When one considers the typical litany of winter spices, memories of certain flavors immediately engage the senses. The fragrant tang of cinnamon, the simmered heat of crushed red pepper, and the muskiness of cloves all share the warming comfort necessitated when temperatures dip below freezing. Until recently, however, that same immediate attention and consideration had not been accorded to cardamom. While allspice berries and whole cinnamon sticks have long since become mundane on grocery store spice racks, cardamom, at least within the United States, is still frequently associated with an inexperienced notion of exoticism.

As a spice, cardamom resists easy categorization. It’s used across the globe, from the ice-slicked Scandinavian nations to the fiery stretch of countries in the Maghreb. It transfers elegantly from savory stews and spicy curries to airy baked goods and sweet, milky desserts. The fundamentals of its taste are complicated by its three very different varieties. The most common type of the spice, green cardamom, carries a thread of intensity and bite that belies its initial sultry sweetness. White cardamom, meanwhile, is milder and aromatically honeyed. Charcoal-black cardamom is almost absurdly smoky and aggressive in its taste.

In order to understand cardamom and use it successfully, think of it as the rebellious older brother of cloves, nutmeg with a sassy split personality, or cinnamon with a savory kick (and perhaps a rap sheet). Cardamom is a sly charmer—its seemingly familiar scent lures you in until its muscles flex and you become suddenly aware of its lurking strength. A little bit of the spice will go a long way—less than a teaspoon can still produce an overwhelming flavor, especially in sweet dishes.

For my first foray into cardamom-laced cuisine, I decided to gastronomically visit the place where the spice is most ubiquitous: South Asia. In both India and Pakistan, it’s used in curries, rice puddings, and beverages. Members of the older generation even carry satchels of the spice around with them, chewing on the pods to freshen their breath. On a quotidian level, cardamom pops up most commonly in chai, the spice-laden, milky tea.

The traditional chai bears little resemblance to the insipid, powdered mixes bought at the grocery store. It takes time to prepare and is always made over the stove. In a large pot, water is boiled with ginger and crushed cardamom pods before the loose black tea leaves are added. The tea steeps for several minutes and then is blended with whole milk and honey, although the latter isn’t a necessity. Chai is versatile with the spices it incorporates—it has been known to include cinnamon, pepper, and allspice—but cardamom is the essential spice that both complements and foils the tea’s natural bitterness. In the end, my steaming cup of chai is exactly what I had hoped for: smooth, moderately sweet, and beautifully aromatic.

In the company of other spices, cardamom flourishes as an integral part of the flavor harmony. I was curious, however, to see how the sometimes-brash spice would function as the centerpiece of a baked good. It was off to Scandinavia for me.

Cardamom makes a grand appearance in pulla, a traditional Finnish bread. Pulla is soft and braided, somewhat like challah, but the mixture of sugar, cardamom, and golden raisins within its folds makes it more complex and full-bodied. It took roughly six hours to make—mixing, kneading, rising, punching, rolling, braiding. The only thing better than the feeling of having your hands sunken into warm dough is that lovely, distinct cardamom smell that washes over the kitchen as pulla bakes. It was delicious, and I devoured it with an accompanying cup of chai.

For my last rendezvous with the spice, I decided to try cardamom in a savory dish and found a recipe with echoes of Middle Eastern and North African cuisine: spiced lamb with mint pesto. The cardamom here is not part of the sauce, but is actually incorporated into the spice rub that is spread on the lamb before it is broiled or grilled. Roughly ground cardamom seeds (I recommend a mortar and pestle) are mixed with salt and pepper before the slathering begins. The light, vinegary pesto sauce is given that essential depth by the cardamom, and the unexpected combination of all the flavors in the end produces something marvelously complex.

Instead of being feared for its many characteristics and persistently tricky persona, cardamom should be praised for its versatility and its global use. Those little pods harbor one of the most stunning flavors in the entire world of spice, primed for experimentation.