Plentywood, Montana

This month’s #letslunch category is meant to be holiday side dishes. As a quick reminder, #letslunch is a twitter hashtag wherein some of twitter’s finest cooks submit their chosen lunch entries on a designated day. It is a means of sharing lunch with other cooking enthusiasts around the world. I used to be an avid participant but events over the past year have left me straggling in to contribute only now and again. Fate struck again this month so I thought I would mix it up by offering up a side dish of life, since there was no time for cooking.

The last time I traveled into Canada, I was given a 3 month visitor visa by a Canadian immigration officer. I had thought that I could stay up to 6 months but apparently the length of time one can stay is completely at the discretion of immigration officers at the point of entry. Three months ended today, so yesterday my fiancé and I made a mad dash for the closest border control station, which happens to be in a remote area of the prairies between Montana and Saskatchewan. I only mention this because it explains how I found myself in tiny town in a remote area of Montana on a blustery Thursday morning in December, which is my #letslunch slice of Americana side dish for today.

Driving south on route 6 out of Regina, the buildings quickly give way to vast windswept prairies sprinkled with massive rolled bales of hay and even fewer farmhouses and outbuildings. The wind blows fiercely from the west blowing the snow so constantly over the road that it appears to be a mist machine circa 70’s disco clubs. The rising sun, a fiery pink ball in the east illuminates the remoteness of the area as we struggle to keep the car between the lines of the two lane road amidst the ice and buffeting wind. Two hours later we approach a wide spot in the road which proves to be Regway, a Saskatchewan border crossing into Montana where I turned in my visitor visa. 20 minutes farther down the road south, we came to the tiny hamlet of Plentywood, Montana whose claim to fame is being the historic spot where Sitting Bull ultimately surrendered to the US Army.

With a population of about 2,000; it boasts 4 churches, a Masonic temple and one traffic light. We drove from one end of the town to the other, scoping out the community for something to do to kill a little time before heading back to the border to renew my visa. I particularly liked the Sherwood Inn that also includes the Robin Hood Lounge, Friar Tuck steakhouse and Maid Marion styling salon but at 11:00 AM the spot that looked the most promising, judging from its very crowded (relatively speaking, of course) parking lot, was the EZ-Way bakery.

Inside the Ez, there are 3 very large round tables & chairs with a scattering of smaller tables throughout the large “cafe”. Two of the tables were surrounded by elderly women, chattering and filling out Christmas cards, though likely half of them were for each other. Their hair was coifed and sprayed in place and they were sporting mostly holiday sweaters and matching thematic earrings. At the other table all the men gathered wearing baseball style caps in camouflage or bearing slogans like “Git er done”. I kid you not. On the wall was a poster announcing a raffle which promised its participants 30 guns in 30 days. All of the clientele, averaging 70+, were obviously there for the long haul.

The coffee, self-serve in glass mugs, was tepid and no stronger than weak tea but I guess if you have a couple dozen seniors cooling their heels while drinking coffee all morning, that’s probably advisable. But what struck me the most was that these people were a community. This was obviously a regular gathering for them at which the wives swapped recipes, tales of children and grandchildren and no doubt, complaints of husbands and muddy boots. The men were spinning yarns about hunting and fishing escapades that may or may not have happened and some sat quietly reading the paper in companionable ease. I’ve never been a small town girl, I guess it’s just an experience that never presented itself in my life. But sitting at the cafe window, which was clad in home-made cheerful curtains, I could see the appeal for these folks who likely were born there, grew up, raised families and worked hard in this small modest community. They know each other’s pasts and presents, secrets and heartaches and still gather at the local bakery to indulge in a doughnut or the daily bran muffin special (not surprising) to share their lives. We were warmly welcomed by the proprietor who recommended the pumpkin muffins over the bran and he even came to our table to refill our coffee. We did get some curious looks, especially when 3 elderly women came in only to find us in what appeared to be their regular spot. But everyone was smiles and the owner set them up at a different table arranging chairs and newspapers for their comfort. Maybe we were able to change up their routine with a different perspective.

As we drove out of town, past the “Kum and Go” Gas station (yes, I swear I did not make that up) I realized that in a small way they gave me a different perspective too. A close knit group that is as comfortable as your old holey college sweatshirt can be as fulfilling as an exotic vacation on a tropical beach. It’s just not as warm. It’s all in your perspective.