Feeding Body and Soul

A ham and processed cheese sandwich is not what I would consider appetizing; sustaining yes, mouthwatering, no. I grew up in Stratford where the culinary scene has been developing since the 1970’s thanks to the innovations of folks like Joe Mandel, Eleanor Kane and Jim Morris. As the years have gone by the choices of not just good, but amazing dining experiences, has grown exponentially. It’s not that there was anything wrong with the likes of The Drama, The Pickwick or Ellam’s in its day but by the end of the 70’s dining and food in Stratford was “becoming”. So, being left processed cheese and ham sandwiches as my mainstay meals for the first weekend that I was in Délįne and staying in the Lodge was a bit of an awakening. Food culture as I know it does not exist here.

Don’t get me wrong. There are things to rave about when it comes to food here “where the water flows”. Dried fish like grayling and trout and meats from muskox, caribou and moose are well refined arts and traditional dietary staples “from the land”. Walking through the taiga, pockmarked with ponds and edged with mosses and stunted spruce and birch you can find juniper, and at the beginning of October evidence of picked over wild berry patches. Mushrooms are at the end of season at this time of year but evidence remains of bolets and and a few other types. The Northwest Territories is known for morels in late spring and summer. Sweet Woodruff and mountain sorrel were plentiful. For a forager there is a bounty. What has not developed in the community is the concept of a cuisine. Yes there are traditional dishes but in a land of a bounty of food, creativity seems limited. This is a bit of surprise to me given that tourism is a focus of governments at all levels here and if it’s one thing we from Stratford know about tourism is that there is a large bulk of dollars spent on eating out.

During the first few weeks of my time here in Délįne I have been “out on the land” as much as possible hiking and exploring. The weather is beginning to turn colder with nights dropping below zero and the days hovering around freezing. I woke one day to a winter scene that rivaled most Christmas cards but this quickly past. What was most prevalent even with the cold temperatures was mud. I had been advised to bring insulated rubber boots and warned about the mud. Roads, countryside, and out of the land every inch of ground is wet at this late part of the autumn such that it is. Walking along a trail one would expect to occasion a puddle. Here they are ubiquitous underfoot and anywhere your foot is. As the weather gets colder and they begin to freeze over and become layered with ice and dirt and debris hiking can become hazardous as the puddles camouflage themselves and wait for you like Robert

Munsch warned all children. These ones here have less sense of humour. Pretty quickly I found myself stranded in town as it simply became too treacherous to hike out on the land.

Photo: Robert Mugford

People here have been curious to know how long I am staying. A typical greeting goes something like this: “You’re the counsellor ha? How long are you here?” White folk come and go and no one expects them to stay long. There are stories of a few teachers who have arrived and left within days. There is generally no additional information given in these stories. For example we have no idea if they didn’t like to weather, the people or the job or their boss. It is enough to know that they did not stay. Some have tried to prepare me: “You got a parka ha? It gets REALLY cold”. However, for the first month of my residency most folks didn’t bother to acknowledge me. I can’t help but compare this to my other experiences in new places. Travelling in India on various trains and in the street people were quite social and curious about me, my travel, and my home to the point of almost being too forward for my comfort at times. If seeking social interaction one simply could find a chai walla and there find a safe haven from touts and hucksters that joust for your money in public spaces and conversation. On the East coast of Canada people are famously friendly and approach you readily and with interest in your story. In a village with about half the number of people as Délįne, I don’t think we were there an hour and we were invited to stay for tea and some dinner. With new friends Robert and Linda in Glace Bay our hearts were warmed by the stove, fed good meat pie and conversation.

Here in the North it’s a different story.

Yes, a different story and a difficult one. It is not just the fact that I may simply pack up and leave any time but a long history of attempts by people who look a whole lot like me trying to eradicate the Dene culture in the North. Of that I am continually aware. The history of the residential schools runs deep in this place and as I begin my term of work here I am continually confronted with its effects.

Like the trees here at the edge of the taiga there is a slow growth of social comfort for me here in this place. Now, 8 weeks in, people are beginning to greet me and seek out my company when they meet me in “The Northern” grocery store which serves the same purpose here as the coffee shops in my hometown. Here business is done and social invitations extended and every community event is posted on the bulletin board at the front of the store. Jean and Dennis, the couple who run the place always have a story to tell and I inevitably will run into Ken (not his real name) who will usually be half in the bag but friendly as a puppy. He makes me smile. I have a few folks to sit with at community events and I feel a ease settling in over the social anxiety that always comes with new places, faces, and names.

There’s been plenty of activity in my short time here. I’ve gotten to see a Hand Games tournament and I am assured by folks ‘round here that this was just a small taste of the Hand Games that are run later in the winter months where teams of player travel to a Sahtu region town and play for “big money”. Last year I hear tell the winning team took home a 250 grand.. A “family fun night” of party games proved to be a riotous affair and reminded me what fun such games were when I last played them as a child. I think my friends in the south would be stunned at the amount of prizes including cash that gets handed out at these events.

What stands out above any experience so far for me was attending my first Fire-Feeding. This is a Dene tradition where a large central fire is built and people gather round the fire. Drummers keep a steady rhythm and songs are sung. These songs have been passed down through innumerable generations around many such fires. They connect every person in attendance to the medicine and healing they channel. Prayers to honour relatives who have passed on and to the Great Creator are offered and connect for a moment the spiritual and the natural world. The fire is then fed. People bring food from their tables and tobacco and salt and these gifts are added to the fire to nourish the spirits and show gratitude for the sustenance provided by the land. I brought sage sent lovingly to me in a package from home and was honoured to share some with others ‘round the fire.

Standing in the bitter cold, one elder softly measuring time on his drum, a low and whispered song emanating from a place deep inside him, lost to time and place, the smells of the food rising from the fire, smoke in my face and tears on my cheeks I found nourishment of a different kind.

Mahsi.