A fallen birch log in the forest might be wearing what looks like a shaggy white mane. The long, soft spines hang in clusters, almost like strands of hair or coral. This is Lion’s Mane mushroom — one of the most distinctive fungi you can find in the wild and one of the most studied for its potential health benefits.

Home canning is a time-honored way to preserve the bounty of your garden, seasonal fruits, and vegetables, ensuring fresh, flavorful foods all year long. This beginner-friendly guide focuses on safe home canning practices using Bernardin, Canada’s trusted canning brand, and Ball, a leading authority in North American food preservation.

In the earliest agricultural settlements, harvest was not marked as a cultural event in the way it is recognised today. It was a practical moment in a longer cycle of work, when months of labour finally produced something visible: gathered food that could be stored, shared, or lost depending on conditions.

Across the world, harvest appears in many different forms. In some places it is marked with festivals and public gatherings. In others it is expressed through family meals, seasonal foods, or periods of preparation and reflection. The outward expressions vary widely, but they all sit on top of the same agricultural reality: the moment when food is gathered after a season of growth.

People do not usually ask about harvest because they are interested in farming itself. The question tends to appear when something else becomes noticeable: that across cultures and time periods, the act of gathering crops repeatedly shows up as something more than agricultural work. It becomes ceremony, festival, ritual, or shared seasonal moment.

Fermented, infused, and preserved beverages have long been central to seasonal eating and sustainable cooking practices.

From the orchard to the kitchen, the methods for turning fruit and herbs into drinks reflect both tradition and innovation. In this article, we focus on four categories: cider, shrub, vinegar, and tonic. Each offers a distinct approach to flavour, preservation, and culinary use, yet they share a common thread: making the most of seasonal ingredients while minimizing waste.

Every year, Canadians throw out millions of tonnes of food, and a surprising portion of it isn’t spoiled—it’s the skins, stems, and leaves we never even considered edible. Carrot tops go straight to the compost bin, beet greens are lopped off at the market stall, and potato skins are peeled and discarded without a second thought.

The kitchen table was as much a part of Canada’s war effort as the factory floor. Picture it: a narrow 1940s kitchen with a wood or coal stove radiating heat, ration books fanned open beside a jar of sugar no bigger than a teacup, rows of gleaming preserves stacked like sentries along the counter, and two fresh loaves of bread cooling under clean tea towels. The air carried the mingled scent of yeast, stewed fruit, and something savoury stretching its way into tomorrow’s supper.

In much of Canada, late August is a turning point. The days are still long, the sun still warm, but the light shifts—less a blaze, more a burnished gold. Historically, this was a critical time for food gathering. For many Indigenous Nations, it marked the height of berry season and the beginning of autumn preservation. For settler homesteads, it was the month of cellars filling with jars, drying racks heavy with herbs, and baskets of fruit set out to ripen.

By late August, Canada’s landscapes are brimming with plants that have long served a dual purpose — they refresh and they sustain. Along field edges, rosehips begin to redden, holding the promise of winter tea. In the north, fireweed flowers signal the last rush of the growing season, while in boggy lowlands, the leathery leaves of Labrador tea are ready for harvest. These plants, along with a host of berries, roots, and seeds, once filled travel packs, medicine bundles, and winter stores.

The edges of the land have always been important. For thousands of years, Indigenous peoples knew where berry patches would ripen each season, where wild roots could be dug without harming the population, and where migrating birds or animals could be hunted as they passed. Later, settlers marked property lines with hedgerows and fruit trees, inadvertently creating long, narrow larders for future generations.

By late August, Canadian hedgerows and meadows are full of small, edible surprises. Along rural fencelines, clusters of crabapples hang from gnarled branches, their skins flushed with red or yellow and their tart scent carried on the breeze. In nearby fields, clover blossoms stand bright against fading greens, their round flower heads still drawing bees in the warm afternoon light.

Late August is a month of change in Canada’s landscapes. Days are still warm, but nights begin to cool. In Northern regions, the first leaves blush yellow on poplars. Fields shimmer with goldenrod, berry canes droop with fruit, and the air holds a trace of autumn. For foragers, this is a pivotal moment — the last full flush of summer growth before the pace of the season slows.

Before hummus became a global staple, it was a simple, nourishing dish rooted in the Levant — a blend of chickpeas, garlic, lemon, and olive oil eaten for centuries across the Eastern Mediterranean.

Chickpeas, one of the earliest cultivated legumes, have long sustained communities in what are now Syria, Lebanon, Palestine, Israel, and Jordan.

When Ukrainian immigrants began arriving in Canada in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, many brought more than just tools and textiles. Tucked into coat linings or sewn into satchels were precious seeds from the Old Country—reminders of the land they left behind and essential for the lives they hoped to build. Among the most prized were herbs: dill, caraway, lovage, parsley, and sorrel.