TheSMARTSeed Leanne Schaeken, Food, History, Economics

For s***s and giggles, let’s say that I, hypothetically of course, lived on a farm, a peach farm to be exact. I’ve picked all of my peaches and counted out the ones that I would need for canning. After I’ve done my counting I have two bushels of peaches left that I do not need. Therefore, I need to complete a trade. My two bushels of peaches for something of equal value. Now, my neighbour down the road grows pluots, a hybrid fruit that is derived from a plum and an apricot. In our world pluots and peaches are worth the same. She says, “Leanne, I’ll give you two bushels of pluots for your two bushels of peaches.” It is a simple trade, but most importantly it is a fair and mutually beneficial trade, which is essential.



Our society relies on mutually beneficial trade. From an exchange between neighbours, corporations, and countries every economic act is an act in trade. Every time we buy something or sell something we are participating in a trade. As Canadians, we are reminded over and over that we are a “trading nation” and that “trade” is essential to our success. Last year, our Canadian Prime Minister was in China scrounging up an agreement to just start the talks on a free trade agreement between China and Canada. Before that, he was in Vietnam restarting the Trans Pacific Partnership. In 2017 alone, trade and investment agreements have been concluded between Canada and the European Union, Guinea, Mongolia, and Ukraine. To put it plainly, Canada is going trade gangbusters and has been for awhile and there is probably one big fat reason why--the United States. Canada is and has always been overly dependent on our neighbours to the south as they count for about 77% of our trade. With Trump in the White House and the renegotiation of NAFTA not going so well, to say the least, Canada is best to diversify and diversity fast.



Now, this mutually beneficial part can get pretty sticky. It’s not just making sure that all countries benefit from a trade deal, but making sure that enough people within those countries benefit to make the deal a good one. It’s the danger of creating trade agreements around the needs of multinational corporations and not around the needs and desires of people. For, if the people don’t benefit then what is the result? Trump? Maybe. Protectionism? Perhaps. War? It’s possible. It’s definitely happened before. Which brings us to this week’s episode: China, Britain, & the Poppy.



When I was a kid I remember watching an episode of Seinfeld with my dad. In the episode, Elaine was invited to go on a work trip to Kenya, but one requirement was that she had to take and pass a drug test. Well, two tests later, Mr. Peterman gave Elaine the news that she had failed both tests, due to traces of opium in her system, and because of the failed tests she not only wouldn’t be allowed to go on the trip, but she would also lose her job. Flummoxed. Elaine sat at the diner, chomping down on a poppyseed muffin, and sharing her exasperation over the situation with the waiter. Only to have a noisy fellow diner bring up the fact that she was eating a poppy seed muffin and pose the question, “Well, you know what opium is made from?” “Poppies!!!” Elaine yells as the light bulb flashes in her brain. At the time I remember thinking, “Jeez Louise, who would have thought they were from the same plant?” Well, I guess certainly not a twelve year old me.



Plants are often multifaceted--they give what we decide to take from it and they are an object to what we decide to impose on it. The poppy can be our nourishment. It can be a remedy to our pain. It can be a tool for our vices and our addictions. It can be a symbol of loss, violence, and remembrance written in song and poetry. In most ways, how we use plants is much more a reflection of us and our own history rather than a reflection of the plant itself.



In China, in the 19th century,

I’m indifferent. I guess that is the best word I have, and, surely, it can be argued that this is the worst type of being. To have no passion, no hate, no love, no opinion of one thing or another. To simply be uninterested, so much so, that you care not to know. Actually, there is no “care”--it just is what it is. I am rarely indifferent. Throw a topic out there and some type of emotion will wither its way out of me: Climate Change, United States Foreign Policy, NAFTA negotiations, Tax Reform, the supply-management system, French only signs in Quebec’s National Parks, the Saskatchewan Roughriders. Oh, yes, there is deep hatred for that one. If you name it I can definitely sort out an opinion.



I can state, ever so matter of factly, that there is no greater indifference than the indifference that U.S Sports broadcasters on ESPN or TNT have towards the Toronto Raptors. To be up front, NBA Basketball and the Toronto Raptors is my primary form of escapism. For a year now, I have fully committed myself to being a true and knowledgeable fan. Last year, I rarely missed watching a game. I kept the computer on while they went through that dreadful stretch from February to March. I learned to appreciate as they fell behind by twenty points and then pushed out the young guys to try to provide a spark. Sure there’s Kyle Lowry and Demar Derozan, but I was interested in the folks on the bench like Delon Wright, Pascal Siakam, Jakob Poeltl, and Fred VanVleet. Instead of paying the exorbitant prices to watch a Raptors game we hung around young families and watched a D-League Game in Mississauga. I started watching interviews with the players, the general manager, Masai Ujiri, and the coach, Dwane Casey. I stayed up to date during the offseason keeping track of who was being traded to whom and the implications those trades and others had on the league itself. Through all this time I realized one thing--the US was indifferent to the Raptors.



I would watch Inside the NBA on TNT with Charles Barkley, Kenny Smith, Ernie Johnson, and Shaquille O’Neal. Whether it be through the regular or post-season the Raptors were just a footnote--an obligatory mention. They would spend more time, much more time, talking about teams who weren’t nearly as good or consequential to the season itself. And, when they did mention the Raptors they only ever talked about Derozan and Lowry, as if they were the only two on the team. Frankly, I think if you asked them to name the Raptor’s roster, they would only know perhaps four or five players. Yesterday, I listened to an in-depth conversation with Masai Ujiri on the US based Bill Simmon’s Podcast.  Simmons spent most of the interview asking the Raptor’s General Manager to comment on players outside of the Raptor’s franchise, and then near the end Masai asked, “Have you ever visited Toronto?” Simmon’s responded, “Ah, no, I haven’t.” And, perhaps, that is at the crux of the indifference. Sports teams are so often wrapped up in the cultural identity of the city. What is Regina without the Roughriders or Montreal without the Canadians? If you do not know the city then perhaps it’s harder to care about the team. If we do not attempt to create a relationship if we do not ask the question, “Why should we care?” then what are we missing by choosing to not know. Which brings us to this week’s episode, “The indifference to an always has been, but shouldn’t be, humble liquid.”              



When it’s use is often so industrial and so woven in the fabric of our everyday we can often take it for granted. Even more so it can be denigrated; it’s value no longer appreciated, because we do not know what it was like to not have it. I believe that this is such a case. So much so, that I wish not to even say the word, because that alone would make it appear unworthy of our time and attention. So, let’s not say what it is we are talking about. Instead,

“I appreciate camping, but that doesn’t mean I like it.”   A couple of weeks ago, as we struck down our tent in Fjord-du-Saguenay National Park just off of the St. Lawrence river in Quebec those words could not possibly hold more truth for me. To be fully enveloped in nature, to feel the wind rush through your tent, the glowing embers of a fire warm your hands, to see a lone falcon jetting along the skyline, or hear the sound of a pod of beluga whales bouncing off the hills are appreciable things. You can sit in nature and feel your smallness and insignificance and in some ways be comforted in that feeling. But, (and that is meant to be a big, bold but) living in nature also forces a return. A return to what we used to be, and inclement weather just compounds the situation. It is hard to keep clean while camping. The line between the clean you and the dirty you is thin. You try your best, but somehow you get sand in your sleeping bag; you have a shower, but there is a dampness to your clothes so it feels like you are putting dirty clothes on a clean body. You wake up in the morning and your hair smells like smoke and your neck is sweaty. It doesn’t matter how much organizing you do, you quickly become one with nature, and it doesn’t smell as sweet. You are reminded that without proper shelter you are becoming more animal than civilized human, and rain certainly does not help your lot.  



We were stuck in our tent as the rain poured overhead. We had read our books, had our naps, and were becoming restless as the rain continued to fall. At one point there was reprieve. I quickly dressed in order to start dinner only to have the rain fall once more just as i was about to zip open the tent. “Damnit.” I have patience until I don’t, and it is amazing how quickly patience disappears once you start feeling hungry. Enough was enough. I wanted to be dry and cozy. I wanted to be full and content. Out of the tent and in the car we went. As we drove down an unknown highway, past the most beautiful flowing rivers and misty hills I had an image in my head. It was of the restaurants found in my hometown. These restaurants weren’t fancy, for sure. There were dim lit rooms, brunch buffets, club sandwiches, and thick and clumsy coffee cups. For some odd reason, in that moment, that’s what I needed. Twenty minutes down the road, the first restaurant we saw was exactly what I was looking for. It was absolutely wonderful in its guadiness with chipped yellow and red siding and flower boxes lining the porch. We walked into a packed room and sat at the nearest booth. As I opened a ridiculously long menu my eyes panned the room. It seemed like everyone in the small town decided to come here for dinner, and (i know this is a random tidbit of a detail, but I did find it odd) literally every single person was drinking a pepsi. Like, everyone. Pepsi. Diet Pepsi, and that’s it. My partner chose the club sandwich and I chose the salmon, which to be honest, if you are going to walk into one of these restaurants you never choose the salmon. The soup of the day, for sure, some fries, of course, but salmon, never. I will blame my uppity palette for the poor choice. After a brief confusing exchange with the waitress, where I had to remember the french word for hot, “Chaud. Yes. Tea. Chaud, Not Ice Tea,” out came our dinners. My oval plate consisted of a massive piece of salmon (a bit too dry and with little bones still in it) on a bed of iceberg lettuce with a side of salad, with, you betcha, iceberg lettuce. I looked at Troy and said, “Yup, this is exactly what I wanted.” Which brings us to this week’s episode, “The Ironic Nostalgia for Iceberg Lettuce.”



Most of the time, for me, in order to enjoy what I’m eating food needs to have flavour. And when I talk about flavour I’m not just asking you to pass the salt. However, for others (and I include myself in this bunch from time to time) the enjoyment of food goes

Once upon a time there was a farmer whose name was Rod. Rod was a pilot who also happened to be an organic farmer. He grew 100% grass fed beef, pastured pork, chickens and eggs, greenhouse tomatoes and cucumbers, and basil. Oh, and satisfying delicious flax cookies. At the Regina Farmer’s Market, which during the winter was held at a small community centre in the Cathedral District, Rod’s booth was right beside the one that I worked at. At first sighting, he instantly reminded me of a liberal version of my father. A little too opinionated and a little too forward you could tell that some customers didn’t know how to take him. Was he joking or was he being serious? Should you be offended or should you laugh? Rod was a proud farmer. Although, having said that I don’t know if I’ve ever met a farmer who wasn’t proud. I guess when the time comes and your truck has broken down and a crop has failed and the bank is knocking at your door it’s always good to hold on to something. Anyway, Rod was proud. His products were always more than what they appeared. His tomatoes weren’t just tomatoes. They were juicy and flavourful and were what tomatoes used to be like, not the hard, cardboard tasting ones we’ve become accustomed to. However, it was in talking about one item, in particular, when his tone would get a little lighter and a little more earnest, and that item was basil.



Rod would often have around ten little ziploc bags full of freshly cut sweet basil to sell. On the days when they didn’t sell out he would give me one. Almost every time he’d tell me, “I love basil. Sometimes I even put a little under my pillow so I can go to sleep smelling it.” Rod would always insist that I take good care of the basil he gave me, “Tuck a little moist paper towel in the bag, and never put it in the fridge. Ever.” This week's episode is: Basil, Language, & a Myth or two.



I didn’t really grow up with herbs. As I mentioned in previous podcasts, my mom was a good cook. Full disclosure, my dad was a nonexistent cook. His idea of cooking was slapping together a sandwich. Two slices of bread, relish, mustard, and pickled herring was all he needed. My mom certainly dabbled in her spice drawer from time to time, although some of those spice bottles looked like they had been sitting there for a while and turned into hard clumps in a jar. Once late spring hit, my mom would put together a planter of herbs--sweet basil, thai basil, parsley, thyme, and rosemary. It smelled great, but I don’t ever remember using it. They remained in their pot, never picked, never pinched, never sprinkled. Perhaps, our lack of herbs was a side-effect of a Northern European diet, or perhaps a Northern European diet that had been cut and removed from some of its fundamental properties.  We were a family of Dutch immigrants and our food reflected more a need for sustenance than enjoyment. Meat and Potatoes were what we ate, and there was no need to fancy it up. Or, perhaps, it would be more apt to say that there was no thought that there was a need to fancy it up. The perfect word to describe this type of food is bland, and bland is the exact opposite of flavour.



It can be argued that the first time I ate basil was the first time I appreciated flavour. Basil has a subtle peppery flavour and smells entirely fresh, as if the wind has blown a thousand flowers towards you. Basil dances with your senses. It transforms food. From pizza, pasta, ice cream, pesto, curries, salads, food is often better with basil then without. It’s transformative effect on food and the people eating it is almost magical. In a way, all herbs, have this ability. The intensity of their flavour and their fragrance turns basic sustenance into what food should be. And in doing so has an impact that goes far beyond food.



There are three words. The first word is Basilisk. In “Harry Potter and The Chamber of Secrets”, the second installment in the series,

I had once gone to a wedding in upstate New York. After the ceremony, a dance, and the presentation of food, it was time for the speeches. The best man stood up and went to the microphone to say a little something about the groom,his brother. What he said, which I thought was poignant at the time, was that his brother above all else was nice. Nice is such a simple, overly spent word and, yet, I thought it was the best word to describe my friend. It is a quality that does not come and go, depending on who you are interacting with or what is happening around you, it is a part of you. As the speeches continued, I briefly zoned out and thought to myself, “Hmm...nope, I’m definitely not nice.”



One of the great things about getting older is that, if you are wise enough, you can start to see patterns within your own life. One pattern that has dogged me since I was very young is a type of divisiveness that I create. As my husband once said, “Leanne, people either love you or hate you.”  This fact, that every few years the later, gets smacked in my face is hard to swallow and as I get older I do try my best to avoid it. A quality that is as true to me as my friend’s niceness and the main cause of the divisiveness is a type of blatant honesty that I share. In recent years I’ve mitigated the fallout by choosing not to say anything at all. Unfortunately, my face betrays me more often than not, and folks can tell what I’m thinking regardless.  People either hate my honesty or they love it. It is the same quality, but often comes with different reactions.



It might seem like an odd, ill-thought segue to start talking about seaweed right now, for what does seaweed have to do with my divisiveness issues? What is divisive about seaweed? Heck, what do we even know about seaweed? Unless, you live in Asia or are of Asian ancestry, your connection to seaweed is probably pretty limited. A little Nori in your California sushi roll and that is probably it. At least that is what you think. Seaweed is actually pretty pervasive even in a North American diet. However, it is the fact that we aren’t fully aware of its presence or the names that it is hidden under that allows us to create a division that we aren’t really aware that we are creating. You might not know this but seaweed is in your chocolate milk. It’s in your toothpaste. It’s in your canned beans. Essentially, seaweed is the source of a few of our most used food additives. You might see the words carrageenan, agar, or monosodium glutamate (yes, folks, that’s MSG). All derived or originally derived from seaweed. In some food circles, these additives are put on a big blackboard and labeled, “Watch out, that shit’s bad for you.” On the other side of the spectrum, seaweed, like Chlorella or Spirulina, are bottled up in vitamin capsules and presented as a wondrous super food that will be your source for boundless energy. It will prevent inflammation, while at the same time your seaweed derived additives will cause inflammation. Supposedly, it can be both at the same time, and perhaps it can. When you manipulate food anything can happen. This week’s episode Seaweed: A Complicated Relationship you didn’t know you had.



There is something called the Coastal Route Theory, which is basically a theory that explains how humans first arrived in the Americas during the last Ice Age. In school, when it was the 90's and I was young, naive, and full of dreams I learned about the Bering Land Bridge Theory, which suggested the Americas was populated by folks walking from Russia to Alaska. Well, the Coastal Route Theory suggests that South America and Western United States was first populated by Southeast Asians or Polynesians who hopscotched their way across the pacific ocean on boat, by either crossing south or north of the pacific. Along with the Coastal Route Theory is another theory called the Kelp Highway Hypothesis.

If you’ve ever had the pleasure or misfortune of getting stuck in a conversation with me, you might notice one thing. I most always say, “Well, I think.” or “Well, I’m pretty sure.” I don’t tend to talk in certainties. It may be because I am more concerned about being wrong rather than being right. My belief system is a perfect example of my ambivalence.  “Is there a God? Maybe?” I wouldn’t want to completely discount it. Either way, the day I finally find out the answer to that question no one will be able to say that I was entirely wrong. I just hedged my bets. And then in one scenario I will definitely be sent to purgatory.



This maybe surprising, but working in the food industry has pushed me to double down on my “Well, I think” and “Well, I’m pretty sure.” It is an intentional pushback against all of those fellow co-workers and customers who over the years have talked in absolutes. GMOS. Bad. Vaccines. More Bad. Bone Broth heals everything. Reishi Mushrooms cures cancer. Absolutes that always seem to be based on anecdotes and not scientific consensus. Perhaps, for those of us who are not doctors or scientists should be a bit more humble in our certainties when it comes to areas where we have no expertise. For sure, I am not completely immune to the random moment of righteousness. A couple of years ago, after I moved back to my home province of Ontario and started a new job I found myself on the wrong side of a pesky, yet not an inconsequential debate. What is a sweet potato? And, what is a yam? For my new co-worker, the orange skin and orange flesh elongated root was a sweet potato. For me, it was a yam. I explained that I was a produce queen. I had spent the last three years knee deep in organic produce splendor. Sunchokes, kiwi berries, burdock, broccoli leaves, passion fruit, persimmon, you name it I’ve tried it. With a few caveats.  I gently explained, perhaps, with a bit of a condescending tone that I had already had the yam / sweet potato conversation with a produce distributor, and that they explained that the yam was the orange skin and orange flesh root, and that the sweet potato was the purple skin white flesh root. So, yeah, my apologies, but I’m right. Well, I was wrong. Which brings us to this week’s episode: The Unfortunate Case of the Sweet Potato and Yam Debacle.



You know once in awhile I wonder if the time and money I put into my English Degree was worth it, and then more often than you would think as I do research on my next podcast a book will come up, and I say to myself, “Wait a minute. I’ve read that book. I have that book. That book is upstairs.” This was one of those times. The book is called, “Things Fall Apart” and the author is Chinua Achebe. Now, let’s be clear I remember precious little about this book other than the fact that I liked it. That goes with pretty much every single novel I read throughout my university career. Robertson Davies was my favourite author. Why? I don’t remember. In “Things Fall Apart,” which is set in Nigeria, there is a chapter that describes “The Feast of the New Yam.” In the book, the festival is held every year prior to the harvest, to honour the earth goddess and the ancestral spirits of the clan. The festival marked the season of plenty and a new year. Old, shriveled up, fibrous yams would be disposed of, for the new year must begin with new, fresh yams. Needless to say, spiritually and culturally, the yam is interwoven into West African culture. A variant of the word “yam” in some tribes actually means “to eat.” So, yeah, if it’s synonymous with the act of eating then it must be important.



https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gHS4CpLMddY



The yam is a tuber, similar to a potato. And, a tuber, is basically a storage vessel that grows from the root system to then create another plant. A sweet potato is a root. They are not related.  The yam originated in West Africa and Asia,