly multiply in droves once one hits Maryland and D.C. They certainlyl do make sitting in morning traffic more entertaining.

Moonkey Call #5: There is little else in the world so detestable as driving through New Jersey—Newark/Hoboken—on a Monday morning. Not only does New Jersey seem rather fake at times with its “planted” agricultural fields to make itself appear to have green spaces near its urban megalopoli, but its horrendous signage for tunnelage near New York is a heinous travesty. Road signs looking like coiled snakes with poking arrows misaligning every which way cost poor Bertha a good hour of disorientation, though to the crew’s credit, most toll roads/bridges/tunnels were avoided.

Moonkey Call #6: Free from the trappings of smog and confusion that is infernal New Jersey, pristinely coiffed Connecticut is a refreshing Paradiso—or at least Purgatory. For the weary and hungry travelers, the small (deserted) town of Wallingford seems a likely choice for a rejuvenating lunch stop. Though the centerpiece of the town is a decrepit cemetery surrounded by abandoned businesses and empty streets save for a young mother and a stroller who darted away down an alley upon our approach, the Wallingford Pizza House is a beacon of repute by comparison. That is of course until the employees asked if cheese was needed. For a cheese pizza.

Moonkey Call #7: Apparently the wrath of New Jersey is vast as it can detect when a group of dissenters burn the hallowed New Jersey map for marshmallow-roasting fuel even all the way in New Hampshire. Jersey exacts her revenge by sending a raging storm with low lightning and thunder that shakes the ribcage to torment all dwellers of the open field.

Moonkey Call #8: Driving Maine’s interstates is a generally barren experience. Driving Maine’s coastal highways at dusk into nightfall is a generally foggy experience made more exciting by playing games with the rain spritz on the windshield. How long can you take it with the mist coagulating before you succumb to the windshield wiper? Exhilarating game. Try to top 45 minutes.

Moonkey Call #9: One of the most iconic lighthouses in Maine—the Bass Head Lighthouse—is in truth rather run-of-the-mill as far as lighthouse collecting goes. However, just north of the lighthouse is a trail that winds its way along the coast eventually to a secluded beach that rolls in the smoothest of rock pebbles. It is a beach full of dinosaur egg-like wallowing rocks, perfect for rock petting whilst listening to the incomparable sound of the sea pulling and culling the clocking rocks. Bliss.

Moonkey Call #10: If one is ever entering Acadia National Park in Maine after dark, be advised navigation will be an issue. The town of Bar Harbor is situated in such a way as to be accessible from the park via loop roads that cuts in and out of the park at various points that all look strangely similar. The National Park is itself on an island, making everything quite circuitous as it is. All of this, complicated by rain, windshield wars, starvation, a long drive, nightfall, texts from parents saying we’ll never make it and should get a hotel, general delirium, and (lovely) impromptu ukulele recitals from the backseat makes winding through a desolate national park pre-tourist season in the dead of night slightly surreal. But with a generous 17 minutes to spare before campground closure, we rolled up to our first night of camping at 9:43 to pouring rain in which a tent was raised (despite the initial lack of poles), the propane stove was ignited, pasta was cooked, appetites were assuaged, and the saving remedy of the night—Tennessee Honey Whiskey—was partaken of by all.

Most Wanted List: Moonkey/Moose/Moonquixote sitings

Crump It Up List: (see Rum Bacon crumpets)

Acknowledgements: Gratitude is owed to the following generous souls who made this leg of the Cajun Migration possible: to Scott Dowd, keeper of the dynamite, rounds-maker, and difference-splitter who recommended a lovely hike to Great Head and whose memory we sustained throughout the migration’s entirety, to the Girl Scout leaders who gave us kindling for our fire and who patiently aided us in getting it lit without contacting my Girl Scout council to report Girl Scout camping ineptitudes, to the Boy Scout scoutmaster who also aided us with our fire in another location, to Megan and Tom who so magnanimously provided hospitality, showers, and beds for our Philadelphia stay despite our delirious mental states, and finally to Lucia and Tomas for the fascinating psychology of your working relationship and advocacy work.

Peace out, Moonkey scouts. (Thanks for indulging the Crumpets, once again.)

Stay tuned for the ultimate sequel with tales of the last leg of the journey—Rivendell/Buffalo.