One jar holds Uncle Viswanathan’s lime pickle. Not
really my uncle, a professor who taught social
work. A plain white label is affixed with Scotch
tape. Ingredients: limes, lime pickle spice. Uncle died
eleven months ago in the arms of his two sons,
his heart too fresh. The canoe capsized in Killarney.
I’m still eating his limes. Mother still has her mother’s
who’s been dead for fifteen years. Back in the day customs
officers yielded to those who crossed borders with two
yellow plastic buckets of unrecognizable
raw mango parts, fenugreek seeds, aniseed, onion
seeds, turmeric, red chili pepper, salt, and mustard
oil. Mother could haggle – you will let me bring this in
all I have left of her. A second jar contains chai
masala of Uncle Whatshisname who was always
drunk. Someone’s second cousin who lived in New Delhi.
Mother almost sobered him up when she asked for a
few pounds of his secret mix. It’s on my shelf in a
jam jar. Strawberries I don’t preserve. We’ve still got a
few years or a hundred cupfuls – whichever comes first.