Let’s talk about time travel. The hot & sticky kind. The kind that you do alone in the kitchen after going to great lengths to bring home a small sour bunch of spring greens. If we’re honest, aren’t we always cooking back to something?
When I make sorrel soup in the spring, I reassemble my favorite market back home in Montana. First, the old woman with the tiny card table full of the only green thing stubborn enough to brave spring in the Rockies. She told me it was like spinach and—oh my goodness—it is not like spinach. Then, her refusal to sell me anything until the market bell had rung, making its opening official. I couldn’t sleep—still can’t—and the only cure for that sort of thing is buying vegetables.
I cook back to a cool quiet morning, the cleansing bite of sorrel, and home.
More Sorrel Soup: