Some smells don’t just trigger memories — they *are* memories. And for me, the smell of sambhar bubbling on the stove, its steam curling into turmeric-scented air, means just one thing: it’s Sunday. Not a lazy brunch kind of Sunday, not a “sleep in and order waffles” Sunday — but an *authentic, deeply South Indian, ghee-on-your-fingers, feed-your-soul* kind of Sunday.
Growing up in Mumbai in a Tamil household, sambhar wasn’t a dish — it was a schedule. Sunday lunch meant sambhar. Always. No debate, no substitutions. If you asked what was for lunch on a Sunday, someone would look at you with mock confusion and say, “Of course it’s sambhar.” As if asking was the strange part.
The Routine That Made It Special
It started around 10 AM. The pressure cooker would hiss out its first foghorn of the day — three whistles for the toor dal, which had been soaked just long enough. Someone (usually me) would be assigned the job of plucking curry leaves from the stem, carefully discarding the yellow ones. The tamarind pulp would be squeezed with the drama of a mythological ritual, and someone would always say, “Don’t make it too sour this time,” to which someone else would always reply, “Then it won’t be real sambhar.”
Every family has their version. Ours had shallots, carrots, beans, and that one sneaky drumstick you’d fish around for like buried treasure. The masala was homemade, roasted in small batches with jeera, coriander seeds, fenugreek, and dried red chillies. The sambhar would simmer slowly, absorbing all these layers until it reached that magical point where the vegetables were soft, but not soggy, and the dal had disappeared into the broth like a memory.
Sambhar as Social Glue
The funny thing is, it wasn’t even my favorite dish as a kid. I’d grumble about the vegetables, complain about the drumsticks being too fibrous, and beg for rasam instead. But now, living alone in Austin, sambhar is what I crave most — especially on Sundays. It’s not just about the taste. It’s about the structure it offers to the day. The feeling of something familiar anchoring the week, reminding me that no matter how chaotic life feels, there’s a bowl of sambhar waiting for you to come home.
Sunday sambhar wasn’t just food. It was a moment when everyone came to the table. No one ate alone. No one skipped lunch. Even if someone was mad or sulking, they’d still show up for sambhar. It was the meal that reset everything — conversations, tempers, leftovers. Especially leftovers.
The Leftover Legend
Because let’s not forget: Monday morning sambhar is arguably better. Something happens overnight — the spices settle, the flavors deepen, the tamarind loses its edge and turns mellow. Reheated sambhar, poured over fresh idlis or spongy dosa, is what made Mondays survivable. Some genius ancestor figured this out centuries ago and we’ve been benefiting ever since.
Even now, my freezer in Austin always has a small container of sambhar tucked into a corner. I ration it like it’s an heirloom. I make sambhar from scratch only on Sundays — not because I’m strict about tradition, but because it forces me to slow down. To cook with intention. To remember my mother tasting it with a tilt of the spoon and a furrowed brow, deciding it needed just a bit more jaggery. To remember my dad pouring ghee on his rice with a childlike grin.
Why It Still Matters
In a world of ten-minute recipes and Uber Eats dinners, Sunday sambhar doesn’t make sense. It takes time. It uses multiple vessels. You have to chop, boil, grind, wait. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe it’s not about convenience. Maybe it’s about keeping one part of the week sacred — untouched by the rush, unbothered by emails, unflustered by ambition.
Sunday sambhar isn’t just a meal. It’s an act of memory. A gesture of continuity. A quiet declaration that some things are worth doing slowly, over and over again. So every Sunday, without fail, I bring out the toor dal, slice the carrots, soak the tamarind, and stir the pot until the kitchen smells like home.
Because some flavors aren’t just food. They’re tradition, time, and tenderness — all simmering together in one pot. And for me, that’s what Sunday tastes like.
Born in Mumbai, now stir-frying feelings in Texas. Writes about food, memory, and the messy magic in between — mostly to stay hungry, sometimes just to stay sane.
Born in Mumbai, now stir-frying feelings in Texas. Writes about food, memory, and the messy magic in between — mostly to stay hungry, sometimes just to stay sane.
