I’m not sure how hot soup out of the back of a beat-up old station wagon, mid-winter in New Hampshire, changed my life, but the memory still warms me.

My adventurous spirit landed me picking apples with an anti-war activist and follower of Gandhi for September and October in the 1970s. Little did I know how different orchards were in the winter when I signed up to prune apple trees on a crew with the same man. This was New Hampshire in February and March. Snow cover was thick, days never above freezing.

My fear of falling out of trees kept me on the edge of shaking. It was, if I put it in a positive light, an opportunity for breaking through limitations. We on the crew shared a spacious old house in town. My big thrill was walking to the library at night and listening to Linda Ronstadt records with earphones. Warm and dry, and able to slouch into a comfortable chair, I relaxed and thawed out.

What was that meal that changed my life?
Someone cooked for us, the crew, though I don’t remember who. One day, they made a huge batch of hearty soup for lunch in a stainless-steel pot with a top. It was wrapped in old army blankets in the back of the crew chief’s car; we pulled it out at lunchtime in the middle of the orchard. We gathered around the back of the station wagon, put down our saws and clippers, and took off our gloves. We each received a big mug of steaming hot soup. Thick, hot, full of vegetables, soft and delicious; my heart and soul melted with gratitude. In fact, the soup nearly burnt my tongue.

We laughed, hopped from one foot to the other to stay warm, and sipped the soup. The warm, heavenly, savory nectar warmed my stomach, and that warmth spread throughout my body. We were all amazed that it stayed so hot for three to four hours in below freezing temperature!

Back in the trees after that, reaching out to saw off a branch, I continued to savor that soup as I paused to gaze out at the brilliant sky. What a reminder that just the right nourishment, at the perfect time, can sustain one for a long time. Even now, many decades later, I savor that memory with gratitude. Thanks to the chef that prepared that food, packed it carefully in a pot, and wrapped in blankets. I feel the warmth of sustenance to this day.