Edible Insects and the Shared Humanity of Food
The story of how traditional Japanese communities have cultivated a deep, intimate relationship with the humble wasp speaks to the shared humanity in how we engage with food. While often overlooked in the Western discourse on edible insects, the Japanese tradition of raising and eating wasps illuminates how food can be a powerful connector, rooted in the rhythms of local ecosystems and community traditions.
In the rural mountain village of Kushihara, the people have an age-old obsession with the wasp species Vespula flaviceps. These wasps are celebrated as a seasonal wild food, akin to prized matsutake mushrooms, that peaks in late autumn as their nests swell with wiggly, buttery larvae. During the annual wasp festival, or hebo matsuri, the community comes together to harvest and prepare these insects, weaving them into their signature dish of grilled sticky rice, or gohei mochi.
The practice of wasp rearing in Kushihara is deeply embedded in the local ecology and history. Tetsuo and Sayoko Nakagaki, a couple who raise wasps in their backyard, describe the process as similar to tending an apple tree – you care for it throughout the year so you can enjoy its “fruit” when the time comes. This level of intimacy and stewardship stands in stark contrast to the often sanitized and efficiency-driven approaches to popularizing edible insects in the West.
“That’s the road they are focusing on now – it’s true. Like a supplement just for the nutritional benefits and that’s it.”
As Belgian researcher Joost van Itterbeeck, a co-author of the influential FAO report on entomophagy, acknowledged, the current Western push to mainstream edible insects often fails to capture the nuance and cultural meaning embedded in traditional insect-eating practices. The emphasis on processing insects into powders or bars to maximize nutrition overlooks the very sensory pleasures and communal rituals that make insect consumption meaningful in places like Kushihara.
Rethinking the Family Farm Myth
The story of the small family farm has long been romanticized in the United States as the ideal model for a just and sustainable food system. But as author Sarah Mock discovered through her research, the reality often falls short of this mythic vision.
Mock initially set out to explore why small family farms were at risk and what could be done to protect them, driven by her own upbringing on a family farm. However, as she delved deeper, she found that success stories were few and far between, and often depended on factors like inherited wealth and profit-driven models that didn’t align with the humble homestead of American lore.
In fact, Mock found that the most financially stable farms were often large-scale, extractive operations that bore little resemblance to the idealized small family farm. Conversely, the farms that embodied the “small family dream” were frequently struggling to get by. As Mock put it, “If the small family farm was the future, why were so many people unable to build one that worked?”
This paradox led Mock to question the foundational assumptions about small family farms, and to unpack the complex history behind their veneration in American culture. She discovered that the small family farm narrative is deeply rooted in agrarian myths and the racialization of property ownership, which have persisted despite centuries of evidence that this model is not necessarily the most viable or equitable approach to food production.
“We live in a country that has romanticized small family farms a great deal, and has made the highest and best form of agriculture this small family farm. It’s actually pretty unique to the United States. When you go across the rest of the world, people don’t have the same kind of romantic notions.”
Mock’s research highlights the need to move beyond our attachment to this idealized vision and consider alternative models of farming that may be better suited to the challenges of the 21st century. By embracing a more diverse and less predictable future for agriculture, we can work towards a food system that is truly sustainable, equitable, and responsive to the needs of both producers and consumers.
Reviving the Commons: Indigenous Approaches to Land Stewardship
In plumbing the longer history of agriculture in North America, Mock came upon an unexpected and exceedingly hopeful phenomenon – a tradition of organizing agriculture not around individual family units and private land ownership, but around collective, community-based stewardship.
Before the European invasions, Indigenous communities across the Americas had developed sophisticated agricultural systems based on commons-based land management. These farmers controlled large areas collectively and allocated land for cultivation to individuals and families based on need and capacity, rather than private ownership. The plants they bred and cultivated, from corn to tomatoes, now dominate the global food system.
Since the arrival of Europeans, many Indigenous groups have continued to carry on this tradition of collective land ownership and management, using alternatives to the small independent family farm model to build community and fight oppression. From the efforts of Black farmers to the farm cooperatives built by Japanese Americans during World War II internment, to important modern work being done on native lands or within organizations like The Abundant Table in California, these models have proven their viability even as they’ve been overlooked or marginalized.
“People of color throughout North American history have proven that alternative farming systems are viable even when they’re not favored.”
These alternative models, rooted in principles of collective stewardship rather than rugged individualism, offer a compelling counterpoint to the small family farm myth. They acknowledge that there are ways to get into farming that don’t require an individual or couple to bear all the risks and responsibilities, and that farming can be a collaborative, entrepreneurial venture rather than a lifestyle of isolation.
As the global food system grapples with the urgent need for more sustainable, equitable, and community-centered approaches, these long-standing Indigenous models of land management and food production may hold important insights. By learning from these traditions, we may find pathways to a future where the rhythms of nature, rather than the whims of the market, guide the way we feed ourselves.
Tasting Terroir: How Culinary Traditions Steward Local Ecologies
Across the world, culinary traditions have evolved hand-in-hand with the unique ecologies of their regions, serving as vehicles for celebrating and safeguarding local resources. This water-centric, place-based approach to gastronomy offers a model for how to cultivate more sustainable and culturally-resonant food systems.
In Japan, the concept of Kyōdo Ryōri, or regional cuisine, is deeply intertwined with the rhythms of the local landscape. Chefs like Daisuke Ogawa of Muromachi Wakuden restaurant work closely with nearby farms and foragers to source the freshest, most seasonal ingredients, often harvested and prepared using traditional methods. The result is a cuisine that not only delights the palate, but also reflects the ecological and cultural particularities of its terroir.
“For Chef Ogawa, the customer’s kimochi (feeling) and the presentation of nature itself in the plates are core pillars of his cooking. Ingredient quality, therefore, is crucial.”
This reverence for place-based foodways extends beyond the walls of the restaurant. In the rural village of Qəmərvan, I witnessed how a family-owned media company, “Sweet Village,” has used YouTube to share the everyday food traditions of their community with a global audience. By showcasing the seasonal rhythms of their home, from milking sheep to foraging wild berries, the videos convey a deep appreciation for the natural cycles that underpin their cuisine.
Similarly, in the mountain village of Khinaliq, Azerbaijan, I observed how the encroachment of tourism and modernization was beginning to transform traditional lifeways, including the seasonal migration of livestock and the self-reliant food production that had sustained the community for generations. As one local noted, “In twenty years there will be no more livestock raising. Tourism will develop. This process has already begun.”
These examples demonstrate how culinary traditions can serve as living archives of local ecological knowledge, preserving the unique plant and animal relationships, soil health practices, and water management strategies that have enabled communities to thrive for centuries. By centering these terroir-based foodways, we can foster a more holistic, regenerative approach to food production that honors the inherent dignity of both people and place.
Cultivating Water Wisdom through Culinary Stewardship
As the global food system grapples with the converging crises of climate change, biodiversity loss, and water scarcity, the role of cuisine and gastronomy in stewarding local water resources has never been more critical. By imbuing our relationship with food and water with cultural meaning and ritual, we can catalyze a deeper ethic of care and responsibility.
In the Caucasus mountains of Azerbaijan, I witnessed how the seasonal migration of livestock and the communal processing of foods like cheese, pickles, and dried fruits were inextricably linked to the management of local water resources. The rhythms of agricultural production were seamlessly woven into the fabric of daily life, fostering a profound appreciation for the delicate balance of the ecosystem.
Similarly, in Japan, the concept of mottainai – a deep reverence for the inherent worth of all things – permeates the culinary culture, manifesting in practices like the meticulous cleaning of plates and the creative repurposing of food scraps. This mindset of sufficiency and non-waste stands in stark contrast to the extractive, wasteful tendencies of the global industrial food system.
“Meals at the monastery are coordinated like something of a very specific dance. Everyone knows their parts, the music is set and specific, and the timing is a coordinated effort.”
In the Fo Guang Shan Monastery in Taiwan, I observed how food is imbued with profound spiritual and ethical significance. The act of eating is infused with ritual, from the three mindful bites of rice at the start of a meal to the chanting of offerings. This holistic approach to gastronomy aligns with the monastery’s water stewardship practices, which emphasize conservation, reuse, and reverence for the natural cycles that sustain all life.
These examples demonstrate how traditional culinary cultures can cultivate a deep, place-based understanding of water resources and their role in sustaining healthy, resilient food systems. By centering the water wisdom embedded in terroir-based foodways, we can inspire a more holistic ethic of care and responsibility – one that recognizes the profound interconnectedness between our plates, our watersheds, and the future of our shared planet.
Conclusion: Fluid Futures and the Power of Cultural Narrative
As the world grapples with the complex, intersecting crises of our time, the role of food and gastronomy in catalyzing more sustainable, equitable, and culturally-resonant solutions has never been more crucial. By learning from traditional food cultures that have long celebrated the inextricable links between cuisine, community, and ecology, we can chart a path towards a more fluid future.
The stories of how communities like Kushihara, Qəmərvan, and Fo Guang Shan have cultivated deep, place-based relationships with food and water offer powerful counternarratives to the dominant models of industrial agriculture and globalized gastronomy. They demonstrate how culinary traditions can serve as vessels for honoring local ecological knowledge, fostering collective stewardship, and imbuing our most essential activities with profound cultural and spiritual meaning.
“When you say the word ‘knafeh’ in Jordan (or in Egypt, or in Palestine, or in Lebanon where some version of this dessert also exists), eyes light up and smiles bloom on people’s faces. Everyone associates knafeh with celebration and sharing.”
By amplifying these alternative narratives and learning from the wisdom they hold, we can reimagine what sustainable and equitable food systems can look like – systems that are not beholden to the logic of the market, but rather grounded in the rhythms of nature and the cultural values of the communities they serve. In doing so, we open the door to a more fluid future, where the warp and weft of water, land, and cuisine are woven together in a tapestry of resilience, nourishment, and shared humanity.
