These delicious gluten free, vegan cookies are easy to whip up and even easier to share.

New to foraging? Learn more about ethical and safe foraging (plus how to get started) here!

Our kindness spreads far beyond us. Some believe it comes back around - a karmic chain or God’s blessing. But I think it is satisfying enough just to begin that ripple, to know that it will spread and make the world ever-so-slightly better. So many people write to me wishing there was a Wondersmith in their area, or wishing that they too could find some magic left for them. It’s a wonder to me, since I truly believe that I get to experience more magic than anyone by being the one that starts those ripples. Anyone can begin the chain of compassion and surprise. Anyone can give themselves the experience of giving generously. 

Long before my high school economics class, I benefited from a ‘gift economy.’ I spent my summers at the local R.V. park, which had craft programs that attracted a community of regulars to migrate back to our small mountain town every summer. I especially loved hanging out at the woodcarving pavillion, where my little sister and I would be surrounded by a bunch of friendly surrogate-uncles all willing to share carving tips and support as we navigated this fascinating new medium. The head carver, Terry, really took us under his wing. He was an honorary member of one of the First Nations tribes in the Pacific Northwest, and he really took the lessons he had learned from them to heart. He told us about how, in their culture, the giving of gifts was seen as a display of status; the more you gave, the more honored you were. It was there that I experienced my first Potlatch when some of the tribe members came to visit. We erected memorial totem poles, hand-carved with love by other regulars. Together we feasted and exchanged gifts, everyone contributing something to the celebration. 

I came away from that celebration feeling awe-struck and delighted by the generosity of everyone in attendance. I could see that woodcarving was more than just a hobby; it was a way of commemorating a way of life and the traditions associated with it. Every day Terry modeled generosity. He gave freely of his time and mentorship, and eventually began gifting me tools when I was experienced enough to help teach beginners. He gave without expecting anything in return. As I grew up and strayed from the medium of woodcarving, his lessons and the experiences he gifted to me stayed in my heart. I still trust the idea that giving without expectation of reciprocation is a soul-filling activity, one that is central to my art practice today. I hope that the many people who have shown me generosity over the years can recognize the importance of their contribution to my life, no matter how small.

These memories re-surfaced for me while I was reading Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall-Kimmerer. In this absolutely beautiful book, she writes poetically about the many lessons she learned from the plants and animals in her natural world, as well as the ethos passed down through her Native American heritage. Often, she talked about something called a ‘gift economy,’ a phrase that has burned itself into my psyche and is the momentum behind so much of my life today. 

“Gifts from the earth or from each other establish a particular relationship, an obligation of sorts to give, to receive, and to reciprocate. The field gave to us, we gave to my dad, and we tried to give back to the strawberries. When the berry season was done, the plants would send out slender red runners to make new plants. Because I was fascinated by the way they would travel over the ground looking for good places to take root, I would weed out little patches of bare ground where the runners touched down. Sure enough, tiny little roots would emerge from the runner and by the end of the season there were even more plants, ready to bloom under the next Strawberry Moon. No person taught us this — strawberries showed us. Because they had given us a gift, an ongoing relationship opened between us.” 

This passage brought tears to my eyes as I thought about the beautiful wild plants that inspire and nourish. I, too, have been inspired to show tenderness for the plants that I love so much, spreading seeds or weeding out invasive species or splitting bulbs to encourage further propagation. I do not see the land I love as a resource to be used; rather, I see it as a gift, an on-going relationship of reverence and reciprocity. It was deeply impactful to learn that this view had a name: a gift economy. It was even more impactful to learn about the depth of what that really means. In her lyrical writing, Robin explained why I had always felt that family heirlooms passed down for generations contained more magic than any other antiques:

“This is the fundamental nature of gifts: they move, and their value increases with their passage. The fields made a gift of berries to us and we made a gift of them to our father. The more something is shared, the greater its value becomes. This is hard to grasp for societies steeped in notions of private property, where others are, by definition, excluded from sharing. Practices such as posting land against trespass, for example, are expected and accepted in a property economy but are unacceptable in an economy where land is seen as a gift to all.” 

Once you start seeing the beauties of nature as gifts, you start thinking about what you may provide in return. After all, accepting a gift is accepting a relationship, and with that relationship an expectation of reciprocity. For many Native Americans I have spoken to, this meant leaving offerings of tobacco or song in the place of the plants that fed them; but what role can I play as a relative newcomer to this land, my own cultural roots an ocean and a continent away from my heart, which beats for the mountains and coastlines of my always-home, the Pacific Northwest? I create art in honor of the rich gifts I benefit from, the plants that I gather, the views I take in, the fresh mountain air that fills my lungs. For me, those gifts are still instilled with movement, thought not always in an obvious or literal sense. I think about the wonderful teachers and mentors I have had the honor of working with over the years. When one particularly sweet man taught me the ways of working with wood, he instilled in me a deep reference for my own awkwardly changing pre-teen body. Once I saw how my hands could create such objects, I started seeing more and more value in myself. I took the etiquette of the carving pavilion seriously, always sweeping up my own wood chips or sawdust, always putting my tools away at the end of the day. Because of my willingness to show this basic respect, I was welcomed back day after day. Those summers with the woodcarvers as my mentors have left a lasting impact. No, I did not stay to take their places as woodcarving instructors. In fact, I rarely carve wood anymore these days. But I do still carry their generosity of spirit, of sharing their traditions, of promoting respect forward in my own way. With every pot I sculpt from clay or every cake I bake from scratch, I remember the kindness of others that has led me to where I am today. Without their generosity, I would not be the person I am now. I would not recognize the mysterious beauty of offering things up for free - whether that be education, inspiration, experience, or something else entirely - if I hadn’t so many times been the recipient of such beautiful acts. I carry those gifts within me and I pass them on to others, honored to be part of the gifting cycle, a conduit for something so much bigger than one single person. 

But let’s pause and move back for a moment to the greater picture: many mentors and humans have fed my creativity and heart, yes, but what of the nature that feeds all of us in so many ways? the lessons learned by observing natural cycles. The flavorful foods that I gather myself. The medicines in the forest, available to anyone who has the knowledge of what they are and how to use them. The earth is always giving. How can we give back? 

For me, this has become a spiritual question moreso than a literal one. I pack out my trash, clean up my campsites, collect other peoples’ garbage to haul away with my own - practices that I believe are integral to showing the earth the respect it deserves. But what else? I can honor the late summer plums I picked by cooking them into jam and sharing it with my neighbors. Then they, too, are folded into this beautiful economy of gifting and caring. I can carry with me native wildflower seeds and sprinkle them in areas where the ground is disturbed, knowing they will take root and help prevent erosion as well as providing the next year’s visitors with a beautiful wildflower display. 

A gratitude economy does not expect immediate payment, the way our capitalistic one does. It’s an ebb and a flow, a giving when there is plenty to give, an accepting when you are more in need than your neighbor. Sometimes, you may want to accept the gifts offered to you graciously; other times you may want to give instead. These periods overlap and shift and change. And that’s okay. 

I remember when I first started apprenticing for a wonderful herbalist named Darcy Williamson, I showed some trepidation at the generosity she offered me. We began with an arrangement that seemed balanced to me; I would work for her for free, and in exchange would have lessons on wild plants and how to prepare them. Indeed, this balance felt wholesome to both of us, but things shifted as my illness worsened. Darcy invited me to come stay at her second home as a caretaker, but made it very clear to me that my primary job there was to learn to be well again. I could tend the crops and clean the house and can the vegetables and cook for guests if and when I felt up to it. I was expected to pay attention to my own needs and attain them first, without apologies. I was deeply uncomfortable with this arrangement for a long time. I always felt I should be doing more, helping more. I pushed myself too hard, felt my body wearing thin, at the brink of another flare up. It was at those times Darcy would sit me down and remind me why I was there. To help her secondly. To help me first. At some point in our relationship I asked her “but how can you afford to be so generous with me and all the others you help? We cannot pay you. We cannot work for you.” Darcy smiled one of her sly smiles and said “Everything somehow seems to balance out in the end.” Indeed, when I took a step back, I saw a web of community surrounding this woman I so admired. I saw the gifts coming her way as well, accepted with grace and understanding. Through her generosity, Darcy had generated a ripple in a pond, one that was still spreading. The ripples I send out into the world of hope and play and gifts for others began with the ripples I’ve been rocked in, from Darcy, from my family, from other mentors, from friends. The well that I pull from to give what I do is a deep one, and I can’t imagine living my life in any other way than to give as much as possible. 

And I will give freely, happily, openly, until I no longer can anymore. I would love to hear that the ripples of what I do have impacted others to spread wonder or eduction or kindness in new ways or in higher amounts, but that is not why I do what I do. I do this to fulfill my own need to give, because my well is bubbling over and that goodness needs to run somewhere, filtered through my style and creativity and fed out the other end. Generosity is a bit like the water cycle, I think. What may leave as as a ripple will someday return as a rainshower. Or perhaps it won’t really return to us at all, but to the world we care about in some way we can never predict. Would you plant a tree now, knowing you won’t live to see it turn into a grand tall tree to give shade to the neighborhood you live in? I would. Because without souls like that, some of my favorite trees to sit under and enjoy would never have come into being. Will you make investments in people you may never see return? Of course you will, because those investments absolutely will make their way back to you, in one way or another. 

Gifts of generosity take many forms. Some are more visceral, such as donating a large sum of money to an aids organization or taking in a refugee family displaced by natural disasters or other dangers. These are options for those with much to give, and I applaud them for it! For others, the call to give can be smaller, but no less important. Some volunteer at the animal shelter or adopt a dog. Some bake for their neighbors during a hard time. Some offer free resources, some give away products. Some inspire, some lead, and we all settle into our own little niche of who we are, why we’re here, and how we want to help. 

The Native America tribes who were much more familiar with an economy of gratitude stressed one idea: to give what is truly yours. What specifically can you offer? Are you rich? Strong? Good at cooking? Multilingual? Often your greatest assets lead the way to what you can offer. Personally, I am creative, empathetic, and strongly connected to nature… all parts of what I believe make me Miss Wondersmith. I give through my art and through my writing, where I readily share my recipes in the hopes that they’ll inspire others to look at their landscape in a new way. I give gifts from the heart to those who are most depleted, such as custom vessels for survivors of brutal wildfires, glazed with the ashes of the homes they lost. These ceramic art pieces hold both a place of memory and a step forward.

Funnily enough, our society seems to class giving as “good, but not necessary” and then put forth specific ways to be generous. There are certain places to donate your money. Certain places to donate your time. It seems as though so many of these options are designed not to cater to an individual’s inherent gifts, but rather the rather boring resources of time or money they already contain. Going forwards, perhaps you’d like to think just a little bit deeper about what you have to truly offer the world. What is your superpower? And what will you do with it? 

get to know your neighbors

show gratitude for the earth

check on people when they are unwell

accept support when you need it yourself

know how much to take and how much to give

recognize that giving is a choice

Around the holiday season, there is one tradition amongst my culture that fills me with joy: the concept of “sharing plates.” Often, these plates are decorated with a poem or explanation that the idea of the plate is to keep it moving and that the gift is in the giving. You may receive one of these plates laden with cookies. Then, when you feel like surprising your neighbor or cheering up a friend, you load it up with your own treats and take it over to them. On and on these plates are passed, carrying the magic of so many acts of generosity with them as they go. If you send a plate out into the world, you may never get it back or know where it ends up - and that is part of the joy of it! Since I am a ceramic artist, I have the ability to make a couple of my own Sharing Plates to send out into the world, laden with gifts. (You can also purchase decals online to decorate your own plate as well!) In the true spirit of gift-giving, I chose a recipe for thumbprint cookies featuring a sampling of the wild jams I have made out of the bounty that nature has gifted me. On and on these gifts are passed, building community, kindness, and joy. It’s about so much more than building “good karma” or expecting a gift in return. It’s finding the joy in giving, exploring what unique gifts you hold within yourself and sharing them with the world. Is there anything more wonder-filled than that?? 

Wild Jam and Pistachio Thumbprint Cookies: 

These are the perfect cookies for gifting as they are vegan, gluten free, and a great introduction to foraged treats for those who might be a bit weirded out by more exotic offerings ;) (My neighbors are not always quite as excited about green walnut liqueur or acorn flour as I am!) The festive green color and nutty richness of fresh pistachios really sets off the tart reds and purples of homemade jam. The cookies themselves are also refined sugar-free, though you’ll be adding sugar in your jams or the sparkling sugar. If you’d like to avoid it, use a sugar-free chia jam to fill! These delicious cookies are loosely-based on this recipe, which looks like a wonderful blank canvas to play with. This recipe makes about 32 cookies

Ingredients: 

1/2 c. finely chopped pistachios

2 ½  c. almond flour

2 Tbs. cornstarch 

¼ tsp. Salt

½ c. vegan butter or vegetable shortening, softened 

½ c. maple syrup

½ tsp. Pistachio extract (or almond extract) 

½ c. sparkling sugar, optional 

Small amounts of various jams or fruity pie fillings

Directions: 

1. Add the chopped pistachios to a food processor with the cornstarch. Grind to a flour. (Be careful not to over-grind as you could end up with more of a paste!) 

2. Preheat the oven to 350F. In a small bowl, whisk together the almond flour, pistachio flour, and salt. In a large bowl, beat together the softened shortening or vegan butter, maple syrup, and almond extract. Add the almond flour mixture and mix until incorporated. 

3. Scoop 1 Tbs. of dough and gently roll it into a ball. (If it’s too sticky to roll, add a couple more Tbs of almond flour to the dough and work it in.) Roll the ball in the chopped pistachios or sanding sugar, then place it on a parchment-lined baking sheet. Use your thumb to press an indentation to the top of the cookie. Repeat with the remaining dough. 

4. Use a small spoon or piping bag to fill each indentation with jam or preserves. I like using several different varieties of homemade jam for a dynamic presentation! 

5. Bake for 13-15 minutes, or until the cookies should just barely have a kiss of golden brown. Use a spatula to transfer them to a cooling rack to cool completely. Share with a friend!

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