Started browsing through the farmer's market just as the morning light hit the wooden crates. Noticed cardamom pods tucked between the usual spices—green ones, not the common black. Their papery shells caught the sun, almost translucent. Picked up a few and caught that eucalyptus-like sweetness even before opening them.

Back home, I decided to make chai the way my neighbor used to, years ago. She'd crush the pods with the flat of a knife, never a grinder. I tried it. The aroma bloomed instantly—camphor, citrus, something floral I can't quite name. Added black tea, milk, a little jaggery. Let it simmer. The kitchen filled with that warm, woody scent that always reminds me of her tiny apartment, the blue ceramic mugs she'd use, the way she'd insist on a second cup.

First sip: sweet but not cloying, the cardamom sitting right at the back of the tongue. It's sharper when fresh. The aftertaste lingered—almost minty, cooling even though the tea was hot. I'd forgotten how much texture matters. The crushed pods left tiny flecks in the cup, a little gritty if you didn't strain it well. I didn't mind.

Tried the same recipe again in the afternoon, but this time I toasted the pods in a dry pan for thirty seconds. Mistake. They went bitter, almost acrid. The chai tasted medicinal, like I'd brewed it in a pharmacy. Learned something: heat releases oils fast. Too much, and you lose the sweetness. Back to the knife method tomorrow.

Saved the leftover pods in a glass jar. They're still fragrant. I'll probably toss a few into rice next time, see what happens. My neighbor used to do that too—cardamom rice with a pinch of salt, nothing else. Simple, but the smell stayed in the pot for days.

It's funny how a small green pod can pull you back to a specific moment. Not the whole memory, just the edges—her laugh, the clink of spoons, the way she'd always say, "More sugar, less worry." I don't think I believed her then. Maybe I do now.

#food #chai #cardamom #cooking #memory