-By Maggie Wheeler-
-By Kerry Clare-
May 2017 will mark eight years since my first daughter’s birth, an experience that both broke me and made me. Made me a mother, but that’s only one facet of what I’m talking about. Becoming a mother made me into lots of things, including someone who is all too aware of her limits, someone who has (mostly) learned that you can’t control it all, someone who reads deeply and widely and asks questions inspired by the stake I now have in humanity’s future. It made me into someone with a deformed abdomen too, but that’s another story.
Of course, there are many experiences by which a person can access the understanding of the world that motherhood permitted me, but for me—with a comfortable, privileged and happy life for the most part—motherhood would be it. Those early days with a baby were the hardest thing I’d ever done, when everything I thought was wrong, and life as I knew it seemed shattered. Which was why, lost as I was, I hung on to binaries, which seemed like the only sure things. Home birth or hospital birth, bottle or breast, co-sleeping or cry-it-out. The world seemed made up of well-ordered camps of this-or-that, which was at least some order at all, and I needed all the order I could get in that haze of new motherhood when the dead of night kept bleeding into early morning and the baby always cried and was nothing like the babies in any of the books I’d read.
I like to joke about it now, observing the excellent and hilarious children galloping around the playground at my youngest daughter’s pre-school. “You can tell,” I will comment to whoever happens to be standing beside me, “which ones were sleep trained, the ways it damaged them.”
The person I’m talking to will look at me a bit confused or horrified. “Really?” they’ll ask, if they don’t get the joke. (“Joke” might be a debatable word here. I acknowledge that I have a weird sense of humour.)
And then I assure them, “Of course not!” It’s the blessing of having older children, second children. You learn that none of it really matters. That all those either/or’s exist to give parents the illusion that they aren’t floating thoroughly unmoored through outer space. That in fact usually everything works out, and sometimes it doesn’t, but the either/or’s have very little to do with any of that.
In the years since I’ve found my bearings as a mother, I’ve tried in my writing to complicate those binaries many of us clung to in the early days. I wrote an essay, “Love is a Let-Down,” about maternal ambivalence, which is an idea that still interests me, not because it’s particularly “brave” or edgy, but because ambivalence by definition is about having simultaneously conflicting ideas, and I think we need to learn to make more room for those areas of uncertainty and disagreement in our own feelings and our relations to each other.
My first book, the essay anthology The M Word: Conversations About Motherhood, was a project toward that end, collecting 25 essays about experiences of maternity—traumatic births, infertility, miscarriage, abortion, adoption, only children, multiples, and the choice to not have children at all. The essays had many uncanny connections, but also rubbed up against each other in uncomfortable ways. But what a thing: to put together a group of women’s voices, and they’re not all saying the same thing, and that’s okay.
My new book, the novel Mitzi Bytes, is about a woman whose ideas and proclamations rub many people in uncomfortable ways, about a woman who is a decent human being but who is not particularly fussed about placating other people or getting along to keep the peace. She insists on not yielding, on standing fast in who she is and what she believes in. She sees the possibility for conflicting ideas to simultaneously exist and for the whole world not to explode as a result of that.
It’s funny, really, the simultaneously conflicting ideas about motherhood and womanhood that we do manage to hold onto—that mothers are exceptional and revered, even as they’re derided, annoying and as unfashionable as a bad pair of jeans. Or that women are catty and awful and fated never to really get along, even as many of us know the incredible power of sisterhood, the enduring strength of our friendships.
In her new book, Autumn, Ali Smith writes that, “…whoever makes up the story makes up the world,” and I believe that fervently. Which is why I’ll keep writing stories about ambivalence, uncertainty, in-betweeness, and about the grey areas that are necessary for any of us to ever understand each other.
In Talking History, Canada’s foremost historians and history experts show that Canada’s history is essential to our understanding of our country and the world today. The series is made possible through a special funding grant from the Department of Canadian Heritage.
Lindy Mechefske is author of Sir John’s Table: The Culinary Life and Times of Canada’s First Prime Minister and A Taste of Wintergreen.
– Kerry Clare
First conscious memory: I am standing on a little wooden stool at the kitchen table in my grandfather’s ancient stone house in the Yorkshire Dales, rolling out a small lump of dough. My grandfather, a strapping, handsome Englishman, is beside me, working his own larger piece of dough, singing old Yorkshire folk songs. We are making jam tarts. Though I am barely three years old, I already know how to flour my board and roll pastry with a pint-sized wooden rolling pin. I have already learned to knead bread dough, shell peas, and bring potatoes and other supplies from the low shelves of the stone larder. Here, in my grandfather’s timeworn kitchen, I come to know love. What follows is a lifelong love affair with both food and history.
Next memory: We are moving to Canada. My parents are packing up the possessions, my brothers, and me. We are leaving the beautiful desolate moors, the ancient villages with their narrow, twisting roads, the Yorkshire Dales and dry stone walls, and my beloved grandfather. We are leaving behind generations of family history. We are leaving behind kippers for breakfast, thick cut marmalade, Yorkshire Parkin, Wensleydale cheese, Terry’s chocolate Neapolitans, and black pudding. We land at Toronto Airport, in a country we have never even visited. The land is flat and empty—it is the grey/brown limbo land between winter and spring. My father says, “We have landed in the middle of nowhere.” I miss my grandfather desperately.
Transplanted to Canada, I immediately fought to lose the English accent that marked me as an outsider. I begged my mother to buy hotdogs, bright yellow mustard, peanut butter, white bread, cans of pop, doughnuts, pop tarts, corn on the cob, and tuna fish. I wanted her to make cakes from mixes and order takeaway pizza. She was not having any of it. Pizza was out of the question. Pop tarts were deemed rubbish. “We are not eating fish from a can,” my mother said with conviction, spitting out the word “can” with emphasis, her Yorkshire brogue virtually incomprehensible to those outside the family.
In grade school, I was devoted to the Laura Ingalls Wilder books, especially The Long Winter. The Ingalls family nearly starved to death inside their own home as blizzard after blizzard rendered them isolated with nothing to eat but seed wheat which they ground roughly and made into crude bread. They were weak with cold and malnutrition and illness. Their survival through that horrendous winter of 1880/81 was a miracle. I was mesmerized by the life of the pioneers and the food that sustained them. Food and its procurement, storage, and preparation were a near constant preoccupation for the settlers.
By the time I reached high school, I had lost my accent, and my mother had succumbed to buying jars of peanut butter and fish in cans. In history class, I was rote-learning the names of early explorers and the dates of the battles, perking up only at the mention of pemmican, bannock, maple syrup, and dried, salted fish. I was fascinated not by colonial politics, or the battles fought, nor by the horrendous ransacking of land which was scarcely referenced—but by what the First Nations people and pioneers ate, how they actually survived. I was surprised that these details were rarely ever mentioned.
Food is, after all, at the most basic level, about life and our very survival as a species. Food tells the story of the past and present. From the origin of mankind, to the cave dwellers to the Roman Empire; from the First Nations people who roamed this continent 20,000 years ago, to the European colonialists, to contemporary locavores at trendy urban restaurants; from the Garden of Eden to Goldilocks—food is at the heart of everything that matters. Food is how we begin our lives and the thing that sustains us until the end. At some point along our evolutionary path, our human brains became wired to remember food and those who provided it for us.
“From the origin of mankind, to the cave dwellers to the Roman Empire; from the First Nations people who roamed this continent 20,000 years ago, to the European colonialists, to contemporary locavores at trendy urban restaurants; from the Garden of Eden to Goldilocks—food is at the heart of everything that matters.”
Curiously, culinary history has been for the most part, largely ignored, as though battles and politics are more important than food. But the times, they may just be a-changing. UNESCO has recently honoured France, Mexico, Turkey, and Japan for their culinary contributions—considered to be amongst humanity’s most cherished cultural treasures. Food is, both literally and figuratively, on everyone’s lips these days.
When I moved to Kingston and found myself living amongst the old limestone buildings steeped in stories, I began to feel a real, visceral connection to Canadian history. I was roaming the same streets that the young John A. Macdonald—who arrived in Kingston in 1815, nearly four decades before the Ingalls’ long hard winter—once roamed. I wondered what his family ate—what provisions they sold in their store—did they have olive oil? Chocolate? Lemons? Yes. No. And occasionally—I was to discover.
In the Kingston library, I discovered a copy of the remarkably contemporary sounding and fabulously titled book, The Cook Not Mad; Or Rational Cookery, published in Kingston, Upper Canada, in 1831 by James Macfarlane. Although it turned out to be an American book with a Canadian cover slapped on it, it remains iconic because of its status as the first Canadian cookbook and is an important record of the continent’s culinary history.
I began reading other early cookbooks—devouring them like novels. And simultaneously, I was reading and in some cases, re-reading, the works of the early female settlers. On my bedside table, I had a glorious, eclectic collection of history, culinary history, and cookbooks, mingling with novels and memoirs by contemporary writers like Helen Humphreys and Ann Patchett. I worked my way through Susanna Moodie’s Roughing it in the Bush and her sister, Catharine Parr Traill’s The Female Emigrant’s Guide and Hints on Canadian Housekeeping, while also reading Patchett’s Truth and Beauty and thinking about the common threads of human survival and how we satiate hunger—both the physical and emotional variety.
I started to think about using food as a lens, as a way of looking at people and history, and of the instantly humanizing aspect of food. And because Sir John A. Macdonald’s presence looms so large in Kingston, he was an obvious choice to write about. I began delving through books and archival materials. I added a stack of biographies about Sir John to the growing pile on my bedside table. I started with Richard Gwyn’s meticulously researched two volume set, John A: The Man Who Made Us and Nation Maker. At the same time, I found a library copy of Patricia Beeson’s delightful culinary history/cookbook, Macdonald Was Late for Dinner. Though the book trades on Macdonald’s name, in fact, it covers a myriad of Canadian historical figures and stories—each short vignette accompanied by a photograph and recipe.
The further I dug, the more I realized that John A.’s life was an epic food story—beginning with the horsehead stew and watered down gruel that he endured as a five-year-old boy en route from Scotland to Upper Canada and culminating in his attendance at grand gala state dinners with the finest French champagne and guest lists that often included royalty. Gathering together the food stories, both good and bad, from Macdonald’s life, was a new way of looking at the founding of the nation. Along the way, I learned about the collapse of the eastern oyster beds as oyster consumption hit an all-time high; about the introduction of the first cast iron wood-fired stoves; and, about the invention of mason jars which revolutionized food storage. I also read and wrote about the decimation of the bison herds, once the biggest population of wild mammals on the planet, estimated at 50 million, and the subsequent starvation of the Indigenous people of the Plains—one of the unhappiest and most horrifying chapters of Canadian history.
Food played a huge and vital role in the building of Canada. A significant portion of our economic prosperity was tied to our ability to grow, harvest, produce, and distribute food. This continues to be the case. With a global population poised to reach 9.7 billion by 20501, food production and security are set to be the most important issues facing the planet. Our growing understanding of the importance of food is furthering our interest in culinary history and its rightful place in the nation’s story.
Food stories are, after all, the real stories of our lives.
1 The Economist, September 12-18, 2015, “Banks for Bean Counters,” p. 54.
Lindy Mechefske is a scientific copy editor turned freelance writer. She is author of Sir John’s Table and Taste of Wintergreen. Her recent work has appeared in a variety of publications including The New Quarterly, Kingston Life, the Kingston Whig Standard, the Ottawa Citizen, the Queen’s Feminist Review, and a number of anthologies. She has lived in England, the U.S., and Australia, but now calls beautiful, historic Kingston, Ontario her home. You can find her blogging about her adventures in the kitchen at lindymechefske.com.
When you pick up a new book there is always a moment of expectation, a hope of what you will discover inside. In the case of non fiction it could mean a heavy dive into pretty detailed content. It could be a slow paced read full of facts and timelines. Or it could be a read that opens up the world in a new light – a refreshing read with humour and amusing stories duly able to spark the imagination and transport you in place and time. In the case of Lindy Mechefske’s book Sir John’s Table, it does just that. It brings Canadian history to life.
For all I had learned – as an amateur history buff – about our First Prime Minister, nothing made Sir John A. quite so easily human to me as Lindy Mechefske’s writing. Sir John’s Table reads like a juicy tale suited for storytelling. It makes a lot of interesting opportunities for the line, “Did you know that…?” A brilliant treat for info-junkies like myself living in Canada’s sesquicentennial year.
I finished reading the first Chapter of Lindy’s book when our family was up in Ottawa for a weekend stay. I wasn’t the one driving back home to the 1000 Islands; so that meant I had free time in the passenger seat. I could have happily tucked my nose into the book for Chapter two, but I couldn’t. Sir’s John’s Table is the kind of read that calls out to be shared; and so, on the 1.5 hour drive back home to Gananoque, I force captured the attention of my husband and our two sons aged 11 and 8.
“OK guys, it’s Canada’s 150th Anniversary year and you need to hear this!” I called back, switching off the music in the car.
“No seriously, you guys will like this!”
I started reading the first Chapter again. The humble beginnings of Sir John A.
By the time I finished reading about Sir John’s boyhood trip with his family in steerage class across the Atlantic, everyone was in. The description of the food, and the conditions, and the length of time under deck was enough to hook two adventure seeking boys. It even amused the well read Dad who majored in history. (For him any accurate history that works to get our boy’s attention is good stuff.)
The truth is, Lindy’s book allowed our two boys to imagine our First Prime Minister in all his humanity. It has all the best tidbits. (
Which is why my husband read the book right after I was done). For our kids, John became someone once in their age range, a kid who had to rough it for a VERY long time on the water, stuck in a small space, with his whole family, under-deck. That information really put our 1.5 hour trip into perspective. Even our 15 hour drive back to see family in the Maritimes pales when held up against young John’s story. It’s not like the ship could pull up for a rest stop and a quick Timmy’s break. That one chapter made Sir John A. more than just an iconic figure, recited from memory, to our two boys. It made him a figure easily recognizable in the stories of immigrates to Canada today. In school they’d call that schema, a text to life connection, an opportunity for empathy and understanding.
The fact is, you learn a lot about someone when you learn about what they eat, how they eat, who they eat with and why they eat that way. Take that information and plug it into any good plot and you get a brilliant adventure story. That one chapter led to a family conversation on all kinds of topics that related to John A. MacDonald, immigration, ships and the the St. Lawrence, jobs in the 1800s and, of course, the food people grew, prepared, traded and ate. Those tangents of conversation lasted a good half hour – quality family time.
No wonder food writing and food entertainment has garnered such attention over the past decade. Food has always been, and always will be, a defining part of our culture and situation in life. It factors in every day, every page.
Most of my favorite novels have food factor in somewhere. In wartime historic fiction there is always mention of the rations, the scarcity of food and lineups for a few meat bones. At the worst, there are stories of people stripping wallpaper off walls in hopes of boiling it down for the paste. There are always memories and hopes of better times, abundant flavours and full bellies at the low points in stories. In popular dystopian fiction, it factors in. In mysteries, food factors in with poison and knives and gatherings where anything could happen. In romance, there it is again in all its succulence. Suspense, thrillers, westerns – is there a genre that doesn’t mention food or drink? Maybe not. Is is so much a part of who we are and what we need to survive that, maybe, we can’t write without it.
“– is there a genre that doesn’t mention food or drink? Maybe not. Is is so much a part of who we are and what we need to survive that, maybe, we can’t write without it.”
And so, returning back to Sir John’s Table, it’s the kind of book you can finish in a few short sittings with pleasure, even though your stomach may be growling. It’s a perfect read to set the tone for a Canada 150 Celebration.
Without a doubt, Sir John’s Table is sure to delight everyone who takes part in the 1000 Islands Writer’s Festival Launch Party Fundraiser on April 1st, 2017. For one evening the adventure in the mind will move off the page and into our present world. Together with the persona of Sir John, the music of Turpin’s Trail, the words of Lindy Mechefske, and a sampling of food of the time and place, The Culinary Life and Times of Canada’s First Prime Minister will be brought to life.
The Celebration of Canada’s 150th Anniversary will happen on April 1st at 7:30 pm at the Thousands Islands Playhouse Firehall Theatre. Tickets are available online and at the Gananoque Public Library.
A look over the shoulder to see our past, a moment in the present to see where we stand, and a look to the future to imagine who we wish to become. The 1000 Islands Writers Festival will capture our identity as Canadians through our writers and our stories. Here we live, Reading by the River.