If I could choose my own path into my childhood, I would follow the Food Trail.

One of my earliest memories is of being locked by my grandmother in the store room of her ancient house. I loved the painfully spicy slivers of mango that she dried in the sun.. green mangoes drenched in red chilly powder,salt and just a little bit of jaggery. I would hide in forgotten cobwebbed corners and wait with gleaming eyes for my chance to rush away with a bounty in the skirt of my frock. The whacking that inevitably followed only sharpened my thieving skills. Untill finally my sorely tried grandmother locked me up in her dark store room. I screamed and banged on the doors, pleading to be let out of that rat infested part of hell. I promised to never ever steal, to be a good 5 year old, to say my prayers, to keep my nose clean. Nothing worked. And I subsided into silence. A long time later my worried Ammumma opened the doors to find me sitting happily with a half-empty Horlicks bottle of the precious mangoes and jaggery all over my face. As usual,I got whacked.

And then there were the big ceramic jars (Bharani. Jar is not quite the same thing)filled with home made tender mango pickle and sealed off with torn bits of my Grandfather's dhoti.

There was a time when my brother and I could get drunk on just one capful of wine stolen while Amma transfered it from the vessel to bottles. When mixed fruit jam dissolved in water was our drink of choice. When atta was the all important make-up for our Father- Mother games (how can you be the mother without make up?)

I've just returned after lunch at Subway. I'm pretty sure I wont be writing about it years later.

( Pic of my cousins and me eating mangoes in my grandmother's barn. For all the whacking I got, Amma and Ammumma generally saw to it that I was well supplied with mangoes :))