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Spending a lot of time on the islands off Vancouver lately, sometimes escaping the heat, sometimes dodging the all-night-noise on a hot summer night when shutting the windows turns your glass sky box into a sarcophagus.  Scratching around for a cheap room with a pool, this came up.

Kids, we’re going to Nanaimo.

Only about a week ago, when a bunch of Irish people I know described “these little bars” as “delightful” did the limited range of the Nanaimo bar became more obvious.  The prevalence at Canadian Christmas parties is apparently geographically restricted.  This is the food of our people. 

Finding out that Nanaimo has a Nanaimo Bar Trail is, probably almost certainly, the best thing known to my long range island searches, ever (including Tofino, and goats on a roof, so there).  I mean, they are drinking, frying and spring-rolling the things over there.  It’s out of control. 

Bikini season, no, it’s Nanaimo Bar season.