Introduction THERE''S A PARTICULAR KIND OF QUIET that settles over Vancouver Island once you step off of the main roads and into the rhythms of the land. It''s in the way the cedars hold the morning fog, in the salt-laced wind rolling off the Salish Sea, in the dark, heady, sweet mineral scent of cedar forests and seaweed drying on the rocks. It''s a place that asks, gently but insistently, for us to slow down and enjoy the abundance around us. I grew up in this area, but since moving back here with my family I''ve come to understand how this landscape shapes the way I live, cook, and interact with food. I''ve learned that the islands teach us, if we let them. Life here moves by seasons rather than schedules, and food follows suit. In the early months of the year, I begin to look forward to the first shoots of lovage appearing in the garden. By the first days of spring I''m longing for snap peas to blossom and become plump, and when the days turn warm I''m watching for the Nootka rose blossoms to signal that strawberries will soon follow.

My family watches the tides when foraging sea lettuce, kombu, and bull kelp, and we explore the beaches to see which ones offer the cleanest, freshest harvest. We wait expectantly every year for the bushes that surround our property to flare with blackberries as August begins to wane, knowing that we''ll soon be filling the freezer to savour these juicy treasures throughout the winter. This place has its own tempo, and the more slowly you move within it, the more it reveals. The Gulf Islands, each with their own microclimate and personality, deepen that sense of abundance: Salt Spring overflows with orchards and lavender fields; Pender is a patchwork of micro farms and even boasts an olive grove; while Galiano''s rugged forests are brimming with edible greens. Denman offers small-batch chocolate, Hornby has its beloved vegetarian p'té, while the wild waters off Quadra provide plentiful seaweeds. Every island feels like a slightly different version of the same generous pantry, and in traveling between them, you start to understand why people here speak about food the way others speak about art or music. It''s not just nourishment--it''s identity, culture, and community. My own table has changed because of this.

I''m not a vegetarian, but I believe wholeheartedly that the future lies in a mostly--if not entirely--localized plant-based diet. Not in a prescriptive or moralizing way, but in a practical, joyful, deeply sensible one. Cooking with what grows around you, what''s in season, and close to home, naturally leans one into vegetables, fruits, grains, legumes, wild greens, and herbs. When I do choose cheese, eggs, or dairy, I look no further than the rich, grass-forward offerings from the Cowichan, Qualicum, and Comox valleys. The island''s community-based food culture makes this kind of eating easy. I buy flour from True Grain knowing that it was milled by people who understand the grain''s personality. I visit farmers who can tell me the story of every crop they offer. I bring home spirits from small-batch distilleries that borrow flavours from fir tips, berries, and herbs gathered a stone''s throw from their stills.

Even my own garden, imperfect as it is, gives me something new every season--sometimes abundance, sometimes lessons in patience, always a reminder that good food begins with good soil and time. Of course, the island''s culinary scene isn''t shaped solely by the land, it''s also a reflection of the people who call this place home, both First Nations and those who have arrived here over generations. Coast Salish, Chinese, Japanese, Filipino, South Asian, Caribbean, East African, and Middle Eastern communities have all influenced the foodways of Vancouver Island and the Gulf Islands, and their spices, techniques, and traditions have come together in ways that feel both deeply rooted in heritage and yet new. I''ve tastedbannock seasoned with za''atar, island vegetables simmered in turmeric and coconut broth, miso used to deepen the flavour of wild mushrooms, and chilies that bring excitement to simple collard greens grown in a backyard garden. These dishes transform the region''s local ingredients without erasing their origins. It''s one of the things that I love most about living here: the way traditions intersect with the land to create something that uniquely embodies the Pacific Northwest. Eating seasonally also means learning how to store and save. This is a place where food preservation is not a trend but a practical response to abundance.

In late summer, kitchens everywhere hum with activity as tomatoes are prepped for canning, berries are cooked into jams, herbs are tied in bundles to dry, seaweed is hung in long ribbons to crisp in the sun, and garlic braids are hoisted on back porches to cure. Root cellars fill with squash and apples, and chest freezers collect bags of peas, corn, and peppers. When winter comes, these jars and bundles become reminders of warmer days--a kind of edible memory that carries us through the darker months. All of this--the gardens, the foraging, the markets, the diasporic richness, the traditions of preservation, the shared community knowledge--has shaped this book. These recipes were born from mornings in the woods, afternoons wandering markets, conversations with neighbouring farmers and chefs, and countless hours in my kitchen tasting and creating all that this region makes possible. These dishes also reflect a way of eating that I believe strongly in: one that honours slowness without demanding it, a way of cooking that celebrates plants without limiting pleasure, and a way of living that finds joy in what grows and thrives close to home. My hope is that as you read and cook through this book, you will feel the deep generosity of these islands, that you will taste the brine of coastal seaweed, the richness of the valley dairies, the warmth of stone-milled grains, the delicate flavours of foraged greens, and the quiet magic of foods eaten at the peak of their seasons. I hope that these recipes will invite you to linger in the kitchen a little longer, to cook with curiosity, to explore your own local landscapes, and to savour the beauty of eating in a way that connects you--with the land, with your community, and with the slow, intentional rhythm of seasonal abundance.

--Excerpted from The Planted Table.