BTS: What We Don’t Talk About When We Talk About Food Writing .. (& Award Announcement)

What we dont talk about...

... When We Talk About Food Writing

(behind the scenes for a food writer and cookbook author)

A couple of months ago, I sent a note to an editor I deeply respect. I told them I needed to pause a pitch I had once been excited about. I explained I was navigating some heavy personal challenges behind the scenes—challenges that made it hard to write anything meaningful. What I added: I am not a careerist.

What I did not tell them: I don’t like to chase assignments or editors at events. I’ve seen that hustle—and while it works for some, it has never felt right to me. Maybe that’s a privilege. Maybe it’s just my principle.

I never heard back. Maybe it was TMI for them. But there was no acknowledgment. Maybe they were busy. Maybe it’s normal.

But it left me sitting with a quiet truth: vulnerability in our industry is rarely met with care.

And that silence? It stung.

Most of my food writing assignments pay less than two weeks of groceries for our household —often not enough to cover the costs of ingredients / meals, travel, time for said assignment, or allergies I’ve picked up along the way and food intolerances that leave me in bed for several days, urgent care copays to treat pesky things etc. And no, I’m not in it for the “editor’s nod” or a dopamine hit from a byline. I’m not a machine.

When everything aligns—my vision and excitement, with my words, my editor’s trust, and the reader’s understanding—that’s when I feel fulfilled. Not seen. Not hyped. Just efficient.

But freelance writing? It’s a hamster wheel. Budgets are shrinking. Editors are asked to wear ten hats for the price of one. And freelancers like me? We carry all the risk and none of the security. No health benefits. No paid time off. No tech stipend or institutional backing. Sometimes it takes several months for a solitary payment to trickle through! It’s a raw deal, and we rarely say it out loud.

That is why relationships matter. It is not just about networking - but building a relationship out of a shared respect for each other. And yet, when I chose to share my vulnerabilities with one editor because I valued our relationship - and they did not acknowledge it, that feeling of loss visits me when I watch a simmering pot. And then I am reminded of another, who never even let our relationship even develop….

A little more than a year ago, I met a senior food editor from a glossy publication—yes, one of those publications—through a mutual connection. I followed them online out of curiosity. Not long after, someone mysteriously gifted me a subscription to their magazine. The content? Not particularly memorable.

One day, an alert for the word “spices” led me to their content and in the visuals was a single jar labeled “curry powder.”

You can imagine how that landed.

Spices are my craft. My heritage. My work. I saw a chance to open a conversation. Privately, I commented, sharing that I trusted that they had more than one kind. That was met with nothing... Then, I offered to send them a copy of my book Masaleydaar, which showcases the nuances of Indian spice blends—none of which, I should add, are “curry powder.” I offered to include samples from my (Orange County registered- aka legit) Cottage Food Industry kitchen. A generous gesture? I did not expect anything in return.

Their response? “Oh don’t you worry, I have some excellent garam masala from ___ Brand.”

Dismissive. Possibly defensive. Maybe I wasn't frilly enough with my praise of their platform. I am certain they are approached by spice companies all the time. But the tone caught me off guard. I let the conversation end there. I closed the tab. Shook my head.

Because here’s the truth: if you can wax poetic about heirloom corn milled on volcanic stones, or some rare spirit aged in micro-lot barrels in a remote hillside town—and still reduce entire cultures to “curry powder”—what are you really curating for your readers? And to dismiss someone entirely - hmm. That makes me sad.

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When editorial decisions are governed more by ad revenue & market testing than by curiosity, authenticity or truth, we lose something vital. The kitchen is where we experiment & explore. Food is personal. Our response to it is personal. It is a portal to intimacy, to memory, to discovery—and the job of a writer, or an editor, or a curator, is to preserve that sense of awe. They can choose to economize ingredients, but must never become so emboldened to economize identity.

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I write because I believe in that kind of storytelling - one that is deeply personal, but also open to welcome more into the circle of love and abundance, at my table, in my home and kitchen. It celebrates who we are as individuals and as communities. Since I believe in nuance and the personal experiences we bring to a table, I am convinced that everyone deserves more than a singular jar.

I'm not asking more of anyone - but holding myself to a higher standard.

That is why I wrote Masaleydaar: Classic Indian Spice Blends.

And I hope, that it is why Masaleydaar is receiving a ‘Gourmand World Cookbook Special Award>Asia’ next week.

The Gourmand Seal

Thanks to all those who have shared my love of Indian flavors, and walked these lonely indie publishing paths with me - making me feel less alone. Some folks aren't there to see my tears of joy or gratitude anymore, but I hope they are feasting with the angels.

Who I miss most? My late father who would be just as delighted with a portion of doodh-bhakri, a pithla bhaat, as he would be devouring the burnt bits from a pot of forgotten khitchdi, or nurse a peg of whiskey-soda.

Send blessings until we meet. And when we do, then we shall raise a toast.

A page from the schedule