Give Thanks and Rebel by Eating Like The Ancestors

Reclaiming Food Sovereignty to Resist Industrial Systems

This Thanksgiving, I find myself reflecting on how my relationship with food has changed over the years. Inspired by books like Deep Nutrition: Why Your Genes Need Traditional Food and my exploration of ancestral cooking practices, I’ve started to see food not just as sustenance but as a way to reclaim something deeper—a connection to the land, our ancestors, community and even our health.

The wisdom woven into ancestral diets, from bone broths to fermented foods, offers a stark contrast to the industrialized convenience meals that dominate modern tables. This shift in my own life has been eye-opening, showing me not just the richness of these traditions but also their radical potential to disrupt the industrial systems that have disconnected us from nature, our food, and each other. By choosing foods rooted in local, seasonal, and regenerative practices, we can reject the unsustainable systems that degrade ecosystems and exploit workers.

This week, I hope to inspire a Thanksgiving grounded in gratitude—not just for what we have, but for the knowledge of those who came before us. Let this holiday become a moment of reconnection, a step toward reclaiming our food sovereignty, and an act of resistance against the systems that seek to commodify our sustenance.

Look for more content every day this week that will inspire a deeper connection to our ancestors and their traditional food practices. My ancestors are mostly Celtic people, but rest assured no matter what part of the globe your ancestors hailed from, there are many common threads among them all when it comes to food.

Exploring Ancestral Food Practices

When I first began exploring my own ancestral diet, I was struck by how much of what we eat today has been stripped of meaning, nourishment, and connection. Traditional diets were deeply tied to place, relying on local and seasonal foods that reflected the rhythms of nature. For centuries, people harvested what was available in their environment—wild greens in spring, fruits in summer, root vegetables in the colder months. These practices not only sustained individuals but also upheld the health of ecosystems our ancestors relied on.

Ancestral foodways also carried a profound cultural significance. Meals were more than sustenance; they were acts of community and identity. In many traditions, cooking and eating together were central to celebrations, rites of passage, and the passing down of generational knowledge. Recipes weren’t just instructions—they were stories, lessons, and connections to the past. These foods and the ecosystems that produced them were treated with reverence, reinforcing a reciprocal relationship between people and the earth.

As I delved deeper into these practices, however, I became increasingly aware of how industrialization has disrupted this harmony. The commodification of food turned nourishment into a product to be maximized for profit. Agriculture shifted from diverse, integrated systems to monocultures reliant on synthetic fertilizers and pesticides, decimating biodiversity. Entire ecosystems were sacrificed for the sake of uniformity and scalability. This is essentially everything that’s wrong with modernity. The foods that have dominated grocery aisles and fast-food menus—ultra-processed, calorie-dense, and nutritionally void—are a far cry from the nutrient-rich diets of our ancestors.

This loss extends beyond the food itself; it’s also about knowledge. Industrialization has led to the erosion of traditional practices like fermentation, foraging, and rotational farming. What was once passed down through generations has been replaced by convenience products that prioritize speed over sustenance. Learning this was sobering. I realized that reclaiming ancestral food practices isn’t just about improving health or flavor—it’s about restoring a broken connection to the earth, our communities, and the cultures that nourished us long before industrial systems took hold.

In this journey, I’ve started incorporating these lessons into my own life—choosing local, seasonal foods, learning how to ferment, and appreciating the stories behind every ingredient. The process is slow, imperfect, and sometimes daunting, but it’s also profoundly rewarding. Each step feels like a small rebellion against a system that prioritizes profit over people and the planet, and a step closer to reclaiming the resilience and wisdom of those who came before us.

Actionable Steps: Reclaiming Ancestral Eating Habits

I have quickly realized this journey was about more than just what was on my plate—it was about rethinking where my food comes from and how it’s produced. One of the first steps I took was rediscovering local food sources. Visiting farmers’ markets became a weekly ritual, not just for the fresh produce but for the conversations with the growers themselves. These relationships reminded me of how food systems should work: built on trust, locality, and seasonality. I have been encouraged to begin experimenting with urban gardening, growing herbs and leafy greens in small containers myself. I will share more on that later.

Cooking with seasonal ingredients has been transformative. Learning to work with what’s available has deepened my understanding of food’s natural rhythms. Foraging, which initially seemed intimidating, opened a door to a whole new world of connection with the land. With guidance from books and local experts, I’ve started incorporating wild greens, berries, vegetables and mushrooms into my meals, finding not only flavors but a sense of discovery that feels distinctly ancestral. Traditional recipes, especially ones that emphasize slow cooking, fermenting, or preserving, have added richness—not just in taste but in meaning.

Dismantling industrial dependency is perhaps the most radical part of this shift. Gradually reducing my reliance on ultra-processed foods hasn’t been easy—especially with the convenience and marketing power behind them—but it’s been empowering. Instead of quick fixes, I now prioritize whole, local foods that nourish both me and the planet. Alongside this, I’ve become more vocal about the need for systemic change, supporting policies that protect small-scale farmers and promote regenerative agriculture.

This process isn’t about perfection; it’s about intentionality. Each small action, whether it’s planting a seed, cooking a seasonal meal, or speaking up for sustainable farming practices, is a step toward reclaiming a relationship with food that industrial systems have tried to erase. And with every step, I feel more connected—not just to my plate, but to the land and the generations who came before.

Building a Movement Around Ancestral Eating

Our food choices are more powerful than we’ve been led to believe. Every ingredient we select, every meal we prepare, every connection we make with local growers—it all adds up. Food sovereignty isn’t just a matter of personal health or cultural nostalgia; it’s a rallying point for dismantling the industrial systems that exploit ecosystems, workers, and communities.

This is where movements can begin: in the kitchens, gardens, and markets where we choose to live differently.

Joining a local food movement, starting a garden, or even sharing a family recipe can ripple outward into meaningful change.

• Host a meal that celebrates seasonal, local ingredients and tell the story of how it came together.

• Volunteer with community-supported agriculture (CSA) programs or support cooperatives that champion regenerative farming.

These small actions build networks of resistance and resilience, strengthening local food systems while challenging the dominance of industrial ones.

Most importantly, recognize that your eating habits are inherently political. Every time you choose local over industrial, fresh over processed, and community over convenience, you’re making a statement: that the health of the planet and the dignity of its people matter more than profit margins. Eating like our ancestors is an act of defiance against a system designed to erase biodiversity, sever cultural ties, and exploit the land. It’s a way to honor the earth, reconnect with our roots, and build a future where food sustains more than just our bodies—it sustains our communities, our cultures, and the planet itself.

So, this Thanksgiving and beyond, ask yourself: what story does my plate tell? Let it be one of resilience, resistance, and reverence for the wisdom of those who came before us. I firmly believe we can reclaim our food sovereignty, one meal at a time.