Her fingers circled the lid in a slow hypnotic motion. Hardly anyone ate the pickles any more. Certainly not the kids. Her Indian pickles had too much oil and spice for their palate. With Ravi’s escalating reflux problem, it had become a rare sinful indulgence. And yet…

She couldn’t imagine her window sill without those jars. It was a treasured recipe passed down from generations. Her lingering connection to the women of her family who lived no more. She smiled thinking of how appalled her grandmother would have been had a meal been served without the auspicious pickle.

Some traditions were not about logic, they were about comfort.


In response to The Friday Fictioneers challenge of 15 June 2018

23 thoughts on “The kitchen sill

  1. You’ve written this beautifully, Sheena. That opening sentence is terrific, conveying immediately the way she is thinking and feeling. By giving us her thoughts, you succeed in summarising the good and the bad of the pickles. But you do it by telling us about her family, and how they respond to the pickles, and why, so we don’t feel that you’re lecturing us. Clever writing, that! And your last sentence is very wise, a very appropriate summing up. This is a lovely piece!

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Is there anything more comforting than eating home-made pickles? I think of all the gifts my parents received on their 25th anniversary, the one my father most got excited about what a huge jar of my aunt’s famous salt pickles!


  3. One day her kids will miss these pickles. A lovely tale about tradition and the importance of food for the family.


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