To Latvians, soup is more than nourishment—it is heritage in a bowl. For centuries, it has been a staple of rural life, eaten by farmers before long days in the fields or by schoolchildren returning home through the snow. Unlike fleeting food trends, Latvian soups have endured because they are deeply rooted in tradition and practicality. Broths are made from bones or vegetables that would otherwise go to waste. Greens are foraged, not bought. In many households, the pot of soup on the stove still represents continuity: the same recipes passed down, with slight variations, from grandmother to mother to daughter.

As soon as the snow melts and the first green shoots appear, Latvian cooks gather skābenes—sorrel—to make the soup that marks the end of winter. Sorrel soup is tart, almost lemony, and often enriched with potatoes, barley, hard-boiled eggs, or sour cream. Its flavor is unmistakable—bright, clean, and unmistakably spring. The tradition of using wild greens is a reminder of Latvia’s closeness to nature, and of how families once relied on what the forests and meadows offered before gardens were planted or markets opened. Sorrel soup remains a rite of seasonal passage, a culinary awakening after the cold.

While borscht is often associated with Ukraine and Russia, Latvian beetroot soup (bietes zupa) carries its own identity. In summer, it is served cold with kefir, cucumbers, and dill—refreshing and electric pink. In winter, it may be heartier, laced with broth and sometimes meat. Beetroot soup is visually striking, but it’s also emblematic of Latvian balance: sweet earthiness softened by dairy’s richness, grounded by the crunch of radish or the herbal bite of chives. It is a dish that can be elegant or rustic, festive or everyday—an adaptable jewel in the country’s culinary crown.

A bowl of pea soup, often thickened with barley or smoked pork, tells the story of resilience. In medieval Latvia, pea soup was eaten in monasteries and village homes alike. Its appeal lies in its simplicity: a few humble ingredients that, when slow-cooked, become something far greater than the sum of their parts. Even today, yellow pea soup is considered essential on festive tables—especially on Lāčplēša Diena (Latvia’s day of remembrance). A steaming bowl connects today’s diners with centuries of Latvian endurance, reminding them of both hardship and hope.

Along Latvia’s coastline, particularly in Kurzeme and around fishing villages, zivju zupa (fish soup) carries the flavors of the Baltic Sea. Unlike the creamy chowders of the North Atlantic, Latvian fish soup is often clear, briny, and full of dill and potatoes, letting the taste of fresh catch shine through. In some communities, it is customary to simmer the soup outdoors, over open flame, as part of summer gatherings. The smoky notes and sea-salt aroma blend into something primal and poetic—an edible memory of windblown dunes and nets drying in the sun.

One of Latvia’s most beloved “soups” is not savory at all. Maizes zupa—rye bread soup—is a dessert made by boiling dark rye bread with dried fruits, cinnamon, and sugar, then serving it chilled with whipped cream. At first glance, it sounds unusual, even puzzling. But its flavor—tart, rich, and warmly spiced—is unforgettable. It speaks to a culture where nothing is wasted and where even stale bread becomes the foundation for comfort. Rye bread soup is often served at holidays or school cafeterias, sparking childhood nostalgia in nearly every Latvian.

Today, Latvian chefs are reimagining traditional soups with new techniques and global influences—blending sorrel with coconut milk, garnishing beetroot soup with microgreens, or fermenting vegetables to enhance complexity. Yet the essence remains the same: using seasonal, honest ingredients to create something that nourishes both body and soul. Whether at a Riga café or a rural kitchen, the humble bowl of Latvian soup continues to tell stories—of place, of people, and of a culture that knows how to preserve warmth even in the coldest months.