Poutine
By kiragecko
This is beyond fluff. It skirts the edge of pointless. It's been in my head since I imagined my life as an X-Men, so I guess it's self-insertion. Completely derailed the storyline I had going for hours as I sat in frozen shock. By writing this story I hope to free myself from its horror.
Disclaimer: since I mentioned McDonalds and New York Fries in this story, as well as various names that could be X-Men if Marvel doesn't want to sue me but are otherwise completely unrelated to any characters of the same name in other mediums then this, I figure I should mention I don't own anything. Well, maybe an mp3 player and a few pieces of clothing from Sally Ann, but nothing that makes money.
We'd been shopping for three hours. I had, until this point in my life, successfully avoided shopping with excessively… girly members of my sex. Punks – fine. Old ladies – not a problem. People who actually ENJOY trying on tiny scraps of cloth and calling them outfits – not really my thing. But I was with the X-Men now, so I didn't have a choice.
Rogue had tried to stick me in pink. That's when I rebelled and demanded sustenance. Blank visages met my gaze.
"Poutine? You know – potatoes cut into strips, fried in grease, coated in grease, and then added grease melted on top? The great – oh no."
Their faced became slightly sympathetic, though no more understanding. Apparently my horror was understood even if its cause wasn't.
"I'm in the States. I'm in a country that doesn't know about poutine! The greatest Canadian invention ever, one of the few things that make my homeland unique, the only reason the mall is bearable, and it no longer exists. Rogue, how long would it take to fly over the border? How can you stand living here? There's no poutine!"
'Ro's being all calm and kind and reasonable. I want to hit her.
"What is this… poutine? Perhaps we could put it together? What is in it?"
I sulk. Still, the slightest chance of heart clogging goodness…
"Fries. Covered with gravy. Cheese curds melting to stringy goo. A fork. A container too small to hold the feast which always spills it onto the ground. Mmm."
I bask in the steaming memory of my favourite mall fare. Closed eyes allow me to imagine each fry in detail. An infidel intrudes upon my contemplation of paradise.
"GRAVY on fries? Gross!"
My high opinion of Jubilation Lee takes an abrupt nosedive.
"Never speak in such a tone about the Sacred Poutine again!"
I think I'm overtired. And stressed. It must the quantity of skin baring clothing I have been assaulted with.
"What are cheese curds?"
"Sacred?! You're really weird."
I sulk again. In insulting poutine they have insulted my national pride. It's like insulting hockey, but worse, since I don't actually like hockey. It's like having all the best hockey teams. It's like having a hockey team in PHOENIX, ARIZONA. It's like buying a hockey team from the city of my birth and transferring it to said sweltering, iceless, heathen place. It's like calling a toque a knitted hat (::gasp, the horror::)
I sink into a plastic food court chair and glower into the distance. After a while a container of fries is slid in front of me. They aren't coated in gravy and cheese curds but they also aren't McDonalds. They look good. I poke them suspiciously (you never can tell with strange foreign food) and finally nod my acceptance. Ororo smiles.
We eat lunch. Jubilee doesn't let up on her opinion of gravy on fries. I call her every insulting name for Americans I can think of. I don't know that many. I call her every insulting name for Californians, girls, shoppers, and every other group I can think of. I even throw a few fries at her, though not many, because they're pretty good. New York Fries, eaten in New York. Did you know that New York Fries makes the best poutine? You should try it sometimes. Just not in New York.
Heathens.