Eating Wild: More Plants, More Flavour, Room for Everyone

I grew up with a British dad and a German mom who loved to cook. And oh my goodness, the things she would make. Food was something you put your hands and your heart into, then brought to the table.

If memory serves, Mom was the oldest of fourteen. Holiday dinners were enormous affairs. Our farmhouse kitchen could feed forty, and she had a walk-in cooler, not just a fridge. That gives you some idea of what “having people over” meant in our house.

When the dining room couldn’t hold everyone, we extended into the upstairs parlour. The children’s table fit in front of the fireplace, in its warmth, beside her camelback couch.

The couch was forbidden territory. You could admire it. You were absolutely not to sit on it.

There’s a family myth that I once had an older brother. He got gravy on the couch.

I don’t have an older brother. You stayed off Mom’s white couch.

Apparently, the adults had different arrangements. People would travel from BC in the dead of a Canadian winter to eat her chocolate cream pie, sit on that couch, and extol her cooking. I swear Uncle Pat and Auntie Cathy came for the blueberry pie. Mom didn’t just make a pie. She created that jammy, holds-together goodness that you remember years later and immediately want another piece of.

Food brought the extended family together. Across distances, through winter, into that enormous gathering of plates and people. There is something magic about that.

I own that couch now.

The Smallfolk, our grandchildren, have blessed it with paint and berry stains. Mom would roll over in her grave.

Or maybe she wouldn’t.

It washes out.

Another generation is leaving its little marks. Different mess. Same family. Still making room.

The flavours we keep coming back for

And her stuffing. I’ve never quite got her stuffing right. The herbs, that particular combination. I can make something lovely, but there’s still that moment of tasting and thinking: almost. Not quite Mom’s.

This time of year, that’s the goal. A little more of this. Perhaps less of that. Trying to find a familiar flavour with my own hands.

Her sweet-and-sour sauce, however, is classified.

No, you can’t have the recipe.

And no, Auntie Lea, for the thirtieth year, it does not have pineapple in it.

It is, however, just as good on ice cream as it is on ribs. Some family traditions are recipes. Others are the same conversation held annually until everyone knows their lines.

I think that’s part of why the herbal kitchen matters so much to me. We’re not just seasoning food. Sometimes we’re remembering someone. Sometimes we’re passing something along. And sometimes we’re making the thing that, years from now, someone else will be trying to get just right.

Later, spending time in Asia, I fell in love with tables full of flavourful little dishes. Mountains of vegetables. Tofu, meat, different proteins, and so many tastes to explore. A spoonful of this. A little more of that. Food you wanted to talk about while you were still eating it.

Different tables, but that same invitation: come sit down. There’s something here for you.

Different plates. Same welcome.

Left to my own devices, I’d happily lean very vegetarian. In our house, though, we make room for different appetites.

The House Troll, my life partner, has terms and conditions regarding tofu. Ideally, I made it fresh that day. Then it needs to be fried and crispy, agedashi-style. Apparently, the tofu must arrive with references.

Lanny will eat just about anything I put in front of him. Crust issues aside, he’s a good eater. But if it’s green, it’s not going in his mouth, no matter how much cheese I pile on.

We’ve tried negotiations. We’ve tried cheddar. The border remains closed.

My tofu and someone else’s chicken can wear the same lovely marinade. We can share mountains of vegetables, pass the little dishes, and enjoy supper without needing identical plates. Nobody here is taking attendance.

This is where Wild Gourmet begins

Wild Gourmet is taking shape around our table, at the big dinners where we’re trying things, passing dishes, and asking, “What do you think of this one?”

There are flavours we’re chasing from Mom’s kitchen, experiments we’re excited to share, and family stories that come out every time we gather. That’s the fun of it. The anticipation. Something steeping, something roasting, everyone arriving with their own appetite and opinions.

Not everything is ready for your cupboard yet. We wanted to invite you into the possibilities anyway. Consider this a seat at the kitchen table while we make what’s coming next.

Invite more plants to supper

To me, bringing herbs into everyday meals is plant-based eating at its most wonderfully hands-on: leaves, flowers, roots, and seeds becoming familiar flavours. Not a perfect diet. Not a rule about what belongs on your plate. Just more ways to enjoy plants in the meals you already make.

Herbs have long belonged in kitchens and food traditions, passed along through recipes, habits, and shared meals. Our part in that story is ordinary and lovely: cooking together, tasting together, and learning what makes everyone ask for another bite.

Our herbal sprinkles, spice blends, and vinegars come from things we actually use. The nettle blend in the cottage cheese. The sweet rub on the tofu. The vinegar in the dressing, paired with an infused EVOO. Wild Gourmet is our way of doing some of the blending so you can get on with supper.

We work with whole herbs, grinding them when we make our blends. Wherever possible, we harvest and dry the herbs ourselves before grinding. A little care from the garden to the kitchen table.

A blessing, not a rulebook

The most useful herbal kitchen advice I have is wonderfully unglamorous: keep the jar where you can reach it.

Beside the stove. On the table. Near the bowl you use every morning. Herbs hidden behind the special-occasion dishes rarely get invited to Tuesday’s dinner.

Sometimes you want to explore the whole spice cupboard. Sometimes everyone’s hungry and you would quite like one jar to have a useful suggestion. Both are respectable ways to make supper.

The ideas below are kitchen starting points to taste and adjust, not tested recipes for the finished Wild Gourmet blends. We’re introducing a collection in development; availability will follow as each product is ready.

Kale with crust issues

Wash and thoroughly dry a bunch of kale. Remove the tough stems and tear the leaves into generous pieces. Toss with a little olive oil, infused or not, and a small squeeze of lemon juice, gently rubbing until the leaves are lightly coated. A sheen, not a swimming lesson.

Sprinkle lightly with Lanny’s Crust Issues, our sesame, thyme, rose hips, and black pepper blend. Spread in a single layer on baking trays and bake at 150°C / 300°F, checking from about 10 minutes onward. Turn the trays as needed and remove crisp pieces before they become deeply browned. Timing depends on the leaves and your oven. DO NOT let them turn brown; there's a sweet spot where they stay green and crunchy; it's magic, I promise.

For salad instead, massage the kale with lemon juice and olive oil, season to taste, and skip the oven. Add chickpeas, grated carrot, or leftover roasted autumn vegetables. One bunch of kale, two possible dinners.

Lanny’s blend contains sesame. Keep everyone’s ingredients and allergies part of the conversation.

Tofu enters the spice quadrant

Pat firm tofu dry, press if needed, and tear or cut it into pieces. Toss with a little olive oil and Sweet Rub of Mine. Don’t be shy with the rub. Give the tofu a good coating; according to Lanny, it’s best when it forms a crust. The man has issues, but on this point we agree.

Spread on a lined tray and bake at 200°C / 400°F, turning halfway through and checking for golden edges from about 20 minutes onward. Brown sugar enjoys a little colour, not a dramatic farewell.

Serve with rice and vegetables, tuck into a wrap, or sample directly from the tray while claiming you’re checking the seasoning. This is our sweet-rub idea, not the House Troll’s very specific agedashi request. Separate mission.

Though, now that you mention it…

No. One dinner at a time, jeez Sara Kate.

According to Sara Kate, supper needs a rubdown, a botanical backstory, and a three-season character arc. She’s a massage therapist, herb nerd, and sci-fi addict. We probably should have seen this coming.

Lanny gets crust issues. Sara Kate gets command of the spice quadrant. We call that a balanced household.

Fire cider finds the barbecue

For a quick barbecue-style finishing sauce, stir together half a cup of ketchup, a tablespoon of fire cider, and a teaspoon of Sweet Rub of Mine. No saucepan needed. This one stays cold until you slather it onto your cooked meatloaf, rotisserie chicken, or pork.

But meatloaf. Especially meatloaf.

Make mini meatloaf muffins for the Smallfolk, add a little sauce, then crown them with pipped-on smashed potatoes and finely minced pepper sprinkles.

Tiny supper cupcakes. We have absolutely no intention of behaving ourselves.

Taste the sauce before serving and adjust to your table. A little more fire cider for tang, a little more rub for sweetness and spice.

And then, if you wanna be a grown-up about it…

Warm the sauce gently in a small saucepan for five to ten minutes, stirring and adding a splash of water if it needs loosening. A little more fire cider brings tang; a little more Sweet Rub of Mine brings sweetness and spice. Taste as you go until it’s your kind of lovely.

Brush onto tofu or vegetables toward the end of cooking, or serve warm alongside dinner.

Being a grown-up does not, however, disqualify you from meatloaf cupcakes. You pay bills. You can have potato frosting.

Adjust to your own fire cider and your own taste. This is a starting point, not a family argument about the one true barbecue sauce. We have other things to argue about. Pineapple, apparently.

A dressing that leaves room for curiosity

Whisk three tablespoons of olive oil with one tablespoon of herbal vinegar or lemon juice. Add a small dab of mustard if you like, then taste before seasoning.

More vinegar or lemon makes it brighter; more oil softens the sharpness. Try a little Nobody Suspects the Nettle, then spoon over salad, warm lentils, or roasted vegetables.

Dip Happens, our white wine bread-dipping vinegar with thyme, chives, ginger, and rosemary, is another direction we’re developing. Add olive oil and fresh garlic just before serving with bread. An appetizer. Allegedly not the entire supper.

Then there’s Braise Yourself: apple cider vinegar, honey, orange peel, coriander, lavender, black pepper, and horseradish, with a little more body and considerably more attitude. Good things come to those who braise.

For midsummer, we’re planning Petal to the Kettle, with edible lavender flowers, calendula petals, rosemary flowers, thyme flowers, sage blossoms, and rose petals steeped in apple cider vinegar.

We pick it. We steep it. We serve it. Summer does most of the showing off.

Breakfast is invited

We’re not saying pumpkin-spice season isn’t wonderful. We just happen to like those flavours in our pies and breakfasts all year round.

Mind Goblin... Ma Food? is probably the single most-used blend in our kitchen. It lives right next to Nobody Suspects the Nettle, within easy reach, because neither jar gets much time off.

A little in the porridge. Some in the pancake batter. Into a pie because it’s Tuesday and nobody said we couldn’t.

We love autumn. We just don’t believe it gets sole custody of those warm, autumnal flavours.

The calendar is not the boss of your breakfast. And there’s enough to share. That doesn’t mean we’ve emotionally prepared for it.

More possibilities in the kitchen

Garden of Eatin’ is the most-used meat blend in our home. It rubs in like a boss, clings beautifully, and brings rosemary, orange peel, thyme, sage, black pepper, and horseradish to the party.

If you don’t know what to do with your meat: Garden of Eatin’.

Your roast called. It wants a rubdown.

I don’t always want to put the elbow grease into dinner. But I happen to have a cooler that can do some of the work for me.

Brines!

A little planning, a properly chilled soak, and time for flavour to settle in before the cooking begins. Pork roast, chicken, or the whole turkey. We’re working on blends to bring flavour and help keep those family-dinner favourites moist.

We’re chasing the autumn and spring combinations we can’t stop thinking about. Apples and juniper for autumn. Or tender spring pine needles…

Yes. Pine needles.

Imagine that flavour alongside rosemary on your potatoes. Or with duck.

More on that in May.

For now, there are blends to test and people to feed. Finding the one everyone wants another helping of is a very enjoyable assignment.

Why settle for just any olive oil?

Once you start exploring herbs in your meals, the oil itself becomes part of the adventure. We’re planning oil infuser kits for Christmas: a little invitation to kitchen curiosity for the cook who says, “Smell this,” before you’ve taken your coat off.

Follow the kit’s preparation and storage directions when it arrives. The gift isn’t just another thing for the cupboard. It’s a reason to open it.

The Smallfolk are hungry

Cooking together is also how we pass this curiosity along. Let little hands measure familiar culinary herbs, smell, and stir alongside you. Nobody needs to know everything before they begin.

Our grandchildren, the Smallfolk, arrive with appetites of their own. The youngest is still deciding whether chewing is necessary or merely slows down the proceedings. The House Troll would like it known that he does not have favourites. We remain unconvinced.

They don’t need identical tastes, either. They need a welcome, a chance to explore, and someone showing them that the spice cupboard isn’t off limits to curiosity.

Read ingredient lists, tell people what’s in the food, and adapt meals for their needs. Kitchen mischief is welcome. Secret ingredients around food allergies are not.

Something to take home for your beloveds

Honouring the earth can happen in small, everyday ways. Paying attention to the seasons. Using what we have. Wasting a little less. Taking the time to notice what something tastes like.

For us, the big dinners are where all of this comes together. The memories, the experimenting, the family teasing, and the pleasure of feeding people we love.

As each Wild Gourmet blend is ready, you’ll be able to take a little of that possibility home. Not Our family’s exact dinner: Yours.

For your beloveds. Your crowded table or quiet supper for one or two. Your own familiar jokes, your different favourites, and somebody asking for seconds.

And perhaps, years from now, someone trying to remember exactly how you made that one thing.

Pull up a chair.

Set phasers to flavour.