Underneath it all...

Growth is near. The days smell like spring, the snow is melting at a steady pace, and green things are starting to appear. Perhaps this is partially the reason for my recent obsession with the prospect of farming. It's been occupying a healthy portion of my head space lately, and I've caught myself daydreaming of fresh veggies and dirty fingernails, and I've even starting writing notes about the farm I want to have someday. The ache I have for my own land might start taking over the rest of my life, and I'm not sure just how long I can fight it off...

Until I settle myself somewhere, though, I'll have to feed my addiction with experimentation and small scale projects within the limited space of a big city. The learning part of growing food is big and daunting, and so I'm fortunate to have others around willing to try new things, share their experiences, and let me take chances in the dirt.

Within a couple of days of moving to Toronto I had found a community garden to which I could devote some Saturdays. I'm not sure I would have survived the transition to this giant world of skyscrapers, starless skies, and public transit had I not had opportunity to dig and plant and harvest and love a piece of earth with people who needed to do the same.

And now begins the season for growing. Seeing tiny plants starting to grow inside, watching rhubarb poke up from the still mostly frozen soil, and being careful not to step on the garlic sprouts while sweeping the leafy mulch we covered the beds with in November. It was absolutely incredible to lift up the cold frames over plots of spinach and arugula and find small plants still growing - nature is powerful, and if I didn't know it before (I did), I certainly know now.

More than just discovery though, I'm glad to have opportunities to learn from other gardeners, and luckily we're all pretty open to trying new things. There are few rigid rules, and we've been talking about changes and improvements we can make to the garden, and new tactics we'd like to try. For one, how to figure out how to grow greens up a wall, and another, where on earth to put the raspberries! There are few easy answers, but that's part of the fun!

All of these new ideas and opportunities are having a swirling-around effect in my head, and underneath my rational and safe life plan I've half-established for myself, I'm starting to be fettered by a deep desire to drop it all and start working the land full time. I know this isn't something I'm ready to do right now - commitments, hovering student loan burdens, and a sincere need for quality practical learning opportunities are all standing in the way. But until these things are no longer obstacles, I'll have to settle, and learn and, continue to be excited about spring and the renewing of life.

And really, that's the easy part.

Kitchens Abroad

I am first an eater, and second a traveller. I say this as a reflection of a recent trip I took with a number of work colleagues to Yellowknife, NWT, and Olympia and Seattle, in Washington state. Leading up to my trip, I was preoccupied with the details of the work side of things, but once I arrived in cold, cold Yellowknife I was determined to take advantage of the Northern food experience.

So, I want to write about my travels through the eyes of an eater. I made a point of trying things I wasn't likely to get anywhere else (at least not easily), even to the point of initiating small protests within the group of where we should go, and what we should eat for dinner. (For example, I refused to eat at Boston Pizza - it's lousy food at the best of times, and I could eat there any time I wanted. I didn't travel to Yellowknife to do the same old thing. Luckily, I ended up having some company, and wasn't subjected to the blandness of a "dinner for one," which I was decidedly prepared to subject myself to.)

Yellowknife, being farther north than most Canadians have ever been, has access to a menu different from what I am used to. I have never leaned to the carnivorous end of the spectrum, but wild game and fish are the most seasonal, and regional foods in the North. Reading a travel guide, someone in our group stumbled upon a restaurant, The Black Knight Pub, that served caribou burgers for something like $15.95 a piece. This was the most expensive pub burger I have ever laid eyes on, but I instantly decided I must eat this! Caribou was new, and it was food, and I was in Yellowknife, and it had to be mine.

We arrived at the restaurant after a long day of meetings. I was tired, a little cranky, but I was going to eat something new. Excitement was bubbling over as I anticipated caribou, and I didn't even open the menu.

"We're out of caribou" said the waitress when I confidently placed my order. "How about bison instead?" she finished. No caribou?! A brief and mild panic rushed over my hungry belly, but I quickly agreed. I had never eaten bison, I was in the north, and caribou wasn't available. At least it wasn't beef.

Caribou, I'm told is tender and delicious, and a knife isn't necessary. I have one more excuse (among many!) to head north at least one more time in my life.

Bison, when prepared for a plate, looks like beef (photo left). I half expected it to taste just like beef, but of course, it didn't. It wasn't as heavy as beef, though it was gamey-er, and so delicious. I chewed slowly, and tasted every bite while I thought of snow and ice and where this animal had been in its life.

Aside from the land mammals, Yellowknife is also known for its fish. It sits on the northern shore of Great Slave Lake and the territory resides on the Arctic ocean. Fish, therefore, is a large part of the northern diet. The day before we left, we were told by a regular visitor to Yellowknife that the very best place in all of North America to get fish and chips is a little shack in the old part of the city called Bullocks Bistro. I chatted with the cook for a little while, and was informed that they serve nothing but the freshest -- they fish year-round, through holes in the ice and when they run out of the catch of the day they don't have any back-up stock. Their arctic char is fished off the northern coast, and is flown in. It's similar to salmon in look and in taste, but smoother, a little less flaky, and softer. It was absolutely wonderful.

Had I spent more time there, I would have loved to eat more. (Arguably, I would have had to.) But we soon headed to much different climate, with different taste-ular sensations ready and waiting.

Olympia, WA was a wonderful place. We arrived with rumbly tumblies, and went searching for food. We found more than food. We found beer.

A local brewery in the heart of the city was an excellent introduction to the west-coast food scene. An American friend of mine once pointed out that while living in Canada, one thing she missed was the abundance of local breweries. I understand why.

The brew at the right is the India Pale Ale. What intrigued me about the menus description was its mention of the words "lush floral aroma" and "distinct citrus flavour." The taste was true to this description, and the subtlety of these sensations almost took me by surprise - a beer could be flower-y, citrus-y, AND beer-y. Food is amazing.

Eating in restaurants for a week is tough. But believe it or not (and judging from the subjects covered thus far in this post, perhaps "not" is the more likely suspicion), I didn't just eat pub food and drink beer. While in Seattle, I had a fabulous time exploring the market, and seeing how creative people are with food. Let me share this...

This photo (left) is only a small corner of this open-air shop at the Pike Place Market in Seattle. The makers, I'm sure, had fun stringing specialty food like hot and spicy peppers, aromatic herbs and flowers, and bitey garlic on these beautiful strands. They hung from the ceiling, and customers had to dodge and duck as they strolled through in admiration.



We also saw cheese being made in a huge "open vat" (see photo below) at Beecher's Handmade Cheese shop. Had I not been travelling, I would have likely spent a small fortune there. The milk is pure, the cows untreated with hormones and antibiotics, and visitors (or for the more enthusiastic we could use the term "spectators") can witness the process. I've become mildly obsessed with the cheese making process and am still trying to figure it out. (I've managed to commit myself to learning how to make cheese, and then actually doing so by the end of April.) I gaped and gawked until I had to pry myself away.



(When sharing these photos with a friend who is equally as excited by food as I am, she was not so much excited with the cheese making process, but more with the size of the vat. She explained that she gets extremely excited about over sized kitchen equipment. It's on of her endearing qualities, really.)

I used to travel excited to take photos. I now travel excited to take photos of food. The world is a big place with lots of variety, and I've got a long way to go to get even a small taste of all that is out there. Next on the list...France?

Food Memories: the personal project

It's been a while since my last post, but that is not because I have been ignoring this hobby of mine. I've been constantly thinking about what on earth to write about next, and while there are always "big" food issues running through my head and my reading list, I don't want this blog to become top-heavy with my thoughts on changing-the-world-one-meal-at-a-time. That said, I've managed to think of something that seems so simple and basic, but that I have gradually found myself steering away from: recipes.

I've never been good at following written directions. I have always disliked assembling toys (when I was young), or furniture (when I was a little older), and frankly, following recipes falls into that "assemblage" category. I often get an idea in my head for what I want to make - curried vegetables on rice, for instance. That is certainly a vague description of the end result, and if I don't quite know where to get started, I head for a cookbook. Actually, I usually haul out two or three, and read every curry recipe I can find. My brain starts working and I begin to see patterns developing - this spice goes well with this one, these vegetables need similar cooking times, etc. Then I close the books, put them back on the shelf, and start cooking. Usually the result turns out with varying degrees of success, but then again, I'm one of those pesky kinesthetic learners.

The reason that I want to talk about this is because I think I have undervalued the worth of recipes. There have been times when I have cooked food using the method described above, and it turns out to be simply delectable. Then I say to myself "I should really write that down" after which I promptly forget and the specifics of the made up taste-sensation, and it evaporates into the land of forgotten thoughts.

Today, though, I made soup. From a recipe. I'm not sure why. But it was damn good. And I'll make it again. And again. And again. And again and I will always know EXACTLY what to do. And so I've started to re-appreciate recipes because, as simple as this sounds, let me re-live all those exciting food moments that so easily could be forgotten. AND I can share it with other people. (Besides, how are you supposed to perfect my cooking if I don't know what I did to begin with?)

There were some recipe books that my mother used to use while I was growing up. Every once in a while I would ask her to make this thing, or that thing, and every time she did it turned out the same. (Except once, when she made a chocolate hot-fudge sundae cake when my boyfriend at the time came over for dinner for the first time, and she couldn't figure out why it was so flat. Turns out she accidentally baked a spoon inside of it, and didn't realize until she was serving it and it revealed itself to everyone at the table. Boy, was she embarrassed, though we still laugh about it.) But due to some unfortunate circumstances, she was separated from her cookbooks, and these cherished family recipes no longer exist. I drool in vain when I think about tomato soup cake (go ahead, laugh), Texas brownies, and those perfect jam cookies that melted in my mouth. Those recipes were for more than just consistency; they were memories.

I'm going to find some favorite recipes of my own. I will still experiment on my own and make things up (that's half the fun of cooking. The other half is eating, as long as everything went according to plan.), but I had better start writing things down because as sad as it is, memories don't last forever.

Eats and Value

Sometimes the obvious needs to be stated in order to acknowledge its obviousness. I was reading a book once, and for the most part I have little recollection of what it was about. But one thing that has stuck with me from that book is that even if you say that you believe in something, only your actions can prove if that is really true. Real beliefs, beliefs that are rooted in values and how you understand the world, cannot just be ideas that you are fond of. Actions DO speak louder than words, and it is much more difficult to say something and follow through, than it is to simply say something.

This is something of which I have to regularly remind myself. In fact, I had to do this just yesterday.

There are things that I know about food production, and things that I don't. But one thing I do know is that if people don't grow food, I don't eat. I also know that it is hard for small farms to make a living, especially if they are using sustainable methods. These people need to charge more for their food if they want to make a profit. Big industrial farms are able to charge less, and create stiff competition for the little guys. I feel better knowing that my food was grown in ethical and sustainable ways, and that if I buy from these small farms I am NOT buying from big industrial farms. But sometimes it is just so hard.

Yesterday I went to the farmer's market in my neighbourhood that just opened. I had my shopping list, and I knew what I needed. Really, there is very little I enjoy doing on a cool Saturday morning more than going to the market, drinking coffee, and talking to vendors about their food. I love the smells, I love the people, but I do not love the price of the food. It's always hard for me to NOT buy something, so I usually do. But when I go to buy carrots and realize that they are twice as much as I would pay in the grocery store, my eyes bug out, and I grip my wallet just a little bit tighter. Breathing deeply, I reminded myself about half a dozen times why I was there in the first place: I want to know where my food comes from, cutting out the middle man is better for me, and it's better for this farmer, and I believe (there is the "B" word again) in what this place means for my community. The words "live what you believe" kept running through my head, and when I paid $6 for carrots that would normally cost me $3, I reassured myself that I was doing the right thing.

North Americans, over the past couple of generations, have turned to thinking that food is simply a commodity like any other instead of a way of life. People expect to pay somewhere around 9% of their income on food, when my grandparents spent roughly 18% to feed themselves. Our obsession with cheap, fast, convenient food has meant a serious reliance on food that is just cheap, often at the expense of small, sustainable farming, and environmental conservation. Depending on industrial large-scale farm production will do nothing of value for the world that we'll be passing on to the next generation, and I need to do something to try and change it.

Maybe the price I sometimes pay for food is a bit too much. Maybe I get ripped off sometimes, but the fact is that the money I do pay goes back to these farmers who deserve to live a life where they are comfortable financially; when it comes down to it, after all, they are helping me stay alive. The price I pay for their food is sort of a thank-you, and it's really much more personal than a "thank-you" paid in a big-box grocery store where I will never, ever meet the person that grew my food.

I spend relatively little on clothing, or on entertainment, or 'stuff', but I do choose to spend money on good quality food. Living what I believe is tough, but it is a commitment I've made, and I intend to keep it.

Feminism vs. Foodism

Recently I found myself a bit dis-heartened by a tidbit of trivia. I was out with some friends and eventually the conversation briefly turned to life expectancy rates for men and women. It has commonly been understood that women live longer than men by about six or seven years. Among the things that account for this is the fact that women have traditionally spent more time than men dealing with the "food" in families, be that shopping for food, planning meals, cooking, and so forth. Presumably, women, having taken the health of the members of their families into consideration, were more inclined to serve and eat nutritious things. Coupled with this is that many women were not susceptible to the stresses of the work-place, which aids in the maintenance of their overall health. This, however, seems to be changing.

First of all, women are working more than ever before. "Food" roles within families are more often split between two working parents. Inherently, this is not a bad thing at all. Personally I think it is fantastic that partners are sharing responsibilities! The emergence of modern-day "feminism," in whatever way you choose to define it (because no, there is not one single all-encompassing definition of the word), has meant society challenges gender roles more frequently. Advancing women's rights, and opportunities, hearing their voices, and allowing new opportunities has benefited society in a number of countless ways. Power on!

I titled this post "Feminism vs. Foodism" because to me it seems that these two concepts have somehow become mutually exclusive. I would like to say that I do not think this needs to be the case at all. With the rise of convenience food (because working mothers and fathers need to feed their hungry kids QUICK before someone starves!), the quality and nutrition of food has taken a back-seat to those home-cooked meals Grandma used to make. The hustle and bustle of working lives has meant a dependence on fast food, and an eat-on-the-run mentality. Food is merely fuel. The mothers of past generations, who were responsible for feeding their families, are no more.

I am not saying that mothers and wives should give up their jobs and "go back to the kitchen." In fact I would probably slap the person who was ever brave enough to suggest that to me. What I am saying is that with women being "relieved of their duties" nobody absorbed the duties of dedicating themselves to the immense task of ensuring family members had healthy, hearty, nutritious meals. The priority of food in people's lives was overshadowed by advancing careers, and busy lives.

I continue to believe that in almost every way, the advancement of "feminism" has bettered society in immeasurable ways. But the dwindling of the importance of food in society makes me wonder if anything else has been sacrificed. Luckily, this problem is easily solved - men AND women, mothers AND fathers are able to make good food choices and restore the physical health of our society. Instead of both genders excusing themselves from the responsibility of making these healthy food choices, we can all allow them to become a priority. It will not be easy, but determination, knowledge, and appreciation for a better, healthier way of life is attainable. I believe this.