Now that the constitutional framework is settled (more or less), we turn to the matter that will define our daily lives far more than tax policy or pipeline routes: what do we eat?
South Alberta inherits two of North America's most distinctive food cultures—and the question before us is not whether to choose between them, but how to honor both while creating something genuinely new.
THE TEXAS TRADITION
Texas brings a barbecue culture that borders on religion. The Central Texas style—salt, pepper, oak smoke, time—produces brisket that needs no sauce because the meat speaks for itself. The pit masters of Lockhart and Austin have spent generations perfecting the relationship between fire and beef.
But Texas cuisine extends far beyond the smoker. The Tex-Mex tradition—born from the meeting of Mexican and American frontier cooking—gave us breakfast tacos, queso, and the puffy taco. The Gulf Coast contributes shrimp, oysters, and a Cajun influence that crept west from Louisiana. The Hill Country's Czech and German settlers brought kolaches, sausage-making traditions, and a beer culture that predates the craft movement by a century.
And then there's the Texas 1015 SuperSweet onion—a variety developed specifically for the Rio Grande Valley's soil, sweeter than Vidalias, caramelizing into something almost jam-like when cooked low and slow.
THE ALBERTA INHERITANCE
Alberta's culinary identity is quieter but no less distinctive. This is cattle country—beef raised on grasslands that stretch to the horizon, finished without the feedlot intensity common elsewhere. Alberta beef has a reputation for marbling and clean flavor that chefs across Canada seek out.
The province sits at the crossroads of Indigenous, Ukrainian, and Western Canadian food traditions. Bison—once nearly extinct, now thriving on ranches across the prairies—represents both a return to pre-colonial foodways and a sustainable protein source. Saskatoon berries grow wild in the parklands, tasting like nothing else on earth: part blueberry, part almond, wholly unique.
The Ukrainian influence shows in perogies found in every small-town restaurant and church basement, in kubasa sausage, in the way cabbage rolls appear at every potluck without anyone remembering who brought them. The ranching culture contributed the beef dip sandwich—simple, unpretentious, perfect after a day of work.
And Alberta claims its share of the Canadian poutine tradition—cheese curds and gravy over fries, elevated in recent years with brisket, pulled pork, and increasingly creative toppings.
THE FUSION QUESTION
Where these traditions meet, something interesting happens. Consider:
Smoke meets snow. Texas pit-smoking techniques applied to Alberta bison. Pecan wood from the Hill Country meeting elk from the Rockies. The patience of the pit master serving meat raised in one of the world's cleanest agricultural environments.
Heat meets sweet. Pickled jalapeños alongside Saskatoon berry compote. Chipotle aioli on a bison burger. The Texas love of spice balanced by Alberta's honey and maple traditions.
Grain meets grain. Alberta's canola and wheat meeting Texas cornbread. Kolache dough filled with prairie berries. The bread basket of two nations learning each other's recipes.
Cheese solidarity. Texas pepper jack—creamy, with slow-building heat—alongside Alberta cheese curds, squeaky and fresh. Different traditions, compatible on any dish you dare to build.
THE FIVE CANDIDATES
The official dish referendum presents five options, each representing a different philosophy of fusion:
- The Brisket Poutine — Texas smoke meets Québécois architecture, built on Alberta fries
- The Stampede — A pizza that abandons Italian pretense for maple-chipotle honesty
- The Prairie Thunder — Bison burger, border style, with jalapeños and SuperSweet onion
- The Sweet North — Maple-bourbon short ribs with corn spoonbread and cowboy butter
- The Saskatoon Kolache — Czech-Texan pastry meets Canadian wild berries
Vote in the Official Dish Referendum on Consensus. But first—discuss.