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