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.

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.

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.

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.

Every February, when the first seeds of the season are pressed into the soil, the Mising people of Assam gather for Ali-Aye-Ligang, a spring harvest festival that is as much about community as it is about crops. The name itself carries the rhythm of the land: “Ali” for legumes, “Aye” for seed, and “Ligang” for the act of sowing. Together, the words mark a turning point in the agricultural calendar—an announcement that it is time to begin planting.

Àmàlà is one of the cornerstones of Yoruba cuisine in Southwestern Nigeria — a staple food that carries both nourishment and memory. Classified as a “swallow”—a category of soft, dough-like starches eaten by hand with soups and stews—àmàlà is less a single dish than a shared experience. Diners pinch off portions, roll them gently between fingers, and dip them into richly seasoned broths, each bite a blend of starch and flavour that sustains both body and community.