Last Friday, on the eve of the polar vortex, I was driving through the grey-blue quiet of an Ottawa morning when I heard something on CBC radio that made me ease my foot off the gas and lean in.
Matt Galloway was interviewing Katherine May, author of Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times. They were talking about winter, not just the season, but the state of being. About what it means to move through darker, slower days without trying to push them away. About how, in a culture obsessed with perpetual growth, productivity, and brightness, we’ve forgotten something essential: we are not meant to live in endless summer.
Our bodies and minds, Katherine May explained, are designed to move with the seasons. Just as the earth needs periods of dormancy and fallowness, so do we. Yet most of us spend our lives chasing spring and summer - more energy, more output, more momentum - and then wonder why we feel depleted, anxious, and exhausted.
And, as always, my thoughts drifted to food.
Walk into almost any grocery store in Canada in February and you could be forgiven for thinking it’s July.
Strawberries gleam under fluorescent lights. Tomatoes pile up in perfect red pyramids. The shelves barely whisper that outside the ground is frozen and the sun barely skims the horizon.
In many ways, this abundance is a gift. We are connected to farmers and food cultures all over the world, and that richness has changed how we eat. But I can’t help wondering what we’ve lost along the way. When every food is available all the time, something quiet but important disappears: the sense of season, of anticipation, of eating what the land is offering right now.
Here in the north, our seasons are not subtle. Winter demands something different of us than summer does, and so does our food.
Spring vegetables are bright and green, full of chlorophyll and vitality, just when we’re emerging from winter and craving lightness. Summer offers juicy fruits and watery vegetables that cool and hydrate us under the heat of the sun. As autumn fades into winter, we are drawn to dense, grounding foods: potatoes, carrots, beets, cabbage. Foods that warm us, fortify us, and help us feel held against the cold. This is the deeper, quieter magic of it all.
This is a conversation between our bodies and the earth that has been unfolding for thousands of years. If you’ve ever noticed your cravings shift with the seasons, more salads in July, more soups in January, that’s the wisdom of nature speaking.
Even here in Ottawa, in the depths of winter, eating seasonally is not only possible, but it can be deeply comforting.
And this is where we come in.
Our CSA is designed to help you fully connect with the rhythms of the food seasons in a meaningful, tangible way - not just through what’s in your basket, but through the relationship you build with the land and people that grow it. We are here to encourage and support you through every season, offering recipes, ideas, and inspiration so that each week’s harvest feels like an invitation rather than a challenge.
And so, as we settle into the true heart of winter, our Farm is quietly coming back to life in its own way. Our 2026 CSA and Farm Store season begins on February 5, and while it might seem surprising to talk about abundance now, winter has a richness all its own.
The Farm Store will be filled with the foods that carry us through the cold: bins of sweet, earthy root vegetables grown under summer skies and harvested in autumn, now waiting to be brought into your kitchen. They’ve been holding onto that warmth and sunlight for months, ready to be released in soups, roasts, and slow-cooked meals.
And winter isn’t only about what’s been stored. In our unheated greenhouse, hardy greens like spinach, arugula, and mustard have been growing slowly in the cold, alongside weekly harvests of tender, vibrant microgreens. You’ll also find local organic apples, crisp cabbages, comforting squash, spicy garlic, and more. A true winter larder, rooted in this place and this season.
Winter is not a mistake in the calendar. It is an invitation to slow down, to rest, to turn inward, and to eat in a way that honours where we are.
Sometimes the most radical thing we can do is stop trying to live in summer, and instead, let winter feed us.