The Scent of Sunday

MARIYA SABU PAYYAPPILLY

My childhood Sundays were a celebration : quiet, familiar, and full of food that made the day feel special without trying. 

The morning always began with appam and egg curry. I can still hear the soft hiss of the appachatti, see Amma in her floral printed nighty , hair tied up, half-asleep but still moving with practiced rhythm. The curry would bubble thick and rich, the smell of coconut milk and pepper filling the house long before anyone else woke up. 

After breakfast came catechism; the one part of Sunday I wished didn’t exist. 

But Ammamma, my grandmother always made sure I came back to something worth looking forward to: a small bowl of irachi pattichath: meat slow-cooked in the pressure cooker with just crushed pepper, shallots, curry leaves, and a pinch of salt. Nothing else. No masala, no fuss. 

By noon, the kitchen turned into beautiful chaos. Amma’s thattipp biriyani (gimmicky biriyani) was never really biriyani. 

It was her version of veg pulao mixed with whatever curry she’d made. Sometimes beef, sometimes chicken, sometimes pork. She’d plate it proudly, saying, “Eat before it gets cold,” and somehow it always tasted better than anything store-bought. 

Evenings were slower. She’d turn the leftover velleppam batter from the morning into vattayappam. The smell of steamed rice and cardamom filled the kitchen, mixing with the golden light slipping through the window and the sound of the pressure cooker cooling down from the afternoon rush. 

Dinner was never new. It was just the leftovers – always the leftovers; the last scoop of curry, some imperfect velleppams , leftover biriyani, maybe a piece of vattayappam. We’d eat together, tired and full, sealing the day with the taste of everything we’d already loved once. 

When I think back to those Sundays, I don’t picture the house or the people first. I remember the smells; because our olfactory nerves stores sharp memories of tastes. 

The starch on Ammamma’s kora cotton saree as she got ready for church, the pulipp or tanginess of velleppam batter rising near the stove, the meaty, peppery air of irachi pattichath, and the sharp aroma of Amma’s muttaroast when she’d add tomato slices at the very end. 

Those smells are what stay with me. That’s how I remember my childhood; not through sights or sounds, but through the scent of Sunday.

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Mariya Sabu Payyappilly is a law graduate. She is from Chendamangalam, Ernakulam, Kerala.

She works with a US-based legal tech company and finds joy in writing and exploring stories and tastes.

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Illustration is done by Annabel Fathima.

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