They say every chef has a first memory of food. Mine wasn’t a Michelin plate. It was my grandmother’s daal, slow-cooked over a coal stove in Ludhiana, spiced with patience and stories. No foam. No truffle oil. Just turmeric and time. Just her hands, golden with haldi, feeding a boy who didn’t know he’d one day swap a tech startup for a spice box.

I came to Toronto looking for something—I didn’t know it was home. And I didn’t know my home would be a kitchen.

Why This Substack?

Because food is more than recipes. It’s memory, identity, defiance. It’s how immigrants survive, how grandmothers pass down power, how strangers become guests, and guests become family.

I’m not here to teach you how to make butter chicken—though I will. I’m here to tell you why the butter matters. Why the chicken needs to rest. Why I call my spice box a time machine.

What to Expect Here:

Stories from my journey: from venture capitalist to vindaloo whisperer

Recipes that taste like love letters

Behind-the-scenes of my Toronto pop-ups

Philosophy served medium rare

Interviews with other brown chefs breaking boundaries

Today’s Thought from the Kitchen:

"Cooking isn’t performance. It’s prayer." Every time I touch cumin, I’m remembering a language I never learned to speak fluently. But I can taste it. Smell it. Share it. And so can you.

If you’ve ever cried into your chai, recreated your mom’s food in a downtown apartment, or just believe food can heal— Welcome to my kitchen.

Let’s cook. Let’s cry. Let’s eat. Source From- https://shorturl.at/HN2YU