There are summers you forget, and then there are summers that cling to you — in your skin, in your clothes, and, if you grew up in an Indian home, on your plate. The summer I’m talking about wasn’t remarkable for anything grand. No weddings, no holidays, no life-changing news. But it was the summer my grandmother decided to make eleven kinds of pickle — and by the end of it, everything I ate, wore, and touched smelled faintly of mustard oil, asafoetida, and fenugreek. That summer, everything tasted like pickle oil.
We lived in a flat with one small balcony that faced direct sun from 11 AM to 4 PM — prime time for “sun-curing” according to my grandmother, who moved in for two months like a very determined general with a plan and a stack of handwritten recipes. By Day 3, the balcony had turned into a battlefield of ceramic jars, cut mangoes spread out on newspapers, half-dried red chillies, and my mother’s silent despair.
The Smell That Took Over
If you’ve ever opened a jar of homemade mango pickle that’s been basking in mustard oil under the sun, you know the smell I’m talking about. It’s not just food — it’s a declaration. It says: someone here knows how to preserve a season. But when you live in a house where every surface smells like that declaration, it starts to mess with your brain.
My school uniform smelled like pickle oil. So did my textbooks. The water in the fridge tasted like someone had dunked methi seeds in it for fun. I once bit into a roti and swore I could taste hing even though I was eating it plain. We weren’t eating the pickles yet — they weren’t “ready” — but their presence was so overwhelming that even a glass of plain milk tasted like it had attitude.
The Pickle Schedule
My grandmother had a calendar. A literal, hand-marked schedule: Day 1 – chop mangoes, Day 4 – stir with a clean wooden spoon, Day 10 – shift jars clockwise for even sun exposure. She took it more seriously than we took exam prep. Every morning, she would check on each jar like a mother checking on newborns. “This one’s bubbling,” she’d say, with the satisfaction of someone watching science happen. “That means the masala is waking up.”
Meanwhile, we were waking up with itchy throats and noses full of chilli powder. My dad tried to ban pickle activity from the kitchen. My grandmother ignored him. She said things like, “This is how your grandfather liked it,” which silenced all arguments immediately.
When the Pickles Were Finally Ready
Weeks passed. The jars darkened. The mangoes softened. The mustard oil turned deep amber and carried the weight of turmeric, salt, and time. And then one day, without ceremony, my grandmother opened a jar and served it with plain rice and ghee. “Taste this,” she said.
And I did. And I swear — even though I was tired of the smell, even though I’d joked about never eating pickle again — the moment it hit my tongue, everything made sense. Sharp. Tangy. Spicy. Deep in a way that no store-bought jar had ever come close to. It was a flavor that punched you in the face, then hugged you immediately after. It wasn’t just food. It was a season, bottled. A mood. A memory.
The Taste That Stayed
That pickle lasted for months. A spoonful at a time with curd rice, stuffed into parathas, dabbed onto khichdi. But even after it was gone, the taste stayed. Embedded somewhere deeper than just my palate. The memory of that summer — when nothing big happened except a dozen jars slowly transforming under the sun — still lingers every time I open a fresh bottle of achaar.
Even now, living thousands of miles away, I sometimes catch a whiff of mustard oil in a dish and I’m back on that balcony, trying to dodge the sun and the smell, watching my grandmother gently shake a jar like she’s stirring time itself.
That summer, everything tasted like pickle oil. And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.
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.
