A season written in peas

I laughed when I saw that meme about peas turning up in everything the moment winter arrives. It was meant to mock, but it felt like a gentle truth. For someone who genuinely loves peas, this is the season I wait for all year, when the markets glow with mounds of fresh green pods and every kitchen seems to hum with the promise of sweetness.

I admit I am guilty of adding them to almost everything I cook. Gajar matar where the peas burst softly against the earthiness of carrots. Matar ka paratha, flecked generously so that every bite carries that mild, grassy sweetness. Aloo matar made with the new potato crop, tender and naturally sweet, the peas slipping into the gravy as if they belong there. Matar paneer, matar pulao and countless everyday meals where peas feel less like an addition and more like a quiet essential. This is the food I grew up with, the flavours that announce Delhi winters in the most familiar way.

Marriage, though, opened up another world of peas for me. In my Punjabi-Bengali home, matar becomes koraishuti, and suddenly it finds new expressions, each one more delightful than the last. There are koraishutir kochuris, puffed and golden, breaking open to reveal a fragrant green filling, eaten alongside notun alu’r dom still carrying the sweetness of new potatoes. There are crisp matar singhadas, hearty bowls of matar ghugni, and so many small seasonal dishes where koraishuti takes centre stage without fuss or flourish.

What I love most is how this humble ingredient adapts and shines, crossing kitchens and traditions with ease. From my childhood plates to my married life, peas have quietly stitched these worlds together. Every winter, with each pod shelled and each dish cooked, they remind me that some joys are simple, seasonal and deeply personal, and that comfort often arrives in the most unassuming shade of green.

How is winter claimed by the peas?

Recently I learnt how to make the perfect cheere bhaja from my husband. It is, at its heart, a kind of chivda, slowly cooked until crisp, but what makes it special is the patience it demands. Thinly sliced onions and green chillies are left to soften and caramelise gently in pungent mustard oil, their sharpness mellowing with time. A careful pinch of sugar and salt brings everything into balance. The result is deceptively simple and deeply flavourful, the sort of dish that relies more on instinct than instruction.

I like to pair it with a straightforward sookha jeera matar, nothing elaborate, just peas warmed through with cumin until they release their sweetness. Together, the two come remarkably close to the chuda matar that is so beloved in Uttar Pradesh and Bihar. When I make it, I am guided as much by memory as by method, by the lingering flavours I recall from breakfasts eaten long ago at a family friend’s home. A small bowl, a spoon, and a quiet sense of comfort.

In many homes across eastern Uttar Pradesh and Bihar, this combination has long been part of the morning routine. It carries with it the layered histories of movement and settlement. Traders and pilgrims from Maharashtra and Gujarat who travelled to Varanasi brought with them the habit of cooking flattened rice, along with the flavours of their own kitchens. Over time, these influences settled into the local palate, becoming something familiar and rooted.

You will often spot small carts selling this outside offices and colleges in Delhi too, steam rising gently from wide pans as morning traffic rushes past. For many, it has become a quiet staple between meetings and lectures. “It is delicious and also a healthy alternative compared to a lot of deep fried food that we find readily available during chai breaks in office,” shares Aradhna Singh, who works at a media house in Delhi’s New Friend Colony area. She laughs as she recalls how delighted she was to discover this familiar comfort on a Delhi street corner, a dish that once belonged only to mornings back home in Bihar, now waiting for her just outside her workplace.