Every festival has its hero dishes—the ones we crave all year, the ones we steal from the kitchen before they’re officially served. But lurking alongside those beloved bites are the other ones. The dense, the dry, the questionably sweet, the oddly medicinal. The ones made in large quantities “because it’s tradition.” The ones we eat with forced smiles, exaggerated nods, and a well-practiced “Mmm.” Yes, this one’s for the festival foods we only pretend to like.
You know the ones. That grainy halwa made with too much jaggery and not enough ghee. The laddoos that double as hand weights. The seviyan so overboiled it could be applied directly to the wall as plaster. These are not bad dishes, exactly. They just exist in that awkward space between reverence and reluctance. They show up on banana leaves and silver thalis, draped in nostalgia and the weight of expectation. And so, year after year, we eat them. With devotion. And denial.
“But It’s for the Gods!”
Some foods get a free pass because they’re sacred. “You can’t dislike this—it’s prasadam!” And that’s fair. No one’s saying no to a spoon of warm, temple-style pongal or the first bite of payasam. But let’s be honest: that dried fruit-studded kheer that tastes like sweet porridge? Or the crunchy mixture that tastes like someone dropped a masala box into a deep fryer? These are festival dishes we don’t love—we just respect them.
And respect, of course, means nodding politely as a well-meaning aunt scoops more onto your plate. You can’t say no. You don’t want to hurt feelings. So you smile. You chew. You chase it quickly with water or pickle or prayer. And then you ask if there’s more of the other stuff—the one everyone actually wants.
The Ones That Overstay Their Welcome
Some foods are fine in theory. Like that one sweet made of ground seeds and medicinal herbs, given in the name of “health.” You take one bite and suddenly remember you’re not sick. Or the slightly bitter chutney meant to cleanse your system—useful, yes, but not quite what your taste buds signed up for after a week of ghee-laced indulgence.
And let’s not even talk about leftovers. Festival dishes that were tolerable on Day One become endurance tests on Day Three. The dry mithai that’s now drier. The savory snacks that taste like expired tradition. Still, we eat. Because “Itna banaya hai, waste thodi karenge.” And also, because no one wants to be the person who openly admits they just don’t like it.
Performing Nostalgia
We pretend to like these foods not out of hypocrisy—but out of love. Out of ritual. Out of the desire to keep something alive. We remember our grandparents making it. We remember childhood pujas where this very dish was served, and somehow, over time, our affection for the memory overtook our opinion of the food. So we serve it. We cook it. We even insist on it. And when someone new says, “It’s okay, I guess,” we recoil—not because they’re wrong, but because they’ve said the thing we weren’t ready to admit out loud.
It’s Okay to Not Love Everything
Festival food is about celebration, community, and comfort. But that doesn’t mean we have to love every item on the thali with equal fervor. It’s okay to quietly set aside the overly syrupy jalebi and go in for seconds of the flaky, cardamom-kissed gujiya. It’s okay to praise the pickle more than the main course. And it’s definitely okay to admit that some things are best appreciated for what they represent, not what they taste like.
Because sometimes, the dish isn’t the point. The point is sitting together. Wearing too-tight clothes. Laughing over overcooked rice. And pretending, just for a little while, that this laddoo is the best thing you’ve ever eaten.
Born in Mumbai, now stir-frying feelings in Texas. Writes about food, memory, and the messy magic in between — mostly to stay hungry, sometimes just to stay sane.
Born in Mumbai, now stir-frying feelings in Texas. Writes about food, memory, and the messy magic in between — mostly to stay hungry, sometimes just to stay sane.
