The first snowfall in Canada is magical—soft white flakes drifting down like a dream. But for me, that magic faded quickly when the biting cold seeped into my bones. I had spent my entire life basking in the warmth of Indian summers, where the sun kisses your skin, and the air is filled with the aroma of street-side chaats and sizzling parathas. Moving to Canada as an immigrant was a dream come true, but I had never imagined how much I would miss the feeling of home, especially during my first winter in Canada.
Winter in India is a season of comfort, of gathering around the heater with eating hot gajar ka halwa or sipping a cup of adrak wali chai. But in Canada, winter was something else entirely. It wasn’t just cold—it was isolating. The streets were eerily silent under layers of snow, the air smelled unfamiliar, and the people were hidden behind thick coats and hurried footsteps. I missed the warmth of home, not just the temperature but the warmth of people, laughter, and food that tasted like childhood.
And so, I turned to my kitchen. If I couldn’t be in Delhi, I could bring Delhi to me. Being in love with food cooking had always been a part of my life, but in Canada, it became my therapy. The moment I rolled out the dough for fresh rotis, I felt a piece of home return. The first time I made sarson da saag with makki di roti, the aroma filled my apartment, replacing the cold air outside with memories of family dinners. I found comfort in the crackling of jeera in hot ghee, the sizzle of tadka hitting dal, and the sight of butter melting over a steaming plate of rajma chawal.
As I explored the diverse food culture of Canada, I found ways to fuse my Punjabi roots with my new home. The first time I bit into a Caribbean doubles, it tasted oddly familiar. The soft fried bread, the spicy chickpea filling—it reminded me of my childhood favorite, chole bhature. It was as if two immigrant cultures had unknowingly met in a dish, creating something that felt like an embrace. That moment, I realized food had the power to bridge worlds. Soon, I found myself experimenting—making butter chicken poutine, stuffing parathas with cheddar and jalapeños, and even turning aloo tikki into burger patties.
Every meal I cooked wasn’t just food; it was a thread tying me to my roots while helping me weave new ones. Cooking wasn’t just about survival; it was about belonging. It was in those late-night chai sessions with new friends, sharing a bowl of maggi while snow fell outside, and introducing my colleagues to the magic of homemade chai that I found warmth in a foreign land.
Winter in Canada will always be cold, but my kitchen will always be warm. And as I stand by the stove, stirring a pot of simmering dal, I know I am home—not just in a place, but in every bite, every spice, and every memory that fills my plate.