The author reads The Flax by Hans Christian Andersen while making a first attempt at rosemaling.

It’s Sunday and I’m thinking about church. If you’ve known me in my adult life, you may think this is strange. I’ve had an aversion to structured religion since my late teens/early twenties. It wasn’t always like that. I grew up going to the Gaetz United Memorial Church in Red Deer. I participated in the youth events, went to Sunday school, and for a period I felt religion very deeply. 

Last week I went to the annual Norwegian festival in Red Deer, Alberta with my two teenage daughters and my uncle.

Red Deer is where I grew up, yet I only discovered the Norwegian Laft Hus a few years ago. Tucked into the downtown core, it can easily disappear from view if you don’t already know to look for it. I remember frequently going to the pool next door when I was a child and never knowing what was tucked into the bushes behind it. 

Haskaps have long histories across northern regions, including the Canadian prairies. Knowledge of these early berries varies by place, Nation, and seasonal practice, shaped through observation, gathering, and use over time. Indigenous knowledge systems form the foundation of how haskaps have been understood, named, and used within broader food landscapes, a principle reflected in Indigenous-led research and knowledge-sharing initiatives such as the Canadian Indigenous Knowledge Network.

Ukrainian settlement on the Canadian Prairies spans multiple regions, migration waves, and generations. Families arrived with food knowledge shaped by village traditions, seasonal rhythms, and agricultural practices carried across distance. Over time, these foodways adapted to prairie land, climate, and available resources. Community organizations such as the Ukrainian Canadian Congress document the breadth and continuity of this settlement across Canada.

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.