Eating Alabama: Save Seed!

As children, we probably spent little time thinking about the ecological significance of seeds. Though the subject of plant reproduction and physiology surely came up in our science books, our first encounters with seeds were more whimsical than botanical. In the summertime we ate watermelon and spat seeds in competitive fury. We plucked up mature dandelions, blew on their delicate seed heads, and watched as an army of wispy parachutes floated through the air. At ballgames a pack of sunflower seeds was a necessity, and whether in the stands or in the dugout, we spent many a hour trying to perfect the art of separating the husk from the kernel with our teeth - unaware that what we discarded and deemed unpalatable was in fact a seed coat protecting the tiny embryo. Seeds were for the birds, and we felt certain that they liked to eat them from peanut butter covered pine cones under our watchful eye.

Sure, deep down we knew that seeds made plants. But did we make the leap from seed to plant to food?

Before our year of local eating, I rarely thought about the seed's role in our food system. And even when I began to plant my own garden, a part of my childhood naivete remained. I was slow to realize that the seed packets purchased from year to year by us home gardeners, had to be collected and saved and bred by someone each growing season. And what about those modifiers - hybrid and heirloom - that inevitably appeared on some of my seed packets? I later found out that those were clues to a plant's genetic history - seeds could be saved from one (heirloom) and not the other (hybrid). Seed saved from hybrid varieties would not reliably produce true genetic copies, and so new seeds would have to be purchased each season.

The heirloom varieties that we enjoy today have been perpetuated and strengthened by generations of seed savers. Historically, those that championed the cause (although, it wasn't much of a "cause" per say, rather more of a necessity and reality of the times) were farmers and ordinary gardeners like me and you, collecting and saving seeds from plants that were grown from year to year. By selecting seed from the most successful crops, seed savers ensured that species grown in successive years would be well-adapted to the local environment. Plants would evolve, adjusting to the variables in their mini-ecosystems, developing resistance to site-specific diseases and pests, and becoming better suited to the climate and soil type. The practice of seed saving encouraged genetic diversity, strengthening varieties and improving traits like color and flavor. It also ensured some measure of food security - growing a large number of varieties made farmers less vulnerable to experiencing total crop failure.

Today the task of seed saving has largely been passed to a number of seed companies. There are still a handful of farmers and gardeners that practice the tradition, and several organizations exist to keep heritage varieties alive by promoting and teaching the practice (Seed Savers Exchange, Southern Seed Legacy, International Seed Saving Institute, and Saving Our Seeds, to name a few). But in the age of monoculture, hybrids, and GMO, seed saving is a lost art. As a society fed from the industrial-agricultural complex, we eat a significantly less diverse diet than our ancestors, meaning that we've missed out on the rich, unique flavors of antique varieties that once sustained us. For example, did you know that Thomas Jefferson grew a whopping 19 different varieties of lettuce in his garden in Monticello? And today, most of us would admit that we grew up eating just iceberg and romaine. We eat one type of broccoli, a few kinds of potatoes, and who's ever heard of a rutabaga? And why would we need to save seed anyway? Few of us even grow our own gardens, and it's relatively easy to get everything we need from the supermarket. As we've moved away from the land, we've lost our agricultural traditions, our foodways, and our food diversity. Seeds are the last thing on our minds.

After visiting local seed saving gurus, Charlotte Hagood and Dove Stackhouse of the Sand Mountain Seed Bank, and reading authors like Gary Nabhan and his book "Coming Home to Eat", I've taken a recent interest in the practice of seed saving and its history. My first attempt at saving seed happened this spring and summer. After multiple harvests, the cilantro growing in my garden finally bolted, flowered, and went to seed. I collected the stalks, fashioned them into a bundle, and allowed them to dry upside down for several weeks. I've heard that you can thresh your bundle into a brown paper sack, but I didn't have much luck with that. Instead, I chose to meticulously pick seeds off the stalk and put them into a mason jar.

Saving cilantro seeds is as easy as it gets, and it's a fun first foray into the practice. The seeds can be stored and planted next season, or can be used as coriander in cooking. Saving seeds from other vegetables gets a bit more complex (you have to consider things like cross-pollination, separation distance between varieties, and fruit maturity - sounds like a science experiment to me!), but it's definitely doable and certainly rewarding. If you're interested, there are lots of resources on the web that will walk you through the process (try those organizations mentioned above to start). And if you're interested in preserving the seed traditions of Alabama, you should support the Sand Mountain Seed Bank. They'll help you become involved in perpetuating heritage varieties, and you can even participate in the occasional seed swap.

This summer, I joined my letterpress artist friends to make seed packets for my newly saved coriander seeds. Jessica Peterson handset the type (6 point font, what a feat!) and printed the envelopes, and with help from Emily Tipps, we folded 55 envelopes and filled them with seeds to share with others. It's just about time to replant these for the fall season!