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\"Eating is not only a political act, it is also a cultural act that reaffirms one's identity and worldview,\" Enrique Salmón writes inEating the Landscape. Traversing a range of cultures, including the Tohono O'odham of the Sonoran Desert and the Rarámuri of the Sierra Tarahumara, the book is an illuminating journey through the southwest United States and northern Mexico. Salmón weaves his historical and cultural knowledge as a renowned indigenous ethnobotanist with stories American Indian farmers have shared with him to illustrate how traditional indigenous foodways-from the cultivation of crops to the preparation of meals-are rooted in a time-honored understanding of environmental stewardship. In this fascinating personal narrative, Salmón focuses on an array of indigenous farmers who uphold traditional agricultural practices in the face of modern changes to food systems such as extensive industrialization and the genetic modification of food crops. Despite the vast cultural and geographic diversity of the region he explores, Salmón reveals common themes: the importance of participation in a reciprocal relationship with the land, the connection between each group's cultural identity and their ecosystems, and the indispensable correlation of land consciousness and food consciousness. Salmón shows that these collective philosophies provide the foundation for indigenous resilience as the farmers contend with global climate change and other disruptions to long-established foodways. This resilience, along with the rich stores of traditional ecological knowledge maintained by indigenous agriculturalists, Salmón explains, may be the key to sustaining food sources for humans in years to come. As many of us begin to question the origins and collateral costs of the food we consume, Salmón's call for a return to more traditional food practices in this wide-ranging and insightful book is especially timely.Eating the Landscapeis an essential resource for ethnobotanists, food sovereignty proponents, and advocates of the local food and slow food movements.

Indigenous people view both themselves and nature as part of an extended ecological family that shares ancestry and origins. It is an awareness that life in any environment is viable only when humans view the life surrounding them as kin. The kin, or relatives, include all the natural elements of an ecosystem. Indigenous people are affected by and, in turn, affect the life around them. The interactions that result from this \"kincentric ecology\" enhance and preserve the ecosystem. Interactions are the commerce of ecosystem functioning. Without human recognition of their role in the complexities of life in a place, the life suffers and loses its sustainability. Indigenous cultural models of nature include humans as one aspect of the complexity of life. A Rarámuri example of iwígara will serve to enhance understanding of the human-nature relationship that is necessary in order to fully comprehend the distinct intricacies of kincentric ecology.

\"Eating is not only a political act, it is also a cultural act that reaffirms one's identity and worldview,\" Enrique Salmón writes in Eating the Landscape. Traversing a range of cultures, including the Tohono O'odham of the Sonoran Desert and the Rarámuri of the Sierra Tarahumara, the book is an illuminating journey through the southwest United States and northern Mexico. Salmón weaves his historical and cultural knowledge as a renowned Indigenous ethnobotanist with stories American Indian farmers have shared with him to illustrate how traditional Indigenous foodways - from the cultivation of crops to the preparation of meals - are rooted in a time-honored understanding of environmental stewardship. In this fascinating personal narrative, Salmón focuses on an array of Indigenous farmers who uphold traditional agricultural practices in the face of modern changes to food systems such as extensive industrialization and the genetic modification of food crops. Despite the vast cultural and geographic diversity of the region he explores, Salmón reveals common themes: the importance of participation in a reciprocal relationship with the land, the connection between each group's cultural identity and their ecosystems, and the indispensable correlation of land consciousness and food consciousness. Salmón shows that these collective philosophies provide the foundation for indigenous resilience as the farmers contend with global climate change and other disruptions to long-established foodways. This resilience, along with the rich stores of traditional ecological knowledge maintained by indigenous agriculturalists, Salmón explains, may be the key to sustaining food sources for humans in years to come. As many of us begin to question the origins and collateral costs of the food we consume, Salmón's call for a return to more traditional food practices in this wide-ranging and insightful book is especially timely. Eating the Landscape is an essential resource for ethnobotanists, food sovereignty proponents, and advocates of the local food and slow food movements.\"--Pub. desc.

She was stepping in my footprints. At first, I didn’t realize what she was doing. I was trying not to stumble on the uneven, rocky Sonoran Desert soil as I wound my way around the creosote and brittle bushes, trying not to get my legs punctured by cholla cactus. I was leading a project director for an East Coast film crew through the desert near the Gila River south of Phoenix, Arizona. I was hired by the company to help preview a site where it was hoping to film a group of Native artists creating “on the spot art” in

The mosaic of green that carpets the Mad River Valley in west central Vermont peeked through the shifting layers of clouds and fog drifting below. I was slowly walking downhill toward the large red barn that is the combination meeting place, dining area, and working space for Knoll Farm, a 450-acre working farm run by Peter Forbes and his wife, Helen Whybrow. Knoll Farm is also the headquarters for the Center for Whole Communities. Peter, Helen, and a dedicated staff manage the farm and center for the purpose of hosting environmental and social justice leaders at weeklong retreats at which

Persistence. After a click of my computer mouse, a digital Webster’s dictionary suddenly zooms onto my computer’s desktop. The dictionary defines persistence as “firm obstinate continuance in a course of actions in spite of difficulty or opposition.” After a brief contextual example in italics about companies and their need to have patience, an alternative definition is suggested, which states, “the continued or prolonged existence of something.” Together, both definitions sum up Hopi existence. To be additionally specific, I would refer to Hopi persistence as resilient persistence. Hopi persistence is resilient because the Hopi have patiently figured out how to transform

I am a member of a small group of fortunate scholars, writers, activists, meditation instructors, and nonprofit leaders that comprises the faculty for the Center for Whole Communities mentioned earlier in the book. For the last seven years, the faculty has been meeting separately to dialogue about the Center’s curriculum and to plan for the following round of retreats. Six years ago, we met in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, nestled among the pines in a small log building at the Murie Center’s small campus along the Snake River at the foot of the stunning Teton Mountains. This log building is the

“Does anyone know how to start a fire?” she shouted. At first I thought the question a bit bizarre, considering we were standing outside, amid the juniper woods at the outskirts of Santa Fe, New Mexico. Surely people in this neck of the woods knew how to start a fire. Lois Ellen Frank was standing there in her chef whites in the late morning New Mexico sun, looking for anyone that would build and ignite a fire so that she and the other American Indian chefs could proceed with some over-the-fire cooking. Lois was co-coordinating a large food-related gathering and

Grandma. The dark creases on my grandma’s face deepened when she smiled. To my young mind, she seemed the perfect grandma. Her white hair contrasted with her dark brown skin. The brightness of the sun deepened the wrinkles and creases on her face. She cooked the best cactus fruit jam from the large prickly pears that grew behind the house. She always had cookies at hand when I came to visit. And she seemed to know everything about the land and food. One day, in our yard, which was dotted with herbs and fruit trees, I watched her bend over