If you grew up in Bihar, you don’t just remember winter by the temperature.

You remember it by the smells too.

The sharp aroma of mustard oil heating… 

Amla steaming in big Pateela… 

Green Chillies drying on the terrace… 

Oal being grated in the aangan… 

Tomatoes bubbling slowly on the stove

Women comparing whose achar turned out best that year.

These moments live somewhere deep inside even if you haven’t been home for years.

At JhaJi Store in Darbhanga, winter still feels exactly like that.

Every pickle is handmade by women using the same recipes passed down from mothers, grandmothers, and mothers-in-law.

Below are six winter favourites described as they deserve to be — with the option to explore or add them to your cart as soon as your heart says “yes, this is home.”

If you grew up in Bihar anytime between the 70s and early 2000s, you know this chutney without needing an introduction.

It is the chutney that sat quietly in a steel bowl beside steaming parathas.

The chutney that came out during winter train journeys.

The chutney your mother packed in small dabbas “just in case the food outside isn’t good”.

The chutney your father would reach for even before tasting the sabzi.

In every Mithila home, there was always a day in winter reserved for tamatar ki chatni.

The smell would reach the neighbor’s house before lunchtime.

The first spoon brings the flavour of fried garlic — earthy, strong, familiar.

Then comes the tang of tomato, softened by slow cooking but still bright.

After that, the smokiness of mustard oil, unmistakably Bihari.

And finally, the rise of green chilli heat, the kind that warms the throat slowly, not sharply.

It’s chunky, not blended.
It’s spicy, not sweet.
It’s smoky, not vinegary.
It’s real, not processed.

One bite with a paratha and the years fall away.

Suddenly you’re sitting cross-legged on the floor, plate in hand, winter sun streaming through the window.

This chutney doesn’t need much.

Just give it something warm and simple.

• With hot parathas on a winter morning
  
  

• With dal–chawal on a tired day
  
  

• With khichdi when you’re homesick
  
  

• With pakoras when it’s raining
  
  

• With momos or noodles when you want spice that feels like home
  

It also travels beautifully — no refrigeration needed.

Just like the chutney your mother trusted more than any restaurant meal.

If you grew up in Bihar, you may not remember the name “Oal Barobar,” but you surely remember the taste.

This was the pickle that always appeared quietly in winter.

Not celebrated like mango.

Not colourful like lemon.

Just simple, sturdy, comforting — prepared mostly by mothers and grandmothers who understood the rhythm of the season.

A large, freshly dug-up oal sitting in the corner, its earthy smell mixing with the morning air.
 Ginger — thin-skinned, young, full of juice — being washed and laid on a tray.

Green chillies of the longia kind, crisp and firm, selected carefully so they had heat, but not too many seeds.

Someone would always rub a jamiri lemon between their palms before cutting it —
 a trick older women knew was essential to draw out its aroma and reduce bitterness.

This pickle is called Oal Barobar because everything — oal, ginger, green chilli — is added in equal amounts.

No one ingredient is allowed to dominate.

It is the balance that makes it beautiful.

The oal is peeled and grated — a task that every child in a Bihari home has seen someone do with a mixture of devotion and frustration (“thoda khujli karega!”).

The ginger is grated alongside it, releasing a scent that feels like medicine and memory together.

The green chillies are crushed or finely chopped.

Then everything is washed and spread out under the sun. 

The raw moisture slowly leaving the mixture as the winter sun works its magic.

Then, the Salt, haldi, and jamiri lemon juice go in first — this is the “marination day,”. When the mixture rests, relaxes, and begins its transformation.

Only after this do the roasted spices join — mustard, cumin, coriander, fenugreek, fennel, kalonji.

Each one enhancing the other, not overpowering.

For 10 days the mixture sits under the winter sun. Families check it the way you check grain for dryness — gently, with experience, not with rules.

The first taste is tangy, thanks to the lemon and amchoor.

Then comes the heat from chilli — not sharp, but clean and satisfying.

And finally, the ginger warmth, the kind that fills your throat on cold days and makes you feel like someone just cared for you.

It’s a pickle that doesn’t shout; it speaks gently.
 But its flavours are unmistakably Bihari — rustic, honest, sun-kissed.

When it tastes best

• Mixed into hot rice with a little ghee
  

• Spread on a soft roti
  

• With poori and aloo sabzi
  

• With dahi–choora on winter mornings
  

• Or simply with plain dal–chawal, when you want the meal to feel like home again

There were winters when the house didn’t have many luxuries. 

But one thing was almost guaranteed:

A small steel bowl filled with Laal Lahsun-Adrak-Mirch ka achar.

It was the pickle that made parathas feel like a celebration.

The pickle you reached for even before the roti was hot.

The pickle that tasted the same in every house.

Because every mother prepared it with her own quiet consistency.

Garlic buds were separated by hand. 

Your fingernails would smell of garlic for the rest of the day.

Ginger was peeled and grated, not chopped.

Because grated ginger releases more warmth.

Green chillies were cut into small pieces. 

Their seeds flicked away with fingers.

All three were kept in the winter sun. 

Not to soften, but to dry. 

Just enough so the raw moisture disappeared.

This step was never skipped; otherwise the pickle wouldn’t last the year.

Fresh lemons were squeezed, their juice strained, and mixed with the three ingredients.

The mixture rested for a day — a quiet beginning to something bold.

Then the spices arrived — roasted till fragrant, ground till coarse, and folded in with mustard oil.

For three more days the mixture sat outside in sunlight.

People would taste it occasionally. 

Deciding whether it needed a little more salt or a little more lemon. 

Always adjusting by instinct, never by measurement.

Soft Garlic. 

Warm Ginger.

Crisp Green Chilli.

Salt, lemon, and spices balancing each other.

Like a well-tuned orchestra.

The taste is chatpata, lively, comforting.

The kind of flavour that wakes up a meal.

And maybe even your mood.

In seconds.

Where it belongs on your plate

• On top of stuffed parathas, especially gobi or sattu
  

• With dal–roti or aloo sabzi
  

• With poha or upma on rushed mornings
  

• Inside sandwiches or rolls, when you want “desi spice” abroad
  

• With snacks, because this pickle doesn’t judge
  

This is the achar that disappears fastest in any home.

Every Bihari family had at least one person who loved mirch ka achar more than the meal itself.

For them, this pickle was always made separately —
 kept away from children, stored in a small jar, guarded with a kind of respect.

How the chilli ritual began

Green chillies — bullet or longia — were bought fresh in big handfuls.

They were washed, tails removed, and laid out in the sun till they softened slightly.

This “one day of drying” was essential.

It helped the chilli absorb spice later.

Salt and haldi were added, along with a squeeze of lemon juice.

And the mixture was left under the sun again.

Only when the chillies felt “just right” — soft but still firm — were the spices added.

Unlike other pickles, this one uses less masala.

Because the chilli itself carries the main flavour.

Roasted mustard, cumin, fenugreek, kalonji, and a bit of red chilli powder were mixed in.

Mustard oil, warm and mellow, coated everything lightly.

For a week the pickle would sit in the sun.

A week full of anticipation. 

For all the chilli lovers in the family.

A quick, sharp heat that rises cleanly.

A slight sourness from lemon.

A warm masala undertone that comforts rather than burns.

This is not the “harsh, vinegary, over-spiced” chilli pickle you get in stores. 

This is the chilli pickle that feels like it belongs next to dal–chawal.

Its place on your plate

• With rajma–chawal or kadhi–chawal
  

• With hot parathas
  

• With poha or upma
  

• With aloo-bhujia snacks
  

• With curd and leftover roti on lazy nights
  
  

A small piece is enough to lift the entire meal.

This was the pickle that mothers trusted most.
 Because it lasted long, travelled well, and never spoiled easily.

If you have memories of train food wrapped in foil, chances are this pickle was inside.

How it was prepared the old way

Kaagji lemons — bright, thin-skinned, full of juice — were rubbed firmly before washing.

Older women always said this “activates the lemon,” softening it and releasing its oils.

They were then cut into large pieces, their seeds removed.

Green chillies were chopped, ginger grated finely.

All three were dried in the winter sun for a day.
 This reduced bitterness, sharpened flavour, and kept the pickle stable for months.

Then came the lemon juice — freshly squeezed and added in generous amount.

It’s what gave this pickle its shining tang.

The spices were classic: 

Yellow mustard, cumin, coriander, fenugreek, kalonji. 

Alittle fennel for sweetness.

Mustard oil was used. Lightly. 

This is meant to be a low-oil pickle.

A juicy burst of lemon in the first bite.

A warm ginger note in the middle.

A clean, bright chilli spice at the end.

And the unmistakable “kala namak tang” that makes the mouth water.

There is something deeply comforting about this flavour.

it tastes like simple meals, family gatherings, and the kind of food you eat without fuss.

The best companions

• With mathri, namakpare, poori
  

• With dahi–bhaat
  

• With dal–roti
  

• In travel meals
  

• With parathas on winter mornings

This pickle fits with almost everything — quietly, reliably.

For many people, the first batch of amla pickle was how you knew winter had officially begun.

Amla steaming in large patilas.

The sour smell reaching the courtyard.

Children walking around pretending to cough dramatically because of the tang in the air.

How the ritual went

Amlas were washed and steamed — not fully cooked, just softened.

They were then cut into pieces, seeds removed, and spread in the winter sun.

So that the extra moisture left their flesh.

Once slightly dried, the amlas were mixed with salt and haldi and sun-dried again.

This two-stage drying was essential. 

It protected the pickle through the year.

The spice mix was always mustard-heavy.

Yellow mustard was ground fresh.

Cumin, coriander, fenugreek, kalonji, fennel, black salt, and amchoor added layers of warmth and complexity.

Finally the amla pieces were completely covered in mustard oil.

Not for taste, but to protect the fruit from turning black due to its high iron content.

This was the mother’s wisdom, passed down across generations.

Sharp. 

Sour.

Awakening.

Amla has a depth that no other fruit has — the sourness is full, not one-note.

The spices bring warmth, the oil brings roundness, and the whole experience takes you back to winter lunches in your childhood home.

Best with

• Hot dal–chawal
  

• Bajra or jowar rotis
  

• Khichdi
  

• Curd rice
  

• Alu-paratha on cold evenings
  

One piece is enough to remind you of who you are, and where you come from.

✔ Recipes carried forward from mothers, grandmothers, and mothers-in-law

✔ Local, safe, familiar ingredients from Mithila — nothing imported, nothing industrial

✔ Sun-drying for 10–20 days, just like traditional winter kitchens

✔ No preservatives, no vinegar shortcuts — mustard oil, salt, time, and sun

✔ Flavours that remind you of Bihar in a way nothing else does

For those who left home years ago — for work, for family, for life — a jar of achar isn’t “just achar”.

It’s the Taste of Where You Come From.