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Food Books (by Margaret Webb)

By 49thShelf
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Margaret Writes: In 2008, I wrote a book about Canadian food and farming called Apples to Oysters: A Food Lover’s Tour of Canadian Farms. It captures the craziest, most delicious journey of my life – exploring Canada’s food regions by visiting farms, working alongside farmers and eating at their tables. That adventure, along with my favourite Canadian books on food and farming listed below, made me realize that saving our local food systems may well be the most important thing we do for future generations. http://www.margaretwebb.com/
Anita Stewart's Canada
Why it's on the list ...
I first discovered Anita Stewart’s work in a remainder bin. That book -- The Ontario
Harvest Cookbook, which she co-authored with Julia Aitken in 1995 – changed my life in a couple of ways. Stewart wrote about local food well before The 100 Mile Diet became a book and locavore a word, and she was talking about recipes and farmers from my farm roots in Ontario. I fell in love with making soup from a squash soup recipe in that book, and the vignettes about Ontario’s food regions that accompanied the recipes struck me in the way that Atwood writing about Canadian themes influenced other writers – wow, this is possible and important. She cofounded Cuisine Canada (a network of Canadian culinary pros) and the Cuisine Canada national food book awards. She followed that Ontario cookbook with a slew of must haves for the Canadian cook’s bookshelf, including The Flavours of Canada and Anita Stewart’s Canada.
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The 100-Mile Diet
Excerpt

March
Man is born free and everywhere is in chain stores.
Graffiti

The year of eating locally began with one beautiful meal and one ugly statistic.

First, the meal. What we had on hand, really, was a head of cabbage. Deep inside its brainwork of folds it was probably nourishing enough, but the outer layers were greasy with rot, as though the vegetable were trying to be a metaphor for something. We had company to feed, and a three-week-old cabbage to offer them.

It wasn’t as though we could step out to the local megamart. We – Alisa and I – were at our “cottage” in northern British Columbia, more honestly a drafty, jauntily leaning, eighty-year-old homestead that squats in a clearing between Sitka spruce and western redcedar trees large enough to crush it into splinters with the sweep of a limb. The front door looks out on a jumble of mountains named after long-forgotten British lords, from the peaks of which you can see, just to the northwest, the southern tip of the Alaska Panhandle. There is no corner store here. In fact, there is no electricity, no flush toilet, and no running water but for the Skeena River rapids known as the Devil’s Elbow. They’re just outside the back door. Our nearest neighbour is a black bear. There are also no roads. In fact, the only ways in or out are by canoe, by foot over the distance of a half-marathon to the nearest highway, or by the passenger train that passes once or twice a day, and not at all on Tuesdays. So: We had a cabbage, and a half-dozen mouths to feed for one more autumn evening. Necessity, as they say, can be a mother.

I can’t remember now who said what, or how we made the plan, or even if we planned it at all. What I know is that my brother David, a strict vegetarian, hiked to the mouth of Fiddler Creek, which straight-lines out of a bowl of mountains so ancient they make you feel perpetually reborn, and reeled in an enormous Dolly Varden char. Our friends Kirk and Chandra, who are the sort of people who can tell a Bewick’s wren from a rufous-crowned sparrow by ear, led a party into the forest and returned with pound upon pound of chanterelle, pine, and hedgehog mushrooms. I rooted through the tall grass to find the neglected garden plot where, months earlier, we had planted garlic and three kinds of potato; each turned up under the spade, as cool and autonomous as teenagers. Alisa cut baby dandelion leaves, while her mother picked apples and sour cherries from an abandoned orchard, and rosehips from the bushes that were attempting to swallow the outhouse. The fruit we steeped in red wine – all right, the wine came from Australia. Everything else we fried on the woodstove, all in a single huge pan.

It was delicious. It was a dinner that transcended the delicate freshness of the fish, the earthy goodness of the spuds that had sopped up the juices of mushrooms and garlic. The rich flavours were the evening’s shallowest pleasure. We knew, now, that out there in the falling darkness the river and the forest spoke a subtle language we had only begun to learn. It was the kind of meal that, when the plates were clean, led some to dark corners to sleep with the hushing of the wind, and others to drink mulled wine until our voices had climbed an octave and finally deepened, in the small hours, into whispers. One of the night’s final questions, passed around upon faces made golden by candlelight: Was there some way to carry this meal into the rest of our lives?

A week later we were back in our one-bedroom apartment in Vancouver, surrounded by two million other people and staring out the sitting-room window. We have a view of a parking lot and two perpetually overloaded Dumpsters. It was as good a place as any to contemplate the statistic. The number just kept turning up: in the reports that Alisa and I read as journalists; in the inch-long news briefs I’ve come to rely on as an early-warning system for stories that would, in a few months or a few years, work their way into global headlines. According to the Leopold Center for Sustainable Agriculture at Iowa State University, the food we eat now typically travels between 1,500 and 3,000 miles from farm to plate. The distance had increased by up to 25 percent between 1980 and 2001, when the study was published. It was likely continuing to climb.

I didn’t know any more about it than that. It was enough. Like so many other people, Alisa and I had begun to search for ways to live more lightly in an increasingly crowded and raggedy-assed world. There is no shortage of information about this bright blue planet and its merry trip to hell in a hand-basket, and we had learned the necessary habit of shrugging off the latest news bites about “dead zones” in the Gulf of Mexico or creatures going extinct after 70 million years–70 million years–on Earth. What we could not ignore was the gut feeling, more common and more important than policy-makers or even scientists like to admit, that things have gone sideways. That the winter snow is less deep than it was when we were children, the crabs fewer under the rocks by the shore, the birds at dawn too quiet, the forest oddly lonesome. That the weather and seasons have become strangers to us. And that we, the human species, are in one way or another responsible. Not guilty, but responsible.

The gut feeling affects people. I received a letter once, as a journalist, from a young man who had chained himself to a railing in a mall on the biggest shopping day of the year in America, the Saturday after Thanksgiving, and set himself on fire to protest rampant consumerism. He survived, barely, and was ordered into mental health care, but all of his opinions were of a kind commonly held by some of the most lucid and admired ecologists and social theorists of our times. A friend of mine, a relationship counsellor, told me of a couple whose marriage was being tested by a disagreement over the point at which the world’s reserves of cheap petroleum will surpass maximum production and begin to decline. Concerned for his child’s future in an “end of oil” scenario, the husband, an otherwise typical health-care provider, wanted to go bush, learn how to tan buckskins, teach their boy to hunt and forage. The wife, equally concerned for the child, preferred everyday life in a society where carbonated soda is the leading source of calories in the diet of the average teenager and the New England Journal of Medicine reports that, owing to obesity and physical inactivity, the life spans of today’s children may be shorter than those of their parents. So who’s crazy?

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Why it's on the list ...
MacKinnon has long been a personal hero of mine as Canada’s premier nonfiction stylist and adventure travel writer. His co-author and partner in life brings the deep narrative hooks to this story about their year of adventures in local eating. You might think the title explains the whole concept so why read the book? Well, because you’d be denying yourself some serious reading pleasure as well as critical knowledge about why local food is so important. This is a book that puts the “culture” back into agriculture.
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Locavore

Locavore

from Farmers'fields To Rooftop Gardens - How Canadians A
edition:Hardcover
also available: eBook Paperback
tagged :
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Why it's on the list ...
Oh, heck, why don’t I just give you what I blurbed for the back of Sarah’s book: “Lively, compelling and warm-hearted journalism with a generous helping of rigorous research, Locavore dishes up an insightful look at Canada’s food system: how it once worked, why it fails us now and, most importantly, what we can do to create a sustainable, delicious future.”
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Bottomfeeder
Why it's on the list ...
Grescoe does a Michael Pollan on seafood, taking us to the source of various seafood meals – fish sticks, pan-roasted monkfish, Bluefin tuna sashimi – to explain how we can eat ethically from oceans straining under the pressures of unregulated fishing, pollution and global warming. The book won a slew of awards and for good reason – this is a pretty depressing topic, but Grescoe is a hugely entertaining writer and he offers practical and well-researched advice on how to eat seafood ethically.
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Apples To Oysters

Apples To Oysters

A Food Lovers Tour Of Canadian Farms
edition:Hardcover
also available: Paperback
tagged : garnishing

On this passionate, cross-Canada odyssey, Margaret Webb introduces readers to 12 great farmers or, as she calls them, chefs of the soil and the sea, tractor-seat philosophers, poet biologists, thingamajig inventors, and zealous educators. Her stories of the challenges they face growing good food are inspiring, touching, gritty. They will make you hungry. They will make you laugh. They will make you run to your nearest farmers' market to hug a farmer. Arranged into sections titled Starters,Mains, …

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