Carrot Tops

Those feathery greens on carrots are often tossed, yet they’re entirely edible and packed with flavour. Historically, carrot tops were simmered into soups or used medicinally in teas.

Across Canada’s cultural landscape, food traditions have long embraced the principle of using the whole harvest. Indigenous communities developed methods such as drying bison meat into pemmican or smoking fish so that no part of an animal or plant was wasted. Immigrant families, from Ukrainian settlers in Manitoba to Chinese railway workers, also relied on whole-use cooking to stretch limited ingredients.

Every year, Canadians throw out millions of tonnes of food, and a surprising portion of it isn’t spoiled—it’s the skins, stems, and leaves we never even considered edible. Carrot tops go straight to the compost bin, beet greens are lopped off at the market stall, and potato skins are peeled and discarded without a second thought.

Preservation has always been more than food science — it was survival strategy, cultural safeguard, and sometimes an act of quiet rebellion. Before refrigeration, communities relied on salting, drying, fermenting, and storing underground to extend the life of seasonal harvests. These methods not only ensured food security but also created culinary traditions that shaped identities. To preserve was to prepare for scarcity, to protect a household, and to assert resilience in the face of unpredictability.

Every kitchen has scraps. A carrot peel, a crust of bread, a bone left behind after roasting a chicken. Today many of these end up in the bin, but for much of human history they were the starting point of the next meal. What we think of as waste has long been the foundation of cuisine, shaping recipes that endured not because they were second-rate, but because they were satisfying, flavourful, and essential.

For most of human history, food waste was nearly impossible to imagine. Every bite represented labour, risk, and reverence. A slaughtered animal carried weeks of preparation and the responsibility of honouring its life. A harvest gathered from the soil embodied the turning of seasons and the work of many hands. Throwing away edible parts meant discarding not only nourishment but also the effort and meaning tied to it.

Scraps, stems, skins, and seeds — these so-called leftovers have always held nutritional and cultural value, and today they are being rediscovered as essential tools in the fight against food waste.

The kitchen table was as much a part of Canada’s war effort as the factory floor. Picture it: a narrow 1940s kitchen with a wood or coal stove radiating heat, ration books fanned open beside a jar of sugar no bigger than a teacup, rows of gleaming preserves stacked like sentries along the counter, and two fresh loaves of bread cooling under clean tea towels. The air carried the mingled scent of yeast, stewed fruit, and something savoury stretching its way into tomorrow’s supper.

Canada’s food history is rooted in ingredients that grew, swam, or roamed freely across this land. Long before refined wheat and industrial farming arrived, Indigenous communities sustained themselves with nutrient-rich staples harvested in tune with seasonal cycles. These were the original examples of sustainable cooking and ancestral cooking methods — systems where food, ecology, and community were inseparable.

Late summer in Canada is a season of contrasts. The days are still warm, but evenings carry the first hints of autumn.

Late August in Canada is a moment of abundance. The hedgerows are heavy with berries, gardens are brimming with herbs, and meadows hum with pollinators visiting the last of the wildflowers.

In much of Canada, late August is a turning point. The days are still long, the sun still warm, but the light shifts—less a blaze, more a burnished gold. Historically, this was a critical time for food gathering. For many Indigenous Nations, it marked the height of berry season and the beginning of autumn preservation. For settler homesteads, it was the month of cellars filling with jars, drying racks heavy with herbs, and baskets of fruit set out to ripen.

By late August, Canada’s landscapes are brimming with plants that have long served a dual purpose — they refresh and they sustain. Along field edges, rosehips begin to redden, holding the promise of winter tea. In the north, fireweed flowers signal the last rush of the growing season, while in boggy lowlands, the leathery leaves of Labrador tea are ready for harvest. These plants, along with a host of berries, roots, and seeds, once filled travel packs, medicine bundles, and winter stores.

The edges of the land have always been important. For thousands of years, Indigenous peoples knew where berry patches would ripen each season, where wild roots could be dug without harming the population, and where migrating birds or animals could be hunted as they passed. Later, settlers marked property lines with hedgerows and fruit trees, inadvertently creating long, narrow larders for future generations.

By late August, Canadian hedgerows and meadows are full of small, edible surprises. Along rural fencelines, clusters of crabapples hang from gnarled branches, their skins flushed with red or yellow and their tart scent carried on the breeze. In nearby fields, clover blossoms stand bright against fading greens, their round flower heads still drawing bees in the warm afternoon light.

Late August is a month of change in Canada’s landscapes. Days are still warm, but nights begin to cool. In Northern regions, the first leaves blush yellow on poplars. Fields shimmer with goldenrod, berry canes droop with fruit, and the air holds a trace of autumn. For foragers, this is a pivotal moment — the last full flush of summer growth before the pace of the season slows.

Not every meal needs a recipe. Sometimes it just needs a spoon and a jar. These 12 make-ahead or slow-fermented foods have nourished generations — and they still hold their own on today’s snack plates.

It started with a ceramic plate, a piece of cheese, some grapes, a wine glass wheeled in tight. No flame. No stove. No recipe. Back in 2023, TikTok user Olivia Maher—sister of Olympic rugby star Ilona Maher—named it “Girl Dinner”. In a video testimony, she described it as a “medieval peasant meal” she loved. The clip went viral, sparking millions of videos of minimalist meals that looked like they were thrown together—or maybe just unearthed from a ragged fridge. (Glamour, The Hans India, Cultura Colectiva)

The shift horn blew. The boots stomped. And the metal latch clicked. That’s how lunch began.

No café jazz, no click of ceramic dishes, no paper napkin folded like origami. Just the sound of a tin creaking open in the dark belly of a mine or against the wind on a prairie field. The lid slammed back, dented from years of drops and drags, smudged with coal dust, fertilizer, sweat. Inside: bread thick as a fencepost, a jar lid that wouldn’t come loose without a knife, a wax paper wrap gone limp with grease.

The hum of the fridge. The tap leaking, soft as breath. The kettle rattling, forgotten and still full. There’s an avocado on the counter that went bad yesterday. A heel of bread. One last hardboiled egg, peeled already, shrivelled a little. One pickle. A triangle of cheese. Three olives, maybe four, soft, salty, slumped.