Food in Gujarat isn’t just cooked. It’s shared, remembered, and felt.

My mornings often began with steaming dhokla — soft, warm, and always broken into pieces for everyone around. No one eats alone here. Food moves from plate to plate, just like stories move from one person to another.

Then there were jalebis. Hot, bright, dripping with sugar syrup. One bite and my fingers were sticky, my heart lighter. These weren’t just sweets — they were little celebrations, eaten slowly and happily.

But the moment that stayed with me the most wasn’t at the table. It was in the kitchen.

But the moment that stayed with me the most wasn’t at the table. It was in the kitchen.

Learning to make rotla with my grandmother’s hands guiding mine. She didn’t use measurements. She didn’t hurry me. She just showed me how it’s done — patiently, quietly, with love.

My rotla wasn’t round. It wasn’t perfect. But it was mine. And she smiled like it was exactly right.

Every meal came with memories. Of childhoods, festivals, and times when food was simpler but never less meaningful.

In Gujarat, food isn’t about fancy dishes or perfect presentation. It’s about warmth. About belonging. About feeling connected to the people and the place.

This is how culture tastes.

Back to All Stories