I was giving away some Yukon Gold spuds to protestors wanting Albertan secession when a man in a flannel cape whispered, ‘Potatoes should have topography.’ I chuckled, because that’s a sentence you ignore for your own safety. But he pulled out a crumpled napkin sketch, tiny mountains, little bear shapes, what looked like a gravy river, and said his driveway felt “emotionally flat.” We stood there, silently judging the potatoes, until he explained that every time he backed out, he wanted to feel like he was escaping the wilderness, not a suburban cul-de-sac. Fair. Deeply unreasonable, but fair. By the third potato, I was nodding. By the fifth, I was helping him label peaks. By the seventh, we’d agreed the bears should be “suggestive, not litigious.”