I Hate(d) Soup
I hate soup. As a child (and even now, if I’m being honest), I always used a fork when eating thin, brothy soups. It was rebellion in cutlery form. When I became a vegetarian as a teenager, all my mother could think to feed me was soup after soup after soup. She still sends frozen soups my way. Soup-Sigh.
There’s something to be said of dishes, yes, soup included, that are made of a place, and equally, for a place. Last year I was in the Ecuadorian Andes, at altitudes ranging from 3000-4500 meters above sea level. Think chilly, windy and overcast. It was a road trip and I spent many hours in the car on never-ending, winding roads. But I also stopped for hikes and rode on horseback beneath pelting hailstones. It was dramatic and elemental.
At the end of each day, nothing felt better than settling into a new hotel, changing into my “inside clothes” and warming up with soup after delicious soup after delectable soup. The best thing about travel is changing your mind.