Imagine eating the same few dishes on repeat in a country as richly blessed with produce, diversity and culinary traditions as ours. For someone like me—who finds joy in the kitchen and considers the quiet acts of chopping, marinating, stirring and tempering to be as close to therapy as one can get—the idea feels almost sacrilegious.
It’s no surprise then that I’m always looking for new recipes, techniques and regional insights to inspire my time in the kitchen. The simplest and most rewarding way has been to turn to family. I often ask those closest to me how they cook a particular vegetable or dal, and in doing so, I uncover not just recipes, but stories—how they learnt it, who they learnt it from, and what memories are attached to that dish. It becomes an act of documenting the way my family eats, one anecdote at a time.
Then there are friends and neighbours—many of whom trace their roots to different parts of India—offering new perspectives on familiar ingredients. The way the same gourd or green chilli is treated in a Rajasthani kitchen can be wildly different from how it's used in, say, Tamil Nadu. These everyday exchanges are both deeply intimate and wonderfully expansive.
Lately though, I’ve found joy in another format entirely: cookbook clubs.
I recently joined a pan-India cookbook club started by Mumbai-based Rhea Mitra Dalal, co-founder of Gyaan Factory—the platform behind the much-loved Studying Food Workshop, led by anthropologist and historian Dr Kurush Dalal and a team of experts. The only requirement to join the club is to have attended the workshop and to be willing to cook from a selected cookbook each month, in one’s own time.
Formed in June, the group already has close to 60 members from across the country—and even a few outside it. The camaraderie is genuine: members share photos, tips and triumphs as they cook their way through the chosen book.
This month’s pick is Culinary Treasures of Marathwada by Mai Deshpande—a cookbook that celebrates the recipes and culinary intuition of rural and semi-urban women from the region. The recipes, written in English by her daughter-in-law Nandini, offer an authentic glimpse into the meals of a typical Marathi household in Marathwada. The region, once part of the Nizam’s dominion, evolved a distinct food culture shaped by scarcity, climate, and a lack of external influence. It’s a cuisine born out of resourcefulness—subtle, spiced just right, and deeply nourishing.
From the book, I cooked a sweet-sour toorichya dalchi aamti, bharleli bhendi (stuffed okra), and a punchy hirvyaa mirchyancha thecha served with steamed rice. Each dish was deeply satisfying—and I’ve already bookmarked several more for the weeks to come.
In Delhi, food writer and Chef Ruchira Hoon started The Cereal Killer Cookbook Club in October 2018. Seven years on, it’s still going strong. “I started the club because of my love for cookbooks and making meals from them,” she told me. “One day I posed a question on Facebook, asking if anyone would be interested—and to my surprise, many people were.”
The idea was to encourage the habit of not just owning cookbooks, but reading and cooking from them with intention. Members discuss ingredient substitutions, culinary histories, etymologies—and yes, the stories behind the dishes. The club includes books by Indian and international authors alike. “During Covid, we spoke to Palestinian-British chef and author Sami Tamimi, who was thrilled that we were using his book to recreate dishes. That interaction was incredibly special—and helped build a relationship,” Hoon said.
What these clubs offer, beyond recipes and regional know-how, is community. A gathering of like-minded people who love food and the act of feeding others. “I truly believe that people who love to cook and feed are the best kind of people,” Hoon added. “They’re the ones I’m drawn to—and the ones I want to share knowledge with.”
For someone who’s always found comfort in the kitchen, this new circle of cooks, books and shared stories feels like home.