The food of place

The food of my place is tied to water (as is all of ours)

As I write Christopher and I are sitting in the airport while we wait to board our flight to Tokyo. This is a trip that was set in March of 2020 and here we are finally headed out. You can look forward to pictures and stories as we explore.

In today’s letter I want to talk about place. Of course I will talk about the place that I live but I also want ask you about the place that you live but in regards to food. I hope my musings will encourage you to think about your home. Specifically the question: What is the food of your place? Please share in comments.

Someone recently asked me that question and the first thing that came to mind where the apples that grow abundantly on century-old trees. These have informed much of our fermentation journey by their presence because after our first fall here we realized we better get a cider press—and as you know a cider press leads to (fermented) cider and vinegar. You could say those apples started it all. But when I step back I must look deeper, beyond my yard and into the landscape.

The food of this place should be salmon. Our neighbor, Frances who has lived all of her 85 years, on this road with creek in its name, tells of the salmon running so thick you could walk across them without your feet getting wet. Can’t quite picture that slippery moving surface of flashing bodies—all fins and tails—but most of the older folks of the area say they could fish with pitchforks.

In the 25 years we’ve lived here, I never saw a lot of salmon, but it has been six years, maybe seven if I count more carefully since the salmon swam to spawn up this bit of their ancestral ground. The water is mostly gone. Dry rocks do not provide a watery highway, the fall chinook wait at the mouth hoping the onramp will open with a flood of rushing water.

In the last few weeks we have gotten piles of snow and rain which has caused water to move in seasonal paths that are usually dry. However, for those salmon it is too late again. I am always optimistic but I wonder how many generations before they don’t know our creek is an ancient spawning ground. For now, I will believe they will come back.

In our remote rugged landscape, the human population lives along the waterways. We fan out into the uplands but even those roads often follow the paths of water—small springs or seasonal flows—water takes the path of least resistance and so do we. It is easier to move and eat along a waterway. Water begets abundance. The tiny Dakubetede tribe whose name means “people far upstream” relied on this waterway. They gave it room to meander and let beavers build rich pond kingdoms. For that they had salmon. (So did the bears. The trees in the forest include salmon DNA from the millions of years of salamon-rich deposits.

All the flow the last few weeks has been a time to watch the water rise and fall along these waterways and put in obstructions. In contrast to the prevailing idea that water should be moved on quickly we are working to slow the water that rushes past us down. When water is slowed it has a chance to deposit its rich sediment back onto the landscape instead of out at sea and is given a chance to soak in and recharge the groundwater.

The water has brought me joy. In the forest, however, water in the form of heavy heavy snow has devastated our forest stands on our land beyond. I don’t yet have words to describe how it feels from one day to the next to see around 50% of the trees in a forest on the ground. And so I won’t talk about that yet. I will remind myself it is part of a larger cycle, again and again. I have the sound of rushing water to make me smile and tree frogs singing me to sleep.

For my family, the food of this place has been that of gardens and orchards but these require water. Moving to this place taught me to watch the moon and understand harvest. Harvest is a gift for nourishment. It’s shown me how to have true gratitude. A garden isn’t my work. It is our work—a collaboration of soil, microbe, seed, plant, water, and sun. Therefore, I am thankful for the gifts of this relationship. I learned to appreciate that vegetables don’t come without a price. Something must die so that I can feed our family.

But like the salmon, for the trees and gardens, the water must flow. In the last few years we have had to make decisions about what gets water—the garden has been either small or non-existestent—because the annual plants can be a choice. The orchard trees less so.

This week I visited a 30-year-old functioning beaver wetland. Wading through it I watched how water from a stream moved through and it was not in a straight line. When I am at home I stack sticks and divert and slow water. I don’t know if this does any good but it is something I can do.

Functioning beaver wetland that will be an educational center to learn more go to Project Beaver

This second video is the beginnings of a Shockey-created wetland in a deep incised gully. Watching this bit of water slow down is a start. We are doing the same along the larger creek. In this little pool I see an emerging pond kingdom and enough water for all the life on this landscape.

Enjoy your week. Next post will be food in Japan. First stop is a soy sauce manufacturer.