Traced Elements

Author: astaekovanen

Herbal Hallucinations: is this all a dream?

Earlier in the New Year, I was examining the contents of my “witch’s cabinet” (as the friend who gifted me the antique armoire named it), taking note of the herbs that should ideally be used up before spring foraging starts up again.

I pondered starting a micro-dosing program. Not with psychedelics, of course, but I was playing with the concept using herbs, spices and novelty. This seemed a good alternative for those of us who cannot—or don’t want to—ingest consciousness-altering substances, but who still enjoy playing with our lived realities by changing patterns of consumption.

It would also serve my fondness for do-able projects—taking on something subtle, like opening a window to let in fresh air rather than taking down a wall in order to build an addition to the house. Where the idea eventually landed was here: I would make at least one new recipe a week for the year.

Fast forward a few weeks into late February. I returned to Whistler from Japan; COVID-19 was just beginning its global sweep out of China, and Japan was one of the early hard-hit countries. A few days after returning I developed a cough and sore throat, and was suddenly quarantined with the fear that I would be patient-zero in Whistler. After testing negative for the coronoavirus, however, I remained in quarantine with Influenza-A.

Because of the flu, I couldn’t eat, but nevertheless started poking around the kitchen more intently. What exactly did I have in here to support health and immunity? (What did I have, given that the Canadian government was recommending we have two weeks worth of food and limit visits to the grocery store).

Due to a tiny pantry that comes with townhome living, I don’t have stocks of dried legumes and flour (yet!) but there is a substantial stash of otherwise semi-filled jars. There are herbs and spices galore, both from my personal interest in flavours and foraging, and because one of my sisters is a certified herbalist.

In the fridge I found elderberry syrup and a stash of liquorice root and juniper berries (anti-virals). There was a jar of chaga from my parents property in the Cariboo, as well as clover flowers from their yard. My mother dehydrates kale by the wagon-load to crumple into soups, rice, or casseroles, and I found two bags as well as her dried apple-slices. The freezer contains steamed nettle that I’d completely forgotten about and a bag of chopped rhubarb to boot. My mini-stash was actually awash with interesting bits & bobs. Dandelion root, yarrow, calendula… harissa, nasi goreng mix and lemongrass. Local and exotic side by side.

Now, what to do with it all?

These are strange and stressful times. Most days I feel a strong need to create something— anything. And I’ll call it a win for the day even if it’s just making a nice cup of herbal tea or trying out a new soup recipe (**disclaimer, I don’t have young children; a friend with a young one told me her goal for the day was just peeing by herself, so fair enough**).

Making all these concoctions is my way of coping with unprecedented circumstances. I know others are coping and working it out differently. Some need to chill out, eat chips and ice- cream, and soak up the stillness. I do that, too, but it seems that right now, tiny influxes of new flavours are foodie medicine for my beleaguered soul. Sage-and-lemon-balm tea. Cauliflower taco bowls. Lemony lentils. And yes, banana bread.

My most recent experiment—a hibiscus infusion with ginger and citrus—is from a cookbook that I’ve had for years but have never used as much as in the past two weeks: Amy Chaplin’s At Home in the Whole Food Kitchen. That one book alone has delivered to my plate smashed baby potatoes with garlic & caper sauce, corn-grit blueberry muffins, a coconut curry and turmeric lemonade.

I’ve even taken time to write the author to thank her for her recipes.

What is happening to me? I didn’t even like to cook until I was 30 years old… but it turns out I’m a Taurus through and through. Ruled by the sensual. Now that I’ve got the time to appreciate the gifts of the senses, it’s grounding me. A little less news, a little more time to breathe in the smell of garlic, grind up coriander seed, or drop a bit of cardamom into my morning coffee.

It’s simple, effective and delivers the variety I crave while we’re all house-bound more than normal.

I wish you all well on your own journeys through this… oh, and please send any recommended recipes my way!

March 31, 2020
Earth-tending

Tend: care for or look after; give one’s attention to.

A few years ago I was in the habit of taking long walks — slow meanders along the Valley Trail in Whistler.

The pace gave me time to observe the emergence and dying back of the various plants that grew alongside the trail through the fluctuations of the seasons. I also noted growing piles of cigarette butts scattered along the route. I thought about how for some animals, guided to food sources by their highly-acute noses, these small but numerous objects were not only an inconvenience but a stinky hindrance. And since my silent berating of those tossing the litter wasn’t doing much good, I decided that cleaning up the cigarette butts would be a more tangible act of care to extend towards these little creatures. Thus, the practice of earth-tending entered my life.

Sometimes it feels as though there’s not much I can do for the Earth. While glaciers are melting, tornados swirling and fires burning the Amazon rainforest, my rote environmental gestures of recycling and reducing meat intake seem pitiful. But somehow by making my gestures smaller, and more insignificant they became more personal too. It may not make a noticeable difference but I can choose to do these acts regardless, to microscopically tend to the earth as if each gesture is a show of respect for this living planet, our home.

This summer at my partner’s urging, we adopted a section of the Valley Trail to keep clear of the wildly tenacious burdock plant (as part of a Sea-to-Sky Invasive Species initiative). We would head out with clippers, gloves, a tarp and shovel and spend a few hours clearing a section. Before long my partner extended our range to the whole neighbourhood of Creekside and we removed seemingly tonnes of green matter.

In his mind the project was an eradication of a pesky plant; in my mind it was a type of guerrilla gardening, another act of tending. Instead of planting anything we were creating space for native plants to return (hopefully). In a way we hoped to ameliorate the heavy human footprint in the neighbourhood as seeds (via burrs) are often moved by humans and their canine companions. In some places the burdock was growing dense, thick. Walls of clinging burrs can limit passage for berry-foraging bears and small winged animals such as birds and bats can become trapped and even die in the tangle.

I had moments lamenting a summer spent in the ditches, thinking “What on earth are we doing out here, getting clubbed in the head and tangled-in-burrs instead of bbq-ing or at the lake” but then I’d see the street or patch that we’d cleared.

On some levels it felt never-ending but on other levels, it mattered. The caring mattered. And in the long run, it deepens my relationship with this place we call home.

I can’t pick up every piece of garbage I see, nor do I want to, but as I sit here in an airport lobby a bird is stuck indoors—flying around, trying to find an exit. It perched on the seat across from me and swivelled its head, looking for the way. I don’t always know how to work through my grief about the current state of the planet or the plight of creatures we share it with, but I do know that small acts of tending, of caring, seem to be a window out.

September 17, 2019
The Hands That Feed Us

My small scale efforts of container planting and tending a small plot in a community garden make me even more grateful for the more productive labours of others. My horticultural failures are frequent but also fairly inconsequential in the long-run. One of the great fortunes of living in this region is our proximity to those who are growing food for a living (especially in the summer months). We drive by their roadside stands, support them at farmers markets and most of us personally know farmers or food-providers through one connection or another. It feels easy to connect the dots and appreciate their effort.

Growing the circle of gratitude beyond the local farmers feels a bit trickier… how to start when the origin of the food can feel mysterious, layered, even dubious?

As an experiment: I tried for a season to pause before meals and acknowledge the chain of events, sometimes even the ongoing industrial churnings which worked together to bring me to that particular meal. I’d extend a quick, internal thank you to everyone, thing and place involved (well… the ones I could easily come up with that is). And within moments the world had shrunk down to fit the size of my bowl & cup.

An ‘easy’ meal of morning oatmeal and turmeric milk had me visualizing oat-farmers, threshers, packers and transport-truck drivers. People building the machines that made the farming possible. Cinnamon grown in tropical heat and harvested by who-knows-who. Sunflower seeds and hemp hearts sprinkled on top brought to me by the Local Goods Company based out of Squamish. I visualized the sunflowers that grew those seeds planted by the farmers who chose to pursue organic certification, grow the flowers and then find a market for those particular seeds. I pour blueberries from Pemberton on top, grown by an ex pro-skier and the best I’ve tasted in years. Mix in the turmeric grown in India and sold in Nesters. Many hands along the way to bring it to my table. Someone picking the medjool dates that I add to the blender, someone else cleaning them, another person packing them, another loading them into boxes, another onto barges, another onto shelves.

One million thanks required. Photo by Asta Kovanen

One meal and my mind is slightly melting. I’m both hungry and amazed.

Having worked at one point picking and packing apples, pears and cherries for export to Japan, I have seen the many labourers required at each step. And having been one, I know that the pay isn’t always the best. The chance to eat locally grown food is a privilege in this region and when possible I am happy to spend my money supporting the people doing the hard work to cultivate brussel sprouts and melons right here in Canada.

However, all the other groceries (noodles, rice, spices, crackers) become more meaningful to me when I pause and consider how it made it to my cupboard. Some I won’t buy due to food justice or environmental concerns (palm oil or suspect meat) but even my vices like dark chocolate and ice-cream have lessons for me, some tasty, some not once you start digging through the chain of events.

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And sometimes that minute of foody reflection will simply bring me awareness and other times, it has helped guide me towards a different, more local, more compassionate choice.

“Innumerable beings brought us this food. We should know how it comes to us.” Buddhist grace, as recalled by Benedictine monk David Steindl-Rast

August 14, 2019