Prairie Feast: The Gifts of Locally Grown Food
by Amy Jo Ehman

It has been said that every journey begins with one step, but my culinary journey began with one bite—a bite of chives to be exact.

They were the first tiny chives of spring, sprinkled on a hot German potato salad (my dad’s potatoes) served with sausages from the farmers’ market and my mom’s dill pickles. With that first bite of green from my garden, my husband John and I kicked off a year of eating from the local bounty. We had pledged that, for 365 days, just about everything we served at our own dinner table in Saskatoon would be grown or raised within the four corners of Saskatchewan. From asparagus in spring to zucchini in fall—we would stock our larder with local fare.

So I asked John, “What should I call this culinary adventure?”

It was early 2005 and words such as locavore, foodshed, and the 100-mile diet had not yet entered the popular lexicon. I needed a quick way to describe it. “Something that captures the spirit of the enterprise,” I said.

He chewed on that for a moment and then offered his suggestions.

“Boring,” he said. “Monotony. Privation.”

I suppose he could be forgiven for thinking so. We are so accustomed to buying what we want to eat, when we want to eat it, that it seems almost naive to think we could wean ourselves off the global supermarket. I grew up on a farm where we kept a big vegetable garden, picked berries, and raised chickens and pigs, but by the time I had my own kitchen, I was as far removed from the source of my food as any urban working gal.

But my husband’s words served as a challenge—to prove that it is possible, indeed pleasurable, to eat from the local bounty without consigning oneself to an endless diet of pork chops, mashed potatoes, and Saskatoon berry pie.

Supper menu #69: Fillets of northern pike,
baby potatoes, bacon wrapped asparagus, and
up-side-down rhubarb cake.

Despite his initial skepticism (which he insists was tongue-in-cheek), John was a willing participant in this culinary adventure. He saw immediately the benefits of consuming local fare.

It’s good for the environment if it cuts the mileage and the expenditure of fossil fuels. Eating is one of the least environmentally-friendly things we do, yet one of the easiest to change on an individual basis by choosing local and organic foods.

It’s better for your health because local produce is usually picked at the peak of perfection, so the nutrients are not depleted by under-ripening and long months in storage. Smaller local gardeners are more likely to grow varieties of vegetables bred for superior nutrition and flavour, rather than for their uniform size and ability to withstand long transportation in the back of a truck.

It’s good for the community because it forges ties between rural producers and urban consumers, sustaining smaller family farms and gardens that might otherwise succumb to the economic pressures of the global marketplace. It’s good for the local economy, cutting out the middle agents and keeping our food dollars close to home.

As a consumer, I welcomed the opportunity to meet the people who produce my food, to commiserate over the weather and discuss the merits of this breed of chicken or that variety of corn. I could ask how the food was grown and the animals were raised in order to make more informed choices about the food I eat.

But best of all, I love the way it tastes. Fresh food, picked at the peak of perfection and consumed in season simply tastes better. Eating is not a matter of choice, but eating well is.

Supper menu #103: Pasta with tomato-basil
sauce and a fresh green salad, followed by a slice
of homemade cherry pie

I made a few ground rules for our culinary challenge. First, we would follow our local diet at our dinner table and only our dinner table. Next, it would not apply to beverages because, while I do like a cold glass of milk, I was not about to give up the occasional glass of wine with dinner and John was not about to give up his morning cup of coffee.

Finally, I decided I would cheat now and then. So, for instance, if I needed a pinch of cinnamon for a fragrant Moroccan tagine, olive oil for an authentic pasta primavera or raisins for bread pudding, well, so be it. There’s no denying we live in a global marketplace, and I felt no guilt tapping into it occasionally to make the most of those ingredients produced close to home. After all, our local diet wasn’t meant to be an exercise in hardship—not a sacrifice but a celebration of local food.

Supper menu #117: Lamb kabobs, tabouli salad, and
homemade pita bread with a yogurt-cilantro sauce

I decided to begin our year of eating locally on the first day in spring that we ate something green from the garden. This unpredictability appealed to me. There would be no X on the calendar and no Last Supper. We were already buying some of our food from local farmers, so we could think of it as a “spring forward” rather than a “fall back.” More of a good thing rather than less of everything else.

I was also quite sure I would need an entire growing season to prepare for the winter months. I would pick berries, freeze tomatoes, can fruit, pre-order a dozen chickens and side of lamb, stock up on lentils, and learn to identify mushrooms that won’t make you sick. Unless we sufficiently planned ahead, I feared our Saskatchewan diet might not survive to the following spring. Our hearts may be willing, but a weak stomach would lose faith.

As it was, that fateful day came sooner than anticipated. It was a soft afternoon in mid April when I discovered those tiny green chives growing in the herb garden. I went into the house, grabbed the scissors and cut them to the quick, setting in motion a culinary adventure that would bring me closer to my community, to my rural roots, and to the heart of a daily ritual that nourishes us body, mind, and soul.

Brunch menu #82: Blueberry pancakes, breakfast sausages,
and chokecherry sauce.

Mind you, it wasn’t easy. In 2005, there were no directories of local food producers and very few of them had websites. Most of the food produced here is sent somewhere else for packaging and very little of it comes back bearing the label Made in Saskatchewan. A local diet, then and now, requires tracking down, buying in bulk, making frequent trips to the farmers’ market, and stocking up.

But the rewards are great: the thrill of new discoveries, the pleasure of fresh flavours, the joy of sharing with friends. Waiting in anticipation for the gift each season brings—from fiddleheads to strawberries to corn on the cob—and savouring each one in its turn. Forging friendships with those who produce my food, and sharing good food with my circle of friends.

Lunch menu #268: Pear and squash soup,
Red Fife Wheat bread, and oatmeal cookies.

From the start, I documented this culinary journey on my food blog, Home For Dinner (prairiefeast.blogspot.com), and in a newspaper column of the same name in the Saskatoon StarPhoenix. In 2006, I was awarded a writer’s grant from the Saskatchewan Arts Board, which set in motion the beginning of a book. The process of writing stories, of contemplating the social and soulful connections of food, rekindled memories of a childhood on the farm and my ancestral rural roots. But it also staked my place in the urban environment, proving it is possible to live in the city and still enjoy the favours and rhythms of country life.

That book is called Prairie Feast: A Writer’s Journey Home for Dinner, published by Coteau Books of Regina. It’s not a directory or a how-to (which go out of date so quickly) but a humorous and personal take on the food, culture, and fabric of prairie life. The message is universal: in a world of fast food outlets and mega food marts, it is still possible—indeed pleasurable—to find our own place at the dinner table.

That year of eating locally is long over but, in truth, it never stopped. Why give up a good thing? I had rediscovered the flavours of my childhood, connected with local farmers and foragers, built supply lines with friends, and even learned the age-old skill of canning. As spring rolls around, I’ll be first in line for northern mushrooms and with the first locally ripened tomato, I’ll remind my taste buds it was worth the wait.

Prairie Berry Clafoutis

In France, clafoutis (cla-foo-tee) is traditionally made with cherries. I use a mix of Saskatchewan berries: sour cherries, strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, and Saskatoons. It’s perfect for brunch.

2 tbsp butter
1 tbsp flour
2 cups mixed Saskatchewan berries, fresh or frozen
3 eggs
3 tbsp sugar
1 cup milk
1/2 tsp vanilla
1/4 tsp salt
1 cup flour

Heat oven to 350ºF. Put the butter in a 10-inch cast iron skillet (or similar sized baking dish). Place in oven until butter is melted but not brown. Meanwhile, toss berries with 1 tbsp of flour.

In a blender mix eggs, sugar, milk, vanilla, and salt. With blades running, gradually add the cup of flour and blend well.

When butter is melted, but not yet browned, remove skillet from oven. Pour batter into skillet. Scatter berries over top. Return to oven and bake 20-25 minutes, until the centre is set. Serve warm or room temperature sprinkled with icing sugar or a drizzle of maple syrup.

Amy Jo Ehman grew up on a farm at Craik, Saskatchewan, with two big gardens, an orchard, free-range chickens, and farm eggs. She studied journalism at the University of Regina and worked at the Ottawa Citizen, the Saskatoon StarPhoenix, CBC Radio One, and CBC TV. In 2005, she and her husband John embarked on a culinary journey to recapture the flavours of her childhood by pledging to eat the foods of Saskatchewan for one year. It was more than an exercise in taste, but also a journey deep into the social, soulful, and sustaining world of locally grown food. Her book Prairie Feast: A Writer’s Journey Home for Dinner, published by Coteau Books, is available at most regular bookstores and by visiting www.coteaubooks.com. For more information on Amy Jo visit prairiefeast.blogspot.com.