An Excerpt from 'In Trudeau's Kitchen'
Friends, Now that In Trudeau’s Kitchen has gone through its editing process, I can share one of my favorite chapters with you in its entirety. I had only shared the first part of it with you some weeks ago. In this part of the story, I am going to Ottawa to have lunch with and to be (video) interviewed by Sophie Gregoire Trudeau at the prime ministerial home (Rideau Cottage). Here is a link to the video that was subsequently edited and made public by the Prime Minister’s Office, soon after this fateful day: Link to Jeff and Sophie's talk Link to Pre-order Book
CHAPTER FOUR: A FAMILY TRIP TO OTTAWA
I decided to leave for Ottawa a few days before the taping of my dialogue with Sophie Trudeau at their home—Rideau Cottage. Since my first book was published, I had done hundreds of radio shows and podcasts, but very little on-camera work. I was nervous and wanted to make sure my lines were so solid that nothing could distract me. I was speaking for my whole lineage, after all. I wanted to make them proud.
My current vehicle was a banged-up Dodge Ram, so I booked a rental Jeep in Georgetown, Ontario. When you grow up on the outside looking in, you always worry you’ll be seen as a fraud when you get invited into the centre. It had been years since I’d struggled with those feelings, but the idea of pulling up to the prime ministerial home in a dented and rusty truck brought them back to the surface. I wanted to show up like I belonged.
The weekend before, Susan and I had driven into downtown Toronto to purchase two gifts for Mrs. Trudeau—a t-shirt, and a hat that said “Truth Speaker.”
After months of being cocooned in my writer’s world, I was concerned I would look pale on camera, so I’d been visiting a tanning salon. The last time I was there, I asked about self-tanning lotion. The attendant recommended a small sixty-dollar bottle. I snapped it up. Just before I left for Ottawa, I smeared a bunch of it on my face, upper chest, hands, and arms.
On the morning of Monday, April 23rd, I drove to Georgetown to pick up my Grand Cherokee. All tanned up with someplace to go, I was ready to kick ass. But when I got there, they didn’t have the SUV that I’d booked. What they did have was a giant black Yukon, the kind of vehicle used to chauffeur dignitaries around. I was no dignitary, but I was driving to meet one. Apropos. I planned to stay at a downtown Kingston hotel on Day One and then drive to my Ottawa hotel the next day. Sophie and I would meet for the lunch and video dialogue on Day Three.
I had never driven an SUV this size before and climbed in for the long drive to Kingston. Soon after pulling onto the highway that cuts through North Toronto, I was overcome with emotion. Familiar childhood roads took me back to challenging scenes from childhood. The night my father’s Pontiac Strato Chief was seized for non-payment. The time we were arguing so intensely that we failed to notice we had driven through a red light at Bathurst and St Clair. My mother’s secretarial office above the bowling alley at Glencairn Avenue. Our typical Sunday afternoon visiting up to six relatives at Branson Hospital. That embarrassing moment at Bayview Village Mall when we chose the only affordable—and surely most unsightly—bar mitzvah suit imaginable. My father lying on the couch for months, too depressed to get off his ass and find yet another job. My beloved grandmother’s umpteenth visit to St. John’s Convalescent Hospital. My mentally challenged cousin Gloria riding the bus up and down Bathurst Street to visit a whole team of doctors about her latest medical concern. I loved that woman most of all.
I was by no means feeling sorry for myself. If anything, I was marveling at the remarkable contrast between those life experiences and this pristine moment of triumph. A member of the rough and tumble Brown clan going to the Prime Minister’s house to have his ideas showcased to the country? It felt both entirely surreal and like some kind of ancestral healing.
My ride down memory lane continued all the way to Kingston. I pulled up to my downtown hotel in the early evening only to find that my massive Yukon was too tall for their underground garage. The entire downtown core seemed to prohibit parking. Across the street was an outdoor parking lot, but paying for it required that I download something called an app. Above my tech grade. In the hotel, someone suggested the hospital parking lot a few miles away. Apparently, they had the ceiling space to accommodate a Yukon. I drove there with some measure of concern: what would happen if I couldn’t find a place to park? Would I have to stay up all night driving my Yuk around? That would surely ruin my sleep in Ottawa, and then I’d arrive for camera day in a zombie-like stupor.
When I finally found the garage, there was no one around to ask if the ceilings could accommodate my Yuk. So, I took my chances and crawled my way through the mostly barren parking lot to an upstairs spot.
In the hotel room, I noticed my face was orange. I called my wife to ask her if I’d fucked up with the self-tanner.
“You’re only supposed to leave it on for a few hours,” she said.
It had now been six hours since I’d applied it. I half-jokingly asked if there was an anti-tanner I could buy to restore my skin to flesh tone. Nope. I’d be going to the PM’s house orange.
When I was young, there was an episode of The Mary Tyler Moore Show called ‘Put on a Happy Face’ that had stuck with me. In the episode, Mary was nominated for a prestigious “Teddy” award. But she was not in any condition to attend the event. She had a nasty cold, a sprained foot, a hair bump, and a stained dress. It felt like foreshadowing. As I lay down on the bed praying for a good night’s sleep, I wondered if this was my Mary Tyler Moore moment.
I woke up at the crack of dawn and made my way to the parking lot to get the Yukon. After a brief scare when I couldn’t find it, I found my chariot right where I left it. As I turned onto Hwy 401 east, I was again overcome with emotion. This time, pride and gratitude for all those relations who came before. I thought of their many economic and health challenges, their penchants and proclivities, their idiosyncrasies and neurotic tendencies, the countless ways that their patchwork of efforts had somehow given me just what I needed to reach this stage of triumph and overcoming. I drove for them, too. I thought of the many shoulders I stood upon:
My beloved grandparents; my dysfunctional but protective parents; my emotionally overwhelmed yet kindhearted brothers; my Uncle Al (one of the first heart bypass recipients in history); Uncles Sid, Morry, and Manny; my Auntie Tilly (heart of hearts); Auntie Emma; (my perpetually inebriated) Auntie Murita; and the two Auntie Annes. I thought again of Gloria—who despite her mental challenges, fought like a banshee to shield me from childhood bullies—and my Great-grandmother Ova and her warm chocolate pudding that was always waiting for me at the Toronto home on Ossington. It was as though they were all with me in the Yukon. Good thing I rented such a big vehicle to hold all these lively spirits. A great healing had overcome us. We were now, officially, significant as Canadians. Some families only need one generation to discover that feeling; others hundreds. We needed four generations, and here we were. Worthy Canadians going for a family drive…
As I turned onto highway 416 to Ottawa, the nation’s capital, the shining star, I felt like I was anything but alone. The car was packed with the ever-luminous ghosts of the past; the carry-forward momentum of our ancestry. My family was all here, and up there, or wherever the hell they were, huddled together in the truck, applauding me onward. And I was doing my small bit to validate their efforts, and to take the whole ancestral lot of them to the next level. Like a jigsaw puzzle of characters that finally came together on a family trip, for one meaningful moment, to celebrate our lives as one imperfectly frayed human tapestry. Nothing wasted, nothing lost, all of them part of the scaffolding that I stood upon. I recognized that this would not have meant so much to everyone, but it surely did to me. And it was clear as a bell—I wasn’t engaging with the Trudeaus because I wanted personal power. I was seeking healing—for all of us.
Orange tan man pulled into Ottawa, ready to rock. I found my way to my old-school hotel—the Business Inn. My suite was like the perfect Manhattan writer’s apartment, one I didn’t want to leave… ever. I thought to do the ‘Jewish dry run’—where you drive to an event location before the big day, so you don’t arrive late when it matters. But I thought it might make me nervous. I was doing the ‘pretend it isn’t happening’ thing so I could get a good night’s sleep, and I wanted to spend a few more hours going over my notes and memorizing some of my punchy dialogue lines. I wanted to make my country—and my family—proud.
At some point, I lay down on the mattress to reflect on something that was niggling at me. Call it a “remote rumbling.” I let the voice fully express its concern, and then tucked it away. This was not a time to let my worry mind have its way with me. Keep calm, and carry on…
Much to my surprise, I slept like a baby. I got up early and went for a walk in Ottawa. Having grown up in a roaring lion like Toronto, Ottawa felt like a soft and sleepy baby cub. I stopped in at a neighbourhood café to go over my notes yet again. I don’t normally read over my notes this frequently, but something told me that I had better do it while I had the chance.
At around 11 o’clock, I packed up my room and got in the Yukon to make my way to the PM’s house. I made sure to bring my written notes with me, as cue cards of things I wanted to say on video. I was a little early, so I circled around Ottawa. And then I drove toward the Parliament Buildings. I’m not sure what I was thinking—I actually had no idea where these people lived—and I’m not sure what they were thinking—nobody told me where the Rideau Cottage actually is. I thought I would just drive towards Sussex Drive, find the official PM’s residence that the Trudeaus had rejected, and there would be a cottage right beside it. But before I could realize that I was wrong, I had made the wrong turn, and drove across a long bridge to Quebec. So much for not using GPS. Mary Tyler Moore fuck-up day, here I come. Goodness, I didn’t even know that Quebec was right across from Ottawa. I figured out a way to turn back around, and crossed back into Ontario. As I rode the bridge back, I wondered why I hadn’t better prepared myself that morning. I am a Virgo, after all. I’m always prepared.
Putting on a happy face, I drove around until I found someone to ask for directions. They had no idea where the PM lived, but they pointed me in the direction of a gendarme stationed somewhere “up that way.” I turned onto Sussex, and then into a long driveway with a booth at the end. Maybe this was the way to the PM’s house? As I drove up, I saw a portly man apparently asleep in the booth. I pulled up and made the mistake of hitting the horn. The man jumped up a little, eyes now wide open. He was not pleased.
I said, “Sorry, I didn’t realize how loud the horn was.” I told him where I was heading, and, clearly irritated, he handed me a colourful tourist map. Like the kind they give you on a bus tour. It was both comedic, and a little worrisome. He circled the location where I was to go, and curtly informed me that I couldn’t come in to turn back around. I had to back all the way up. Sorry to wake you, soldier.
I then turned right on Sussex and followed the circle around to a large thick gate.
As I pulled up, I experienced a moment of anxiety, as my imposter syndrome suddenly reared its ugly head. I playfully asked myself if this surreal event—going to the PM’s house to be filmed talking with his wife—was a figment of my imagination. Before I could convince myself that it wasn’t, I received the only validation that I needed. A sturdy gendarme walked toward me, and with the kind of warmth I had seldom encountered in law enforcement, gestured for me to enter, “Mr. Brown, come on in...”
As I drove on in, I remember feeling surprised that they hadn’t frisked me. Nor had they done anything to check inside or underneath the vehicle. In fact, other than a brief call with Dunerci Caceres to confirm the event weeks before, and a quick request for my licence plate just before the event, I didn’t receive a single call or letter from law enforcement or the PMO before my arrival. They just casually let me in. I wasn’t complaining, but between this and the sleepy gendarme, I felt a little concerned for both the Trudeaus and the nation.
I then drove through another iron gate, and turned down the wrong road. When I finally recalibrated, I spotted the house and pulled the big black Yukon into the driveway. Sophie Gregoire Trudeau and her soulful gaze was waiting there to greet me.
I grabbed my dialogue notes and stepped out of the car into her warm embrace.