Level: Stagier

The Scent of Autumn and Stories from the Stove

In my neighborhood, autumn doesn’t begin on the calendar. It begins the moment the first pepper hits the grill and the scent of smoke and roasted skin wraps around the house like a woolen scarf. That’s when we know… the ajvar season has begun.

Yesterday, we roasted peppers late into the night. Red, plump, and full of juice, they sizzled as if they were singing. Everyone has their rhythm… someone turns them, someone peels them, someone carries them, and someone keeps the stories flowing, blending with the smell of smoke. Around here, when it’s ajvar time, there’s no such thing as “mine” or “yours”. We’re all one big family gathered in the summer kitchen. No one needs to be called or asked, “Do you need help?”. One by one, they show up, sleeves rolled up, smiling and ready to work.

While the peppers crackle, stories weave together… about old times, new plans, who’s getting married, who’s come back from abroad, who brought a new recipe. And of course, there’s always the eternal debate: should the peppers be rinsed after peeling, or not? The summer kitchen splits into two camps… the “purists,” who swear that rinsing washes away the soul of the pepper, and the “practical ones,” who claim it’s the only way to get rid of those stubborn seeds. No one ever truly wins that argument, but somehow, everyone ends up laughing in the end. Someone always remembers Grandma saying that proper ajvar “must be cooked until it’s so shiny you can’t look at it.” And someone else adds oil “by feeling” and salt “by what the hand says.”

Today we continue our work. The peppers have been draining all night, the eggplants are waiting their turn, and the grinder stands ready like a loyal soldier. There will be tears, but not from sadness, from the smoke that stings our eyes. And laughter, because when you’re surrounded by people you love, even the hardest work feels like a celebration.

Somewhere between the stirring spoon and the stories that pour out, something is born that will keep this warmth alive all winter… ajvar, that bright red proof that true heat doesn’t come from the stove, but from the heart.

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