A Pot of Golden Preserve bit.ly/YaK5Cf I remembered it all as I stirred my own pot of bubbling cherries and little one noisily chopped the strawberries. From my tall kitchen window overlooking the lush greens of the Amstel Park I had arrived into the courtyard of my grandmothers house tucked away in eastern India. When everyone would retreat to their rooms for a snooze or a quiet exploration in the attic after a lavish lunch, I would sit in the courtyard goggling at the fanfare and trying to decode the wee bits of mystery that shrouded my grandmothers ceremonious jam-making. She would sit on the patio beside the kitchen, dressed in her stiff white cottons and smelling faintly of roses from the attar she dabbed on her wrists every morning. Whirling noisily, a small table fan would ease the afternoon heat while she patiently examined every piece of fruit worthy of making it to her famous homemade preserves. There were cape gooseberries, guavas and raw mangoes - bought from a local farmers market a few mornings earlier.
Posted on: Thu, 25 Sep 2014 07:00:10 +0000
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