From Multani Mango Orchards to Kashmiri Chillies

The biggest disconnect is that we celebrate what reaches the table, but often forget where it began. Food culture is very good at celebrating chefs, restaurants and presentation, yet farming is often treated as a background story rather than the foundation. Growing up in a farming family taught me that every harvest is shaped by so many forces beyond our control: weather, water, markets and time. There is also a deeper economic reality that people don't always see. If a crop from a particular region stops being valued, loses popularity, or is replaced by something considered more "trendy", the impact isn't just on the crop; it can affect entire farming communities whose livelihoods depend on that land and knowledge. A chef may spend hours developing a recipe, but a farmer has spent months, sometimes generations, developing the relationship with the land that allows that ingredient to exist. For me, cooking has always started before the kitchen. It starts in the field.

We often romanticise the beauty of farming without seeing the uncertainty behind it. Mango season is remembered through family gatherings, overflowing boxes and nostalgia, but for farming families it also means watching the skies, managing crops, dealing with changing climates and hoping that months of work are valued fairly. Sometimes due to bad weather patterns, mango farmers make ½ of what they make in a good season. The same applies to condiments and "food from home". We celebrate the recipe, but sometimes forget the agricultural knowledge behind it. The story isn't only in how something is made, but in everything that happened before it reached the kitchen.

Place names carry history. They also carry a spotlight (if used correctly).When we talk about a Multani mango, Lahori tamarind or Kashmiri chilli, we are talking about landscapes, communities and generations of expertise. These names should never become just a marketing label detached from the people and places that created them. While developing one of my own condiment recipes, I noticed many products across the UK using the word "Kashmiri", yet there was often no connection back to Kashmir itself. The place had become associated with a flavour, but the story behind it was missing.When choosing ingredients for my recipe, I deliberately selected Kashmiri chilli rather than varieties from elsewhere in Pakistan because I wanted to bring attention back to the region. The recipe is my own creation, but the ingredient carries its own identity. From the artwork on the label to the final jar, I wanted to create a product that encouraged people to think about provenance, not just taste. I wanted them to think about Kashmir. 

By allowing culture to move forward. Sometimes diaspora conversations can unintentionally freeze food in the past, as though traditions stopped evolving when people left. But the communities who grow and make these foods are still adapting every season. Celebrating food from home should not only be about remembering what was. It should also be about recognising what is still being created today and supporting the people keeping those traditions alive.

I wish people could see the moment an ingredient is harvested.There is something incredibly powerful about seeing the care involved in picking fruit, sorting produce and making decisions based on years of experience. It reminds you that food isn't simply grown and delivered; it is guided by knowledge.That changes the way you see what is on your plate. A condiment is no longer just a jar; it becomes the meeting point between land, people and craft.

We have a responsibility to pay attention.

Every ingredient has a journey before it reaches us, involving people, environments and systems we often never see. That means asking better questions: where did this come from, who produced it, and what impact does our consumption have? Food connects us to places far beyond our own kitchens.

Recognising that connection is the first step towards valuing the people and landscapes that sustain us.