Every seemingly small decision creates a larger, lasting impact. That one seemingly small pebble, plunked into the shallow shoreline, would create a storm on the other end of the lake.
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Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about where food comes from. As a farmer’s daughter, it’s always been something on my periphery, as I grew up spoiled with eggs in the chicken coop, meat in the freezer from a local rancher, and garden vegetables canned for the winter months filling shelves in the basement.
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Your sex does not determine who you will be, what goals you will make, or what waves you will create once you come forth into this world. But, I have always known that I would fight for you and the limits placed upon our sex for generations and generations— in all the same ways my mom (your grandma) did.
My family’s farm has sat at the site of where the Badlands and Yellowstone collide for four generations. My childhood was spent running barefoot to the river, collecting rocks and agates off the banks with my siblings, before irrigating the crops amidst clouds of mosquitoes.
My maternal grandmother, Twila Wilhelm, is the only person I know who still bakes a plateful of goodies to give to family around the Holidays. Miniature loaves of poppy seed bread, homemade potato mints, chocolate-covered toffee, and the ever-elusive divinity are coveted items that we all await to receive each year.
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The heritage narrative that dominated Jill Mackin’s childhood was that of her father’s European family history. Just as dominant, however, were the silences regarding her mother’s Native Turtle Mountain Chippewa (Ojibwe) lineage. A trend that Mackin says, “speaks to the broader heritage of our country and our continent” regarding the silence surrounding Native identity.
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The American West exists in mythological creatures: the outlaw story of Billy the Kid, the aim of Annie Oakley, the controversial celebration of General George Armstrong Custer, and the ever-present regal shoulders of the great American bison.
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Today, when I lifted the pie crust to be draped over the top of the apples and sugar and cinnamon, I realized I was moving in the kitchen with the same effortlessness I watched my grandmother use. She drifted from countertop to countertop, mixing ingredients, shutting cupboards, and deftly lifting wax paper to lay crust atop a pie that already smelled like heaven.
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Yesterday, my son threw a type 3 tantrum in the parking lot of the grocery store. Screaming, limbs locked, holding on to the cart like his life depended on it, while I tried to get him into his car seat.
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The women in my family have a long history of hands that smell faintly of onion and garlic. I was raised in an apron, learning how to cook cherry pie filling thickly and to peel a potato skin paper-thin. I’m proud to come from a long line of strong women and incredible cooks— including my Great-Grandmother, Amalia (Mollie).
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