It started with a sneeze. A sneeze that led to another and another, until I had a full-fledged cold I couldn't shake, even as the weeks wore on and my co-workers became less sympathetic about the dirty tissues that littered my desk. It was in this state, red-nosed, foggy-headed and desperate, that I made my first bone broth five years ago. Instantly, I was hooked—the warm, savory comfort of the broth sliding down my aching throat, the internet-confirmed promise of the powers of the broth healing people for hundreds of years. I became a bone broth convert and spent several years making my own broth, buying my friends slow cookers for their birthdays so they, too, could experience its healing powers.
And then I moved from London back to New York, and the weather became a whole lot less broth-friendly, especially in the summer, where the soupy humidity felt distressingly similar to the liquid in my cup. My batches of broth became once-a-month affairs, and then even less frequent. It's hard to say whether my health suffered—my anxiety is the main reason I'm interested in gut healing, and it's tangled up in so many different factors. I felt less vibrant and healthy, just not quite enough to go through the effort of making more broth.