“Idli are the most boring things in the world,” tweeted Edward Anderson, a UK professor of history and expert in India-Britain studies. All hell broke loose. Anderson was schooled by angry Indians on Twitter over his blasphemous opinion – even Shashi Tharoor got involved.

The mythology of food in India is storied and the best fables revolve around pregnancy. Twins, some believe, are the result of eating twin bananas – fruit that has the power to impregnate a man.

My mother has published a cookbook; my aunt has made meticulous recipe cards with the fond intention of passing them down to the next generation. And yet, an appeal to either one for how to make a favourite dish turns into an hour spent deciphering how much “about a handful” is, or when a dish “smells of dum”.

Settle down in front of your TV with these piping hot dal baras as, you watch the battle for Chhattisgarh unfold. #ChhattisgarhElections2018

Food and sex go hand in hand. Making love on an empty stomach is like crossing the desert barefoot: You wouldn’t want to do it unless absolutely necessary. What we eat says a lot about who we are. Pick a five-course meal and we’ll tell you your favourite sexual position.

My mum and I are locked in an endless deathmatch: She’ll continue to ask me what I want for the next meal, before rejecting my suggestion outright, accusing me of making “kingly demands”, and serving us lauki for dinner anyway.

The humble varan bhaat toop is as versatile and ubiquitous as Radhika Apte’s appearances on Netflix. Sometimes it is plain simple comfort food, at other times it’s part of an elaborate offering to Bappa. A love for varan bhaat toop is the epitome of Maharashtrian-ness.

Ask any TamBrahm, and they would swear by their kula deivam (family God) that not wrapping up a meal with thayir-sadam (curd rice) and some lemon pickle is enough to get you ostracised.

As a child growing up in Calcutta, we were raised to believe that if the mango was the king of all fruits, the Himsagar was the emperor. It is all about swag, style, and a symbol of Bengali pride. When I moved to Mumbai, I approached the Alphonso with all the cynicism of a Bengali. And then I was smitten by its fragrance.

Being vegetarian has never been an option in my household. But when my newly vegetarian friend asked how I could be a “woke” animal lover and still eat meat, I didn’t have an answer. The worst part? The judgment from my parents – my mutton-kebab-eating parents.

In India, poverty isn’t just a state of mind, and paisa-vasooli is a way of life. Yet, people buy an extra birthday cake, just to smash it gleefully in some unfortunate soul’s face. What gives?

On Durga Pujo, the lives of the big-eyed, gentle-faced, and maach-guzzling Bengalis are marred by a potent shadow of the world’s most deadly dose of ABC – ambol (acidity), bodhojom (indigestion), and constipation.

Gujaratis inherit a penchant for "food terrorism". There were Gujarati kids at school who wouldn’t drink “jhoota” water in case it had been touched by a meat eater. And there was my grandmother who’d remind me that I was Jain every time I’d go for an evening snack.

Just like there’s a Hallmark card for every occasion, there’s a specific type of whisky uncle you encounter in different situations.

My grandmother often bursts into tears at her inability to cook any more. I want to tell her that it’s all the memories that go into making food, which make it taste better.

Last month, when Alps, a four-decade-old beer bar at Colaba, shut down unannounced, no one seemed to instantly notice. It didn’t warrant blockbuster social media obituaries like Cafe Zoe did. That’s the thing about Alps, it never hankered for attention or loyalty. It just waited until it earned it.

Dear jackfruit, you are about to replace moringa as the next best thing to have happened to the white gut. The Brits have branded you a “vegan sensation”. Be prepared to be passed off as a burger patty, meatballs, or a crab cake.

Make these authentic east-Indian coconut stuffed pancakes for the perfect Sunday teatime treat.

What is this food elitism that labels salad-eaters, vegetarians, and gluten-abandoners as perennially uncool? Is it because we can’t go Bourdain-like into the world and nonchalantly eat our way through it even as our digestive systems break down in front of us?

Maharashtrian cuisine is endlessly diverse. Puneri cuisine is very different from food from Konkan, Vidarbha, or Kolhapur. Within these cuisines, lie the differences of caste and class. But the problem with Sachin Kundalkar’s Gulabjaam is that it doesn’t acknowledge any of this.

West Bengal, you made the battle for a GI tag for the rosogolla, an ego tussle didn’t you? Surely you could have left this one dish for Odisha.

Gatari, the last day before the holy month of Shravan begins, is a day of indulgence. Eat meat and drink until you pass out in the gutter. That’s the mantra in Mumbai’s Maharashtrian pockets.

The idea of eating lamb testicles is enough to throw you into a moral and gastric conundrum. But not eating certain parts of animals leads to wastage of food on a scale you can’t imagine.

My addiction to Pulse candy started as a post-lunch fix. But before I knew it, I was rationalising it as my post-dinner, then post-smoke, post-work, and pre-work fix.

A few elements are essential to a hipster establishment. A penny-farthing on the wall, exposed brickwork and vents, and the words “deconstructed” and “single-origin” on the menu.

A drink as sassy as Sasikala to ease her nerves in prison.

The perfect recipe to soothe your soul.

I detest brinjals. It’s slimy and does not have the courtesy to leave you with a respectable aftertaste.

Is it okay to eat a cow that wants to be eaten?

A shy woman from Uttar Pradesh is keeping alive the secrets of the nawabi kitchens from the 1700s.