Summer offers more than simply sweltering temperatures. Summer also provides memories, such as the minty freshness to some, the feeling of the sticky pulp of a mango on the fingertips, but also like silky rose petals in a glass of milk. 

This summer vacation was not about traveling to Timbuktu or accomplishing a task on a to-do list. This summer was about finally hitting the brakes and finding joy in the ordinary. The days felt stretched, long, and golden. Time seemed to stand still for just a little while. 

One afternoon, while rummaging through an unused cupboard in the house, out came a dingy diary that was wrapped in a piece of cloth. When I unwrapped it, I found a handwritten collection of recipes, also filled with little notes and doodles. Some pages had little stains, some pages had little smiley faces assigned to certain recipes, and then there were a lot of pages that had lines in the margins like "don't forget to stir" or "best served cold on a June day." 

What if summer was not just something to eat but to create? 

The first experiment was rose syrup. After the reheated sugar cooled and the dried petals soaked, it became something beautiful. It was mixed with cold milk and chilled into a soft pink drink that looked like summer. It didn’t taste great, but it had a special flavor. 

After that, there were countless experiments. Some worked, and others did not. One day, the mango panna was too sour, and the next day, too sweet. The dessert collapsed before it could be served chilled. Each of those experiences resulted in laughter, knowing, and a certain joy that recipes just cannot describe. 

The dishes did not just tell a story through flavor, but also began a small conversation with their hands. As we chopped fruit or waited for milk to boil, we remembered little things—how summers used to feel, how recipes changed, and how food crossed generations. 

Outside the kitchen, the days sat together like melted ice cream—slow and sweet. There were board games played under ceiling fans. Patterns drawn during power cuts. Poetry is written about lemonade, jackfruit chips, and the smell of roasted spices. There was no wifi in the best 

parts of these days, just the sounds of clanging steel utensils, swishing glasses, and buzzing stories being relayed. 

Even the smallest things were significant. Washing mangoes in a bucket of water and becoming transfixed by how they glimmered in light. Freezing orange juice into an ice tray to make tiny popsicles. Sharing roasted corn bountifully during an unexpected rainfall. None of these were big, memorable experiences but they could add color to the season in their subtle way. 

This summer was also a lesson in patience. A lesson that things do not always come out perfectly the first time. Those flavors grow and just need time to rest. Spills and messes in the kitchen are just paths to creating memories. 

Ultimately, it was not the taste of the food, but rather the feeling. A sense of calm. Of belonging. Of creating something from nothing, and sharing it. 

As school and the calendar season continue to develop, so does the season of sunlight and slothfulness. However, it is the lessons learned along the way that will last - jotted down in the margins of a recipe's diary on pages, in the warmth of a beloved glass, and in the new sense that perhaps sometimes it is more helpful to stay put, rather than go somewhere else. 

Summer was not an escape this time. Instead, it was a return to forgotten corners, forgotten tastes, and a different version of life that often feels overlooked in such a hurry. 

And, somewhere amidst the rose syrup and sliced mango, this holiday became a trip of its own.