Winter Amlas and the Quiet Art of Preservation

Winters in Bombay are almost a myth but what signals the season are the vegetable markets bustling with winter goodies — green garlic, yams, sweet potatoes, and my favourite, amlas, or Indian gooseberries.

My mother would buy kilos of fresh amla and I would shriek with joy as we sat down to clean and sort the winter produce. I wasn’t interested in the cloth bags she brought from home, packed with vegetables. I was only after the amlas, rushing to bite into their sharp sourness. She would nudge me right away and say, wash them before you eat. So I gathered all the amlas into a container and washed them under the sink tap.

I was taught only once how to handle amlas for preserving and I knew the steps perfectly. After each amla was washed carefully, I would let them dry on the windowsill. Then I grabbed a kitchen napkin and thoroughly wiped each amla dry. When they were all dried, I needed my mother again to find me an old glass jar. She would reach into the depths of the kitchen cabinets and find one.

Sitting on the kitchen floor, cutting little slices into each amla, not all the way through, just enough for the salt and turmeric to soak in, felt like a small act of care. Preserving food this way is an art, passed down quietly through generations. It is about patience, respect for the fruit, and knowing that this simple ritual will keep the season’s flavours alive long after the markets have emptied.

In kitchens across India, this tradition is everywhere, from mango pickles in the south to sun-dried lemons in the north. Before refrigerators were common, families found ways to stretch the seasons, making sure nothing went to waste. It was more than just saving food. It was a way of honouring the harvest and the hands that picked it. These practices hold stories, memories, and love, woven into the spices and the jars stacked on the shelves.

Then I placed the amlas into the glass jar and sprinkled spoonfuls of salt and turmeric. I added some water, closed the lid, and shook the jar carefully but enough times to dissolve the salt and turmeric.

Each day I would carefully shake the jar to make sure the contents were tossed around. The week that followed was a test of my patience as the amlas softened. Eventually my mother would say they were ready and I would enjoy them as my after-school snack every day until it was time to make a fresh batch.

But my mother had other plans for the amlas that were leftover. She would make a quick pickle that could be enjoyed instantly.

Here’s how she made it:

Slice the amlas thin, no thick chunks here. Roast fenugreek and sesame seeds separately until they smell warm and nutty. Grind them with red chilli powder, turmeric, salt, and a pinch of asafoetida. Heat a little oil, just warm enough so the chilli powder does not burn, then pour it over the spice mix. The smell fills the kitchen with promise.

Mix the spiced oil with the amla slices. That is it. The pickle tastes sharp, spicy, and a little sweet. It is the kind of thing that goes quietly well with dal and rotli.

Making this quick pickle reminds me how kitchens I grew up around never wasted anything. They knew how to turn sour and sharp into something you wanted to eat again and again.