When people speak of Canadian food, it’s often in generalities—maple syrup, poutine, butter tarts. But the real story of Canadian cuisine is one of interwoven legacies. Ukrainian food, especially on the Prairies, is not just a cultural layer; it is a foundational thread in how rural communities fed themselves, celebrated, and built resilience on new soil.

In Ukrainian tradition, medivnyk is a dense, dark honey cake spiced with cinnamon, cloves, and sometimes coffee or cocoa. Though simple in its, ingredients the cake was rich in symbolism and carefully reserved for feast days—especially Christmas, New Year’s, and major weddings. In some regions, it was part of ritual offerings, tied to both the sweetness of life and the warmth of shared gatherings.

When Ukrainian immigrants began arriving in Canada in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, many brought more than just tools and textiles. Tucked into coat linings or sewn into satchels were precious seeds from the Old Country—reminders of the land they left behind and essential for the lives they hoped to build. Among the most prized were herbs: dill, caraway, lovage, parsley, and sorrel.

Between the late 1890s and the 1930s, thousands of Ukrainians arrived on the Canadian Prairies, seeking land, freedom, and the possibility of a better life. Alberta, with its vast stretches of forest-prairie edge and fertile soil, became home to some of the largest Ukrainian settlements in Canada. Places like Vegreville, Lamont, Mundare, and Andrew emerged as cultural strongholds where faith, language, and food could survive in a new land.

Saskatchewan’s landscape—sweeping plains, black soil, and harsh winters—offered both challenge and familiarity to Ukrainian immigrants who began arriving in the 1890s. Many came from agricultural backgrounds in Western Ukraine, regions that shared the open skies and grain-rich horizons of the Prairie provinces. The land promised opportunity but required adaptation.

In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, waves of Ukrainian immigrants arrived in the Canadian Prairies, many settling in what is now known as Manitoba’s Parkland Region—especially around Dauphin, Ethelbert, and Sifton. Seeking land, freedom, and survival, these newcomers brought more than just labour and language. They brought food traditions that were deeply tied to the rhythms of the earth—and none more foundational than rye bread.

Edmonton rests on Treaty 6 territory, the traditional lands of the Néhiyaw (Cree), Niitsitapi (Blackfoot), Métis, Nakoda (Stoney), Dene, Haudenosaunee (Iroquois), and Anishinaabe (Ojibway/Saulteaux) peoples. This place is not just a backdrop for food—it is a living landscape of knowledge, culture, and memory.

Italian immigrants arrived in Alberta in small numbers as early as the 1890s, often settling in mining towns like Coleman and Blairmore. By the 1920s and again after World War II, larger waves of immigration brought families from Calabria, Abruzzo, Sicily, and Veneto to Edmonton.

In a prairie city known for long winters and vast distances, sustainable dining might seem like a contradiction. Yet Edmonton’s culinary landscape is undergoing a quiet transformation—one where the values of sustainability, cultural integrity, and community resilience are driving new standards in food service.

Edmonton is a city that wears its age quietly. While much of its modern identity has been shaped by oil booms, arts festivals, and growing immigration waves, the story of its food is told in tucked-away diners, enduring bakeries, and family-run restaurants that have outlived trends.

The story of Chinese food in Edmonton begins not in a kitchen, but along the Canadian Pacific Railway. Chinese immigrants were among the earliest non-European labourers to arrive in Alberta in the late 1800s, often facing harsh working conditions and systemic discrimination. After the railway was completed, many were forced to turn to low-margin industries, including laundries and food service.

Cinnamon comes from the inner bark of trees in the Cinnamomum genus. The most prized variety, Cinnamomum verum (or Ceylon cinnamon), is native to Sri Lanka. Other types, particularly Cinnamomum cassia, originated in China and Southeast Asia and are often sold under the same name, especially in North America.

In the heat of summer, food is everywhere. Gardens overflow, berries ripen faster than hands can pick, markets brim with colour. But this abundance carries an old urgency: gather now, because it won’t last.

In many Indigenous cultures across North America, the arrival of the first fruits—especially berries—has long been a time of ceremony, gratitude, and renewal. In particular, wild strawberries were often the first fruit to ripen, marking the beginning of summer and the opening of berry season. For the Haudenosaunee (Iroquois), the Strawberry Festival is a time to give thanks and honour the medicine and joy these berries bring.

Long before protein bars or trail mixes filled store shelves, Indigenous peoples across North America created a food that was rich in calories, nutrients, and meaning: pemmican.

Summer in Canada is a celebration of the seasons, and at the heart of this season lies the barbecue—a tradition loved by nearly every community across the country. As Canadians fire up their grills, they don’t just cook food; they also celebrate the diversity of the country’s culinary heritage.

Across Canada, grains have played a central role in shaping the country’s food culture, providing sustenance, nutrition, and economic strength for communities throughout the land. From Indigenous grains like wild rice to European grains like wheat and rye, grains have been the backbone of both daily life and celebratory feasts.

Fish is not just a food source in Canada—it is integral to the cultural, spiritual, and economic identity of many communities. Indigenous Peoples across the country have relied on fish for millennia, developing complex techniques to fish, preserve, and honour the creatures of the water. From the coastlines of the Pacific to the inland lakes of the Prairies, fish has sustained communities, shaped economies, and maintained deep spiritual connections to the land.

Poutine? Nanaimo bars? Barbecue ribs glazed with maple syrup?

Ask five Canadians what defines our national cuisine and you’ll get five different answers—and all of them will be at least partly right. That’s because food in Canada doesn’t come from a single origin or follow one thread. It’s a patchwork of memory, migration, adaptation, and survival.