Out on Lake Superior’s icy edge, a Yooper named Jimmer casts his line through a hole in the ice, grinning as he feels a tug; after he reels in his fish, he celebrates his success with a hearty “yeehup.” Whenever one of them catches a fish like that, you can bet they’ll cook pasties that night—flaky, meat-filled pockets of U.P. tradition. So, we can be sure that as the sun dips low after da Jimmer has hauled his catch home, the kitchen will fill with the smell of dough and gravy.

I don't remember saying to do this, but evidently I have. Boys, divorce your fit wives and find yourself some fatties:

I'm not seeing the problem

Picked up a set of silver spoons from the thrift store for $5. Does this mean I'm no longer poor?

L

how are these people real

I remember when there were intersections with stoplights where there are now merely stop signs. This is the way.

Looks like winter highway cruisin' might be over for the year.... Sad

Soon, she'll be thawed

This is one of the best times of the year for Yoopers. The snow is starting to melt, and the snow banks are included in that. What this means is that all the roadkill, an entire winter's worth, an entire winter's worth that has been frozen in snow and ice for months, an entire winter's worth that has been pushed into the snow and ice and preserved for us by our diligent snowplowmen, is becoming slowly available to us Yoopers. Just got me a still mostly frozen raccoon, youbetcha, eh.

Just in: ruralites are now suggesting you marry hamster women who love sleeping on the floor