This week, I’ll be taking part in the challenge again. This time, I’ll answer one of the questions I came across in a post by my friend @bntcamelo —specifically the first one. As soon as I read it, I liked it and realized I had something to share. The question is:

"Tell us about a traditional dish or recipe from your region that hardly anyone outside your local area knows about."

The recipe I’ve chosen—which, to me, is one of the most significant yet simplest dishes to prepare—is a soup from my hometown in the Venezuelan Andes called "pisca andina."

These are the sub-questions that our friend @bntcamelo poses in his post; I will answer them while reflecting on fond memories from my childhood and youth.

Although I travel a lot and spend long periods in other countries, I come from an Andean region in Venezuela that is very cold. In fact, the house where I was born is very close to what is known as the *páramo*—a high-altitude, barren landscape where little can be grown. It is truly cold up there, at elevations of 3,000 meters.

To give you an idea, in these places, farmers might own a single cow—which isn’t slaughtered for meat (at least, not until it’s very old)—or a hen, which also isn’t eaten. The cow provides milk, which is then turned into cheese. This cheese is kept in a basket suspended above the wood-burning stove, where it is smoked—a preservation method that gives it a distinct, smoky flavor. It’s a type of smoked ricotta-like cheese that lasts much longer. Given how cold these regions are, the cow serves as a vital source of milk, butter, and cheese.

Remember what I just mentioned: you don’t kill a hen that lays eggs—you keep it for the eggs. So, we have four ingredients here: milk, butter, cheese, and eggs. In that region, they also grow plenty of potatoes, chives, and cilantro—seven ingredients in total, coming from those Andean villages nestled in the high-altitude moorlands, where the nights are freezing cold.

Our farmers created an absolutely brilliant dish called *pisca andina*. The origin of *pisca andina*—specifically its name—is quite curious: in that region, a male turkey is called a *pisco* and a female turkey is a *pisca*. Therefore, a turkey egg is a *pisca* egg. It seems that, in the past, turkey eggs were often used for this recipe, though today it is always made with chicken eggs. It is a very simple and delicious dish—much like a *caprese* salad, which also relies on just five ingredients to create something wonderful. Something similar happens here; it’s a dish deeply connected to my own life and my childhood.

The most challenging part of making this recipe is finding the traditional, locally-sourced ingredients—for instance, the *mantequilla criolla* (a rustic, farmhouse-style butter). It typically comes wrapped in paper and has a much richer, more pronounced dairy aroma, which is essential for staying true to my original recipe.

Another key component is the *papa del páramo* (Andean highland potato)—a small, dark-skinned potato with a somewhat mealy or sandy texture. It is crucial to add these potatoes raw rather than pre-cooked; as they cook, they release starches and flavors into the milk, which are vital to the dish.

Scallions (or spring onions) form the aromatic foundation for almost all cooking in the Andean highlands. Sliced ​​into rounds, they serve as the base for this dish and many others. In fact, in the *páramo*, they were the primary crop—though, over time, other crops like garlic and onions have also been introduced. I am focusing here on the ingredients traditionally associated with the Andean highlands.

The recipe also calls for cilantro. While you could use store-bought cilantro, the variety native to the *páramo* is far more potent. It has an incredibly intense aroma and even features small flowers; this intensity is, in many ways, one of the secret elements that makes this soup so special.

The traditional *pisca* of the rural farmer—living in such rugged, cold environments at an average altitude of 3,000 meters above sea level—is shaped by the scarcity of vegetation (much like the high-altitude landscapes of Tibet, which one might mistakenly imagine to be lush and green). In the Andean *páramo*, meat is generally not consumed, except during festive occasions. You don’t eat pork all day long; a pig is typically kept for December. You don’t slaughter your chickens—unless, perhaps, you happen to have a surplus of chicks or hens, in which case you might prepare one for a celebration, resulting in a fine soup. Generally, however, you keep a hen for its eggs, not for its meat. Furthermore, a family unit typically owns only one cow, which provides a daily supply of milk, cheese, and butter. Consequently, this soup is "vegetarian"—or, more precisely, "lacto-vegetarian."

It is true that recipes evolve; in some places, *pisca* is now prepared with chicken or other ingredients. However, such variations tend to lean toward the culinary traditions of other Colombian regions or resemble the Peruvian *chupe*—essentially shifting the recipe into a different category altogether.

The authentic *pisca*—just as it is prepared in my hometown—contains, I must insist, no meat broth; it consists of milk, cheese, and butter—everything that comes from a cow.

Whenever I make this recipe—no matter where I happen to be—I am transported back to those landscapes: stone houses and intense cold—and when I say "intense cold," I mean temperatures dropping below zero at night. You’d be shivering, wrapped in a *ruana* (a traditional Andean poncho), when suddenly, there’s that woman—my mother—doing what she did so many times: preparing this soup in an old pot over a wood fire. Resting above that fire is a basket containing a smoked cheese.

I long—with a near-frenzied intensity—for the rustic, farmhouse-style smoked cheese from my hometown (that’s where I’m from). It’s smoked very slowly, day after day, by the rising wisps of smoke from the wood fire that burns all day long—a fire that also keeps the kitchen warm, serving as the heart of the home where everyone stays cozy. It’s a completely different kind of smoked cheese; it’s somewhat like a firmer version of ricotta, infused with smoke through a very slow, gradual process. Consequently, no commercially available smoked cheese even comes close to this Andean variety.