The Incredible, Edible Land Ethic

By Catherine Nelson

Food connects us to land; no matter how much (or little) time we spend outside, we’re tied to the soil and stems that keep us alive through every delicious meal we eat. A land ethic recognizes this connectivity, and places people squarely within the ecosystem community that exchanges gifts of food and services. Throughout this fellowship, food has been a key ingredient in nourishing my land ethic, as it has linked me to the land and people in my community. On the Leopold-Pines Conservation Area (LPCA), surrounded by edible plants that offer their fruits without regret or restriction, I’ve found role models for what it means to give selflessly. The plants are not my only teachers; the community of Fellows living at the Future Leaders Center repeatedly exemplify generosity, especially through meals. I’ve learned how to receive these gifts, and, more importantly, to pass them on. One way to continue this culture of generosity is to share with you, through stories, the most precious of my gifts.

Where better to start than the beginning? Black raspberries were the first fruits I encountered while working in the field. Stewardship work in June was sprinkled with surreptitious distributions of the lush dark berries, one Fellow picking a few and offering them to the others as we listened to the day’s instructions. We found raspberries all over, lining paths and populating the transition zones between forest and prairie. These bushes were my first teachers of generosity. They asked for nothing in return for the delicious gift, only that I carry it forward. For black raspberries, that means dispersing seeds so that future bramble patches can share their shining gift. Pass it on, the shrubs whispered in their sweet, prickly way.

During the peak of summer, when days stretched long and warm, we especially felt the ongoing generosity of the earth and our neighbors. Our hearts and shelves were full. In Buddy and Marcy Huffaker’s garden, we harvested a hefty five-gallon bucket full of green beans. These verdant vegetables brightened group dinners at the Future Leaders Center for several weeks. In the nearly-fall season, when aspen leaves adopted that glowing yellow color most akin to joy, Land Stewardship Coordinator Mitchell Groenhof offered the Fellows a bag of peaches from a Baraboo neighbor’s tree. The stone fruits were liquid gold, their pure sweetness cascading down our chins when we ate them at lunchtime. During harvest seasons, when the sun lingers in the sky and it feels as though the world is glowing golden, everyone’s pantries are well-stocked with the earth’s offerings. It’s as natural to the season as leaves changing color to share your surplus, to pass on the generosity of your garden to neighbors (whether they want a gallon of tomatoes or not!) This time of year, the generosity of the land and the people that live on it is as sweet and precious as summer peaches.

One midsummer Thursday, Fellows Jack Lindaas, Cadence Eischens, and I were tasked with planting a food plot: seeding a quarter acre with plant species edible to either humans or animals. A few months later, Land Stewardship Fellow Lily Simko and I returned to find mustard in bloom and fruits ripe for harvest. We popped handfuls of fresh sweet peas as we harvested as many zucchini and radishes as our arms could hold. It was a celebratory experience, as we reveled in this rich harvest gifted to us in exchange for only half a morning’s worth of work two months prior. After a little rain, a lot of sunshine, and simply some time, we returned to find an exponential gift in return for our small labors. We had simply given the earth an opportunity to love us, and we certainly felt the weight of that affection as we trekked home laden with armloads of vegetables.

During my time wandering about, I’ve discovered that the LPCA has a number of apple trees. The most well-known are the trees in the Shack orchard, which were planted prior to the Leopold family’s arrival in 1935. There are additional specimens scattered throughout the property, sentinels marking former farmsteads. Though the farmhouses are things of the past, each year these century-old trees give new gifts. Just before the first frost, this year’s cohort of Fellows enjoyed applesauce, apple crisp, and baked oatmeal through the generosity of these long-lived trees. When even the apple tree’s thin, brittle branches bend heavy with offerings, it feels impossible to keep gifts to yourself. It’s a season to share, to pass the gift onward: the time to whip up big batches of applesauce and share with your housemates and the chance to take back bags of apples when you visit family so that you can make pie for everyone.

Even our own vegetable garden at the Future Leaders Center has taught me lessons in generosity. My own garden is, in fact, not my own, but a gift from others. The previous cohort of Fellows planted tomatoes, squash, and herbs for us, fully aware that, come harvest season, they would no longer be living at the Center. When the generosity of the tomato plants threatened to overwhelm us, I wished that those past Fellows could come back to help us eat our way out of the harvest windfall we’d received. But the plants sowed in these raised beds, like the tomatoes and squash they produced, were offered with an open hand, no return or reward expected. Pass it on, the garden showed us, as the tomato plants twisted beyond the boundaries of the beds and glowing red orbs tumbled over the sides. I will pass this on, decided those previous Fellows, as they pressed seedlings into the dark soil early that spring.

Even after harvest, the food from the garden continues to offer lessons in self-gift, especially when plated at the dinner table. There is so much love in the kitchen at the Future Leaders Center, and never is it more concentrated than during our weekly group dinner. Originally named “Fellows’ Dinner,” within a few weeks, the meal had become known as “Family Dinner.” Each Tuesday, a pair of Fellows teams up to cook dinner for the whole house. We gather around a Leopold pine table for home-cooked meals: handmade dumplings, pancakes, four-bean chili, from-scratch pasta, red curry, and more. On particularly celebratory evenings, we share homemade elderberry wine gifted by Lyle, a Shack tour guide. After the plates are empty, no one wants the meal to end, so we stay at the table and consume hours of laughter and conversation. We discuss everything from anthropology to adolescence, reflecting on our lives and laughing through it all. Gathering around a warmly lit table together, I am satiated by the joy and the jokes as much as by the meal. It’s hard to keep happiness like this to myself, and dinners like this make me want to plant seeds for communities like this elsewhere. A hostess gift feels more earnest when it’s offered with this intention. It might be just a chocolate cake or a bottle of wine, but I give it in hope that it cultivates a space like the one that is created around the warm wooden table in the Future Leaders Center. How could I not pass this on, I wonder, as I’m doubled over laughing at dinner. How could I keep this joy to myself?

In addition to weekly group meals, the Future Leaders Center has become a place of unplanned communal dishes. The counter is often piled with baking experiments, from chocolate zucchini muffins (made with LPCA zucchini!) to Lily’s handmade popovers. One bleary Tuesday morning became joyful when weary souls, preparing for a day of fieldwork, drifted into the kitchen to find Fellow Ari Zimney had freshly made pancakes for everyone. Walking into the kitchen and finding a warm batch of cookies that’s been left for passers-by is a tangible reminder that you’re loved. Homemade bread on that counter feeds the body and the heart.

At work, the stewardship crew’s daily outdoor lunch routine typically includes the passing of an offering of sorts: perhaps crackers, berries, or trail mix. Though we each bring our own lunch, we nurture a sense of community in this shared snack. This simple lunchtime tradition has shown me that by sharing, you are fed by the feeling that comes with taking care of others and being cared for. To give a gift means that you, too, receive.

In fact, sometimes, sharing means that you are fed more than you could have been if you were eking it out on your own. Occasionally, Fellows who happen to be in the kitchen at the same time might make impromptu meals together, with Lily offering spiced rice and Sophie happening to have beans, eggs, or tortilla chips. Then, suddenly, almost magically, you have burritos, fried rice, or some other delicious entrée, with so much more pleasure and less effort than cooking by yourself—and you even have friends to help with the dishes! Similarly, living a land ethic comes so much more easily when you do it together. A land ethic is about how we interact with our community, and living communally facilitates the sense of mutual gratitude and enforces a sense of responsibility for the surrounding world. Living in a community means accepting gifts from others, and offering what you have to share both in return and forwards.

This fellowship has been a chance to immerse myself in a community of reciprocity and self-gift. Some of my mentors are vegetables and others are coworkers; all have served as examples of what a lived-in land ethic looks like. It’s been an honor to collectively cultivate a community that shares the fruit we’ve grown and plants seeds for others, literally and metaphorically. I am proud to be part of an ecological community that leans on each other, unafraid to both give and receive. The gifts I’ve received during the past seven months are truly priceless, and I cannot help but pass them on.