Food for Thought #5: Keeping the Season - The Taste of Now, for Later
We often talk about seasonal eating as something that happens in the moment — fresh tomatoes in summer, asparagus in spring. But what if seasonality is just as much about what we preserve?
It was one of those sticky July afternoons when the sun and the heat flooded every corner of our kitchen. I had just returned with our weekly CSA box and immediately felt overwhelmed: five courgettes, two cucumbers, a stack of greens, lots of beets, more herbs than anyone reasonably needs (even though I love a lot of herbs), and lots of tomatoes, bursting with colour and juice. All of that on top of our own Mintzgarten harvest, which had just begun to give us a generous amount of tomatoes each day (and tomato season had only just begun) – plus our own courgettes and cucumbers.
It was beautiful, abundant, generous. And it was too much.
For a moment, I panicked. How were we supposed to eat all of this before it wilted, browned, or softened? I remembered: it had been exactly the same the previous summer. And there was an easy solution. I preserved it. Instead of thinking about how to consume it all within one week, I began to think about how to keep it.
And while blanching and freezing a large portion of the courgettes and red beets, I started reflecting on the concept of seasonality. What if it isn’t only about what we eat now – but also about what we choose to preserve?
In our modern food culture, it feels as if we’ve created a false divide: fresh is ideal, preserved is second-best. A few weeks ago, in May, I came across a comment on a restaurant’s social media post. They were serving Zwetschkenknödel – plum dumplings – and another chef asked in the comments: „What about seasonality?“ Their answer was simple: they had frozen an abundance of plums the previous summer and were now serving what they had intentionally kept.
That exchange stayed with me. Preserved food is so often framed as something you eat only when nothing fresh is available – a compromise, a fallback. The fridge and freezer have become symbols of convenience.
But that wasn’t always the case. Before refrigeration, preserving wasn’t just a backup plan – it was part of the natural cycle of the seasons. Fermenting, drying, salting, cellaring – these were acts of knowledge, preparedness, and respect. A way to let a season linger.
Today, it feels as if „seasonal eating“ is often reduced to shopping for asparagus in April, strawberries in June or tomatoes in July and August. But that narrative ends too soon. It doesn’t ask what we do when nature gives us more than we can possibly eat in a week. It forgets that true seasonality requires us not only to eat and live in the moment, but also to prepare for what comes next.
When I think about preservation, I think of my grandmother’s pantry, her Speis – a whole room dedicated to what she had kept. A freezer full of courgettes. Shelves lined with apricot jam. Jars of pickled vegetables. Elderflower syrup from early summer. Bottles of tomato passata glowing with the memory of a hot August afternoon. Each jar was a small act of memory, a way of extending the seasons.
There’s something deeply anthropological about this: food as a vessel of memory and meaning. Preserved food isn’t just nourishment – it carries intuition, routine, and knowledge passed down over generations. It reflects an understanding of the seasons: when fruit is ripe, how long it will last, what it pairs well with, and how to quite literally hold on to a moment in time. These practices aren’t only rooted in tradition – they’re practical, grounded in care, and deeply satisfying. A quiet form of continuity in a fast-paced world.
This recent July glut was far from the only time we faced too much of a good thing. During our first year with the CSA, we received more courgettes, more tomatoes, more cucumbers and herbs than we could possibly eat within one week – and it will likely continue that way well into this year’s September. But we’ve learned.
We blanched and froze greens in bundles. Made our own tomato sauce. Pickled cucumbers – using four different recipes, two of them passed down from my grandmother („Senfgurken“ as well as so called „Jägergurken“). We froze cubes of chopped herbs in olive oil. Others, we simply dried.
Each of those moments felt like an investment. In future meals, yes – but also in continuity. It reminded me that seasonal eating isn’t just a week-to-week rhythm. It’s a cycle that loops forward into winter and backward into memory. I truly enjoyed those quiet acts: labelling a jar, stacking it neatly in the cellar, tasting something again months later and remembering the heat of the day it was made.
We live in a world where almost everything is available all the time. Fresh strawberries in January. Fresh courgettes in December. Fresh tomatoes in March. All without real taste – but available nonetheless. And what we’ve gained in access, we’ve lost in rhythm. Preserving forces us to ask: what is truly in season? What’s abundant now, and what will I want later?
It’s also an act against waste. So much of the season’s abundance is lost when we don’t know how to keep it. Why not freezing your Zucchinischwemme or turning overripe peaches into jam – although I can easily indulge in three or four peaches a day when they’re perfectly ripe. In winter, I often look forward to a bag of frozen courgettes for soup or quiche – or a jar of those perfect Red Haven peaches, preserved in jam.
These days, I don’t see our cellar and freezer as just storage (– and I’m so glad now that we chose a full-height freezer for our new kitchen). A row of tomato sauce jars is a memory of late-summer Saturdays. The frozen spinach reminds me of a week when we simply couldn’t eat fast enough. One small jar of pickled courgette brings back the memory of a summer evening – nothing but salt, sugar, vinegar, spices and a bit of patience.
Preservation has helped me rethink what it truly means to eat seasonally. It’s not just about what’s on the table today – it’s about what you honour, what you keep, and what you choose to share with your future self. It’s about turning „too much“ into „just enough“ and learning how to carry the taste of now into the quieter months, when the garden rests or nature feels less abundant ( – even though, of course, there’s still plenty growing in winter).
What about you?
Have you ever felt overwhelmed by seasonal abundance – and if so, what did you do with it? Do you preserve? Freeze? Share with neighbours or friends?
What are the tastes you try to carry forward into winter – and what memories do they hold?
And how do you define seasonality in your own kitchen?