Grandma's Precious Pickles

Hello ! It's been an awfully long time since my last post. A bit of this and a bit of that, difficult to pull out from the web of life. However , it's so wonderful to be posting again ! It's interesting how one thought leads to another. Sometimes, in the late afternoons, I see a little girl twirling in a frock , on a terrace in a building nearby.The image transports me to my childhood in an instant.

During our pre teens, my sister and I would love the afternoons. It was a time shared by us exclusively; partaking of simple pleasures deepened our bonds. That which gave us unspeakable joy , was my grandma's home made pickles. She made quite an assortment of these with berries, mangoes , chillies and lemons. Mouthwatering ! Even the thought of it . We admired her skill. From a careful selection of the ingredients to the right time of the maturity of the pickles- her precision held us in awe. She would use a wooden bowl and spatula for mixing and sunning the pickles. The terrace was the perfect place for the pickles to mature.

So, my sister and I would wait for the family's siesta time to sneak up to the terrace and do justice to the pickles. Have you ever tasted pickles before they mature ? Dear me ! They're absolutely magical, certainly better than the finished product ; or so we'd think until we had attained maturity. I remember the berry and mango pickles were the most sought after. Big wooden bowls stuffed with pickle would be placed on straw mats to cook in the sun . The containers were covered with a thin muslin cloth. Occasionally grandma would come and stir the contents with a spatula and leave them covered again. She would bring the pickles out in the sun after breakfast and carry them back carefully just before sunset. She wasn't as possessive about her jewelry as much as her pickles !

The mellow afternoon sun gave a comfort that was only second to my mother's lap. There we were, sitting on the terrace, slowly lifting the covers over the bowls and digging our fingers into the young pickles. The burst of sweet , sour and salty flavors bathing our palettes, secrets shared in hushed tones followed by giggles, defined happiness. Ears remained propped up for the slightest sound of footsteps, for fear of being chased with anything within reach, for indulging in the sacrilege of touching young pickles ! Care had to be taken to keep the pickles and covers back with dexterity so as to avoid any suspicion . The feeling of triumph was often accompanied by a twirling of our frocks, spinning round and round, holding on to each other firmly, until the world seemed to spin around us and a tacit understanding that our secrets would remain safely guarded.

So grandma never caught us stealing a taste of the pickles. Well, if she's watching us from somewhere up in the heavens,  I admit the guilt of stealing her magical pickles and ask for her forgiveness .
I enjoyed bringing this out into the open. Twirling their frocks in the mellow sun, two sisters bonded deeply over a taste of grandma's magical pickles ...