Wednesday, May 26, 2021

Tim Hortons, again

I can't stop myself from collecting literary passages referencing Tim Hortons. And I don't even drink coffee. Seven previous posts can be found via this link. My latest roundup includes poetry, fiction and nonfiction.

The first thing Mr Chung did was show Dad and Mom how to make coffee. This, he told them, was the most important thing he would teach them. It was 1976, before the proliferation of Starbucks or Tim Hortons. When people wanted coffee, they either made it at home, or bought it at cafes like his. Many of the regulars would only be here for the coffee, Mr Chung told them. (p 183)

- from Chop Suey Nation: The Legion Cafe and Other Stories from Canada's Chinese Restaurants by Ann Hui


    autumn 15 years later, without answer, he is speeding
seated, shot on a chrome greyhound
    through golden farmlands at sunset, pink
and orange beams streaming between leaves
    scattering shadows across the directionless
    an asphalt strip
divides the foothills, drives forward and back
    between pasts and futures, wow and flutters
thru towns inhabited by baseball caps and
    plaid shirts, by tim hortons, by belt-buckles
clinked locked above zippered wranglers, by ford
    pickups raising dust on old-boy back roads, abandoned
barns angled with the wind, cowboy hats adrift atop
    the rye grasses, fence posts bound by barb wire
wooden churches whose doors open onto fire
    and boredom        i was wondering whether your writing
is haunted by place, does place matter (p 66)

-from Magnetic Equator by Kaie Kellough


"We all slip," Phil said.
It was more of a bungee jump into hell, Jared thought, but he smiled, felt the fakeness of it, let it collapse.
Still, if it got him out of the hospital, he was happy to pretend that he'd ended up naked and dehydrated in the basement of his mom's old house because he'd fallen off the wagon in a big way.
His dad asked him if he needed help dressing.
"No," Jared said.
"Okay." Phil put a plastic grocery bag of clothes and a pair of polished black dress shoes on the bed near Jared's feet. "I'm going to grab a coffee from Timmies. Want anything, kiddo?"
"Uh, sure," Jared said. "Double double please."

- from Return of the Trickster by Eden Robinson


in no particular order I'd like to take a moment to show gratitude to the following: Beyonce. bobby pins. peanut m&ms. the moon. coffee. Seawitch fish & chips. the tv show Steven Universe. flowers. fast-moving clouds. coconut water. Whitney Houston. the state of Kentucky. John Mayer. Moleskin notebooks. doctors. grey t-shirts. the movie Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. rocks, especially quartz. my favourite mug with Zac Efron's face on it. green juice. bonnaroo. Timbits. peppermint tea. cooking shows of all kinds. books. Ford Escapes. crispy m&ms. bananas. the Toronto Blue Jays. the TTC. mini dachshunds. the internet. Jimmy's Coffee. & baristas everywhere. (p 75)

- from the acknowledgments in Depression and Other Magic Tricks by Sabrina Benaim


Three days after leaving Amsterdam, I flew to Saskatoon, two cities that share the same latitude, although not much else. In Saskatoon, the words coffee shop are inextricably linked to Tim Hortons. In Amsterdam, coffee shop means marijuana cafe. (p 135)

- from Happily Ever Older: Revolutionary Approaches to Long-Term Care by Moira Welsh


Mëxate Kishux (Deep Snow Moon)

Four railcars parked
on dead-end track. Faded mural
mirrors dirty snow.

Over grey mounds,
sultry scraped snow,
rat drags Timbit box.

River ice reflects Detroit.
Gull pivots between borders
cries into bitter air.

Beneath black oaks,
elderberries dance atop
snow. Western breath.

Through fogged window
indigo surges around OPEN
sign. Man carves shawarma.

Cattails upright before
cold front, man spreads
salt on bare road.

Sky blue cut ice
glistens above cloud
bank of fresh snow.

Against paper cup
sweet muddy coffee burns
fingers. Week begins.

- from Tùkhòne: Where The River Narrows And Shores Bend by DA Lockhart

Thanks to Naomi over at Consumed by Ink for alerting me to this last one. A review of DA Lockhart's collection (and this poem) can be found online in Miramichi Reader:

No comments: