Pemberton is nicknamed Spud Valley for good reason. Potatoes are the number one crop grown in the valley. The soil here is amazing for growing all kinds of vegetables but potatoes especially love it. The families who immigrated from Ireland and settled here in the early 1900’s saw this and started to grow potatoes. Thus the legend of the Pemberton potato was born.
Fast forward to today. There are 9 farms in the valley growing Elite Seed Potatoes. It takes us 3 or 4 years to get a crop that we will sell and ship off our farm. We grow our potatoes strictly to sell for seed to other potato growers who then may plant them for 1 or 2 more years before they end up in a store and on your plate.
The first year starts with what we call tissue culture plants. These are basically potato plant stem cuttings produced in a plant propagation facility that is co operatively run buy the farmers. Thousands of these plants are produced and planted in the field or in a screen house.
Our operation runs a screen house. This small house will produce enough potatoes to plant 40 or 50 acres in 3 years. These plants are amazing! Whenever I plant them I just can’t believe that these tiny fragile cuttings are going to grow into anything. Watered and cared for all summer long and they do it. They grow into beautiful big potato plants that produce tiny little tubers that will then become the base of our seed crop which we will sell in 4 years.
The potatoes that we harvest from our screen house are called mini tubers. Tiny little potatoes that we harvest, in the fall, by hand and store for the winter, planting them the following spring. They will be harvested and planted 3 more times. And so begins the circle of life for the famous Pemberton Potato.
Oh sure, as you drive up the valley and see all those beautiful farms, crops growing, people happily hoeing, tractors making the rounds, it all seem so peaceful and idyllic.
There is a behind the scenes though.
All that machinery and the tractors that pull it can pose a mechanical nightmare for farmers. They will most likely blow a gasket when you need them the most. Farming is an occupation that consists of a lot of frustration tempered with an equal amount of patience. There are times, I’m sure, when all of us have wanted to burn it all down.(Metaphorically speaking of course).
What can go wrong will go wrong. That seems to be the motto here at Shaw Creek Farms these days. Spring has sprung, summer is almost upon us and we have been faced with one mechanical disaster after another this spring.
First it was the tractor. A behemoth of a machine. Needed for damn near every job on the farm. The doohickey that connects the whatsit to the thingamabob broke. That is about as technical as I get. When my husband talks to me about tractor parts I know I should be paying close attention but all I really hear is the teacher’s voice from Charlie Brown. After numerous calls to the John Deere dealer the doohickey was ordered and picked up, in Kamloops, by my son and me.
The rotavator was the next to go. We had two fields left to till when smoke started pouring out of it. Never a good sign. The parts for this machine are so expensive they will be referred to in this paragraph by $$$$. Another call in to a different dealer followed by emails with photos and the $$$$ was ordered. We have to wait two weeks because, apparently these $$$$ have to come from the ends of the earth.
Next up, the fertilizer spreader. The thingy that wings the fertilizer out onto the ground disintegrated. Need a new one. Call in to John Deere again who then has to call Vicon, maker of said spreader. They then send it to John Deere, who then sends it to us. Thingy picked up and put back on. Spreader winging fertilizer again. But wait… not an hour later and here comes the tractor, backing the spreader into the shop. I know my husband is at the end of his rope because when I ask what’s wrong he silently points to the arm thingy that spins the wingy thingy. Off it comes and into the truck with it he goes. He’s not even calling the dealers now. He’s just heading straight to a neighbour’s farm to see what he’s got. Nope, the one the neighbour has is the wrong one. BUT WAIT. Up on the wall of the neighbour’s shop! There it is, hanging there. The part he needs! Praise be to Thor, God of tractor parts! (It’s got to be him right? He does carry a hammer.)
I really hope our run of bad luck is at an end.( I didn’t even mention the tractor tire that was one lug nut from falling off.) They say bad luck runs in threes. Ours just happen to be multiples of three. We’ll get there, the potatoes will get planted and they will be up out of the ground. Then this ‘springus horriblus’ will be but a memory.
In the meantime… patience.
*Michelle Beks is having a hard time getting anything done with her fingers crossed.
There’s a scene from the movie Now and Then where all of the girls are joyfully riding their bikes around their town. Often when I’m riding my bike with my friends, around Pemberton, I pretend I’m in that movie. Perhaps it’s because what I’m doing is a simple yet heart-fulfilling activity? Perhaps when I’m on my bike it feels like all of life’s complications melt away? Perhaps I just really love that movie and wish I was in it?
I’m not sure what it is but I love being on my bike and riding the “mellow” trails and routes around town.
Being from Winnipeg, where the biggest hill I had growing up was a bridge, inclines and declines can be intimidating to me. So, I’ve established that there are certain trails in town that I’m comfortable with.
One of those trails is called “Caesar Trail.”
Upon moving to Pemberton in 2012 I was introduced to the activity of riding my bike along the dike to the golf course zone. It’s quite magical and beautiful to ride my bike on the dike and to be able to choose where to go next once the dike ends. I found myself more often than not riding that trail and ending up at one of the golf courses for a Caesar.
Yum….Caesars.
The fact that the route/trail didn’t have that exciting of a name, in my opinion, I started to call it the “Cesar Trail.” Maybe this is a name that will catch on? Maybe this is the name that only me and my friends will use?
All that matters is that at the end of the beautiful and chill adventure is a Caesar.
It’s my favorite trail to ride in the whole Sea to Sky Corridor and I recommend you try it out (especially if the sun is shining).
Cheers to Tara and Kalmia for being my partners-in-caesar and to Shayne for taking pictures of us!
In July of 2012, I moved to Pemberton. I followed my heart from Vancouver to the magical town of Pemberton where my then-boyfriend (now-husband) lived. I fell in love with the town. How could you not? The only problem that I had when I moved to town was that I had no friends. I did meet a few people through Shayne but I quickly developed three new friendships: Amy, Pauline, and May.
I love Chinese food. One of the first places that Shayne took me in Pemberton was to Centennial Café and I had such a great experience. I also fell in love with the Centennial experience and the ladies there got to know me and my “regular order.”
Whenever I would go in to get takeout I felt immediately welcomed with open arms. Because I like to eat my feelings, when I was feeling sad I would order Chinese food. I mostly did this because I knew that when I went to pick it up I would be greeted with smiles and compliments from my three new friends.
A lot of us had our favourite things to order and I was a huge fan of the deep fried spicy tofu, ginger beef on chow main and spring rolls. In my opinion, those spring rolls were to die for. Sometimes I would go there just for an order of spring rolls. They were so good that there was a 100% chance that I would burn my mouth when eating them because I didn’t have the patience to let them cool down upon arriving at my table.
After being a regular for a few years I graduated to being greeted with a hug. It’s like I was ordering spring rolls with a side of hugs and I loved it.
I’m bummed out that they closed down. Aren’t you? I get it. It was time to retire/move on. The owners worked really hard and deserve to retire and I’m excited for them.
I went for two last meals there (the last-last one was for three spring rolls). After moving here, I would always joke that I had five friends in town and Amy, May and Pauline were three of them. Those ladies, those memories, and those spring rolls will always be a part of my Pemberton story.
My childhood subconscious began manifesting my green thumb life long before I understood the benefit of my compost chore or using the excuse, “I’m thinning them out” when caught eating baby carrots. When you grow up surrounded by gardeners you’re bound to inherit some level of love for the same hobby.
Basically, I’m a full pledged geek when it comes to everything plant related.
For example… I have pulled illegal U-turns moments after spotting a nursery. I carry pruners in my car to pluck wild flowers bouquets from ditches. I save plants from becoming garbage and give them new homes. I take pictures while traveling of unrecognizable vegetation so I can come home and identify them… and so on.
(Insert crazy garden lady photo here.)
It was during my years as an on again off again landscaper that solidified my love affair with horticulture. The jobs I held in between seasons never really satisfied my soul. I genuinely missed cleaning dirt out of my nails.
One instance that really stands out in my head happened while emptying my pockets after a day of work in the city. Out came my keys, my wallet and a whole bunch of deadheaded flowers. A big smile graced my face upon seeing the blossoms. I had visited a nursery on my way home but for the life of me could not remember committing the act. No doubt it was my subconscious giving me a little nudge. I gave my two weeks notice the next day and promptly returned to my happy place slinging dirt.
Now I’ve really come to realize that I glow when I talk about gardening. I mean I get giddy like a little schoolgirl talking about this shit. (Giggity)! The other side of my coin is that I love to cook and preserve all the wonderful things that come out of my backyard and our bountiful valley but I’ll save that for later.
In January I figured there was no point in fighting the feelings anymore. Time to take my passion by the reins and just go for it! And although I’m not exactly sure what will grow from this adventure one thing is for sure: I want to share my love of gardening with people, inspire them to grow their own food and experience the simple pleasures that come with the failures and the successes along the way.
A very long time ago, I passed a man on a couch at Burning Man Festival. It was so late it was almost morning, and the sun had just begun to paint the edges of the mountains with the faintest of light. The man struck up a conversation. And as I warmed my hands at the small fire he had lit at the edge of the road, he told me something that has come back to haunt me more times then I would like to admit.
“You know” he said, hanging in the pause to build up the effect, “sometimes you have to plan your burn… and then burn your plan.”
In this rural, beautiful, messy, animal filled life- where some of the beautiful things you want to create never happen because you have to fix fences instead, and you show up at the grocery store wearing boots covered in muck no matter how hard you try to remember to change them- burning your plan is inevitable. And actually, I think it makes for more love filled creations most of the time. In being willing to let the universe lead the dance every now and then, we make space for magic to happen. And when we have magic, well then anything is possible. We do need a bit of a plan to start with, otherwise we would never get out of bed in the morning, a container and a direction in which to move. But then the more we can be open to running with what happens in the moment, the more our creations and actions can start to suddenly seem a little bigger than ourselves. And that’s always a good thing.
I run a horse and nature based teaching business called Mountain Horse School. This past week I ran 4 days of March Break camp for an amazing little group of kids. I was so proud of the design for this camp: I had found the most amazing natural art activities, and had planned everything out as far as two weeks ahead. But then I found I was unable to source one crucial item for each creation. Then the weather was freezing and that changed the plans I had made too, and one of my horses was terribly grumpy, and so I pulled him halfway through camp and let him watch from the bleachers. Given the circumstances, we did the only thing we could: we improvised.
When things got a little too frantic, we held chickens in our laps and waited until they felt safe enough to close their eyes…
My newest mare Besa (who is not yet trained to ride and was NOT part of the plan for camp) kept insisting she be included. On the last day as we were getting ready to do horse painting she asked again. I looked at her big black head hanging over the gate, and weighed my options and risks. I was doing something more than that too: I was feeling towards her and towards the empty space between us, to see what might want to happen out of the moment. The look in the mare’s eyes was definitely an invitation. Ok. I thought. The kids have enough horse sense that if something goes sideways, we will all be able to stay safe. We’ve been studying their behaviour and body language all week, and imagining our way into their thoughts. It might be neat to have them involved in the process of introducing Besa to something new.
Juliette introducing Besa to the colour fuchsia.
Not only did Besa decide it was ok to be painted, she stood in a kind of trance, with a look on her face that I have only seen in horses who are very, very deeply concentrating on the work at hand. She didn’t even shiver her skin when the first wet blue brush touched her skin. And now, two days later, she has not rolled, and the colours shine brightly out from her white coat.
If you are driving out in the meadows this week and see a black and white horse with a brightly coloured wing, apple, and heart on her side, you are not losing your mind. You are seeing my plan as it has gone up in flames, and the much more beautiful genuine messy thing that has come in to take its place.
For those who do not know me, my name is Raven. I own a little bakery in one of the greatest mountain towns ever, Pemberton in British Columbia. I have a deep love for gluten, wheat, and all that it brings to my life. Today initially I wanted to write on a traditional favourite from where I grew up in the Southern Appalachian mountains, cast iron skillet cornbread. But as I sifted through this wheat-lover’s cupboards I found I had all the ingredients except my beloved wheat flour. What was I to do? With complete reluctance to change my topic, I let my topic change me. Because for some reason there was, in the deep lost corners of my cabinet, a small bag of Gluten Free Flour.
One of the very real and important things I want to say about my love for cornbread is that it comes to me with a remembrance of home, of the Appalachian mountain culture and all that I hope to share with you over time.
It is important to me that food represent something more than nutrients. It is, as Elizabeth David said, and this is a very loose quote to be sure…
“every bite we eat is not just food, it’s our culture, our history, our memories of ourselves, of our families, of times when we were particularly happy.”
So today, I created for myself a new memory. I hope you too, as you cook for yourself, your family and friends, find the time to honor and create memories of food filled with life and memories.
So I now give to you my recipe for Gluten Free Skillet Corn Bread.
The most important step is get a cornbread skillet. Like this one that my mom gave to me when I first settled down. It’s of great value but not of the monetary kind, and is only as good as the time you put into it, the “seasoning.”
Gather all your ingredients, as organic as you can afford and as local as it can be.
Next, turn on your oven to 425 degrees F. Then put your cast iron skillet onto the your stove top on med low heat.
Add 1/4 cup of a high heat tolerant oil. I prefer grapeseed, but please just no olive oil. While your oil is warming —
Grab a med mixing bowl, whisk, spatula, and a measuring cup.
Then, add into your bowl, 1 cup of buttermilk, 3 large eggs, 3 tablespoons of organic sugar, 1 1/2 teaspoons of salt, 1 tablespoon of baking powder, 2 teaspoons of baking soda and whisk it up.
Note: after many years of cooking I do not mix my dry ingredients all together. If you have that compulsion, it is ok.
Now add 2 cups of stoneground yellow organic corn meal, followed my 1 1/2 cups of my favourite wheat flour replacement Cup4Cup. I do believe in this product and it is an amazing.
Whisk it all together to make a batter…now add 3/4’s of that what-should-now-be-very-warm oil from your skillet and mix in.
Take your spatula and pour the batter into your hot skillet. The idea is that we are doing two things — frying it a tiny bit, as we love to do in ol’ Dixie, but we are also keeping your cornbread from sticking.
For 4-5 mins let it cook on the stovetop, then put it into the oven until its done. How long’s that you ask? At least 30 minutes, but it depends on your oven. Just until you stick a knife into it and it comes clean.
Your cornbread finally is done when you flip it out of the pan in awe and admiration that it actually did not stick to the pan.
How do you eat it? With butter. Lots of butter! Who am I kidding?! Gluten free, maybe, but without butter what do we have?
My name is Blair Kaplan Venables and some people may say that I have an insatiable hunger for life. I would say that I have an insatiable hunger for food.
I love to eat.
I eat when I’m happy. I eat when I’m sad. I eat when I’m stressed out. I eat when I’m nervous. I eat to celebrate. I eat to mourn. I eat three meals a day plus a few snacks.
My feelings directly impact what I eat and crave (and normally the craving is cheese-centric).
I’m also someone who isn’t “in love” with cooking or baking. Every so often I’ll get into cooking but I like things that are easy to make, fast to make and yummy.
I know what you are thinking and YES, we own a slow cooker but I don’t even use that. I have a few recipes that I’ve mastered and they are on a constant rotation.
Over the past few years, I made a few lifestyle changes to help positively impact my life. So, I’ve looked for ways to make healthy food taste better. Chicken, in my opinion, is one of those foods that needs a little extra help.
One of my most favourite discoveries is The Metropolitan Chef’s Jerk Rub, which is made in Port Alberni, B.C and I tell everyone about it. I’ve even got my mother hooked on it. It’s super easy to use and makes chicken (especially free-range chicken) taste scrumptious.
You see, my love for jerk chicken stemmed from a trip with my friends to Negril, Jamaica. It wasn’t until this trip that I truly fell in love with jerk chicken. However, I’m slightly domestically challenged and I could never make it taste as good…until I discovered this magical rub.
Most recently, I’ve personally hand-delivered two packages of it to my mom in Winnipeg. This, my friends, is a jerk rub that’s gone national.
So, want in on this game-changing jerk rub? You can buy it at Mile One Eating House.
Scruffy hospitality, Cook Book Clubs and reclaiming the table
I hate owing someone a dinner invitation.
It’s so high-pressure.
I always thought “imperfectionism” was the character flaw until Brene Brown, the vulnerability guru, outed perfectionism as a tactic people use to protect themselves from getting hurt.
Ha! I exhaled smugly, I knew there was something suspicious about you perfectly groomed, beautifully mannered ones, with your instagrammable dinner parties and Kinfolk magazines casually tossed on the Noguchi coffee table.
Trying very hard to look like you’re not trying. The Kinfolk Table – a different planet for aliens who specialize in artfully dishevelled, immaculately styled entertaining.
But embracing your own flawsomeness is harder than it sounds. Even with Brene Brown’s Vulnerability manifesto at your back. I point a finger at Lucy Waverman, the Globe and Mail’s food columnist. Waverman has written that you should never ask “what can I bring” in response to a dinner party invitation. It’s an insult to the host who has put forethought into curating a great meal with perfectly paired wines. Just bring your conversational A-game, she says, and an elegant hostess gift.
Lucy and I move in different circles.
On my planet, we always ask.
I ask, not to insult my host, but to acknowledge that bringing people into your space takes effort, and I’m happy to help lighten the load.
For the record, I am never insulted when someone asks me. I am also stoked if, without even asking, someone randomly shows up with contributions. Throw them down there on the table. Open that bag of chips, decant some vino, let’s squeeze in as much conversation as possible before the children blow it all up.
No, none of the plates at my house match. And they probably never will.
But it’s taken a while to devolve to this place, helped along by necessity (children), a catchphrase and one unofficial intervention.
The intervention occurred in the fall, when childless friends, after months of “we should get together soon” emails, randomly dropped by, with wine, cheese and crackers.
This couple are consummate hosts. They’re foodies and entertainers with a genuine passion for food, wine, design and décor. For a long time, after first being invited to their house for dinner, (three courses, perfectly plated, in a room where the drapes and the curtains matched), I was too scared to return the favour and serve up one of my standard one-pot meals in return.
When I eventually braved-up, and dished forth something peasant-like, on chipped plates, from a help-yourself-to-more platter on the table, they didn’t turn up their noses. They were more distracted by the conversation, by playing with my toddler, or whipping up the dessert themselves. (I’m smart enough to say hell yes, when an amazing cook asks “shall I bring dessert?” Sorry Lucy for not measuring up to your standards.)
Their drive-by drop-in was the ultimate signal to me: we don’t need to be entertained, we don’t want to be a high pressure entry in your dayplanner, we just want to catch up.
For perfect looking, perfect tasting meals, eat out. Fergie’s Cafe at Sunwolf is instagram-worthy. Dinner at my place is not.
In my gospel of scruffy hospitality, “what can I bring” is the password, a signal that a person appreciates they are participating in a come-as-you-are experience, where the napkins are unironed, if we even remembered to put them out, and the kids will move from lap to table to toy room as we try and coerce them into eating something, before ignoring them for conversation that is grabbed and relished and as nourishing as the food could be.
“What can I bring?” is also code for: “I know you’ll have cleaned the bathroom for the first time this week because people are coming over, and that you and your partner will probably be arguing the moment we walk in the door, because that’s what happens to us too, every single time we have people around.”
It means: “I anticipate stepping around toys piled into a corner. I am willing to push past my inhibitions and make myself at home, to find a glass and pour myself a glass of water if I am feeling thirsty.”
Ultimately, it’s code for: ”I’m just happy to see you.”
Keep it casual. Otherwise, we’ll see you in 15 years or so.
That’s what my foodie friends taught me, when they dropped by with crackers and dip and we ate standing up, moving between the kitchen island and the side of the bath-tub where the kid happily contributed his chatter.
And that’s why I started Cook Book Club. which debuted Thursday 22, at Stay Wild Natural Health Store and Juice Bar.
Leah Langlois of Stay Wild imagines all the yummy plates that will arrive for Cook Book Club
If your contribution is a fizzle or a flop, you blame it on the cookbook.
Imperfectionism, scruffy hospitality, cook book club, it’s all an invitation to reclaim the table as a gathering place. Even when we’re too busy to entertain. Especially then.
The Velocity Project: how to slow the f*&k down and still achieve optimum productivity and life happiness, is a biweekly column by Lisa Richardson that runs in Pique newsmagazine.
Traced Elements 