Submitted by Emma Buls, Duluth, Minnesota I never knew I had a sour tooth until I ate sorrel soup. It was at a lunch at my Aunt Lidia’s house, in a breezy beach community hugging Port Phillip Bay, south of Melbourne. I was around 8 years old, and at this point in our lives my younger brother and I were used to eating whatever was served, no kids’ menus, no special meals or bland substitutions to accommodate children’s simpler palates. On this occasion, my brother and I sat outside at a low square table under a covered porch in the walled backyard, festooned with gum trees filtering the sun’s rays. The adults’ table next to ours was long and littered with bottles of German riesling and cube glass ashtrays already filled with crushed butts. Lidia was not the chef on this day, but rather her younger sister, Ausma, who ladled …