Company Mashed Carrots

Spring. The garden needs planting. The tomatoes need seeds. The basil needs a pot. The life outside Cedarhurst needs attending, and the attending is the other half of the equation: one half is visiting Marvin, and the other half is being Ruth, and being Ruth requires more than the visiting, requires the writing and the cooking and the grandchildren and the garden and the whatever-else that fills the hours between two o'clock and midnight, which are the Marvin-less hours, the hours when the house is quiet and the kitchen is mine and the pen is in my hand and the journal is on the table.

I planted the tomatoes on Saturday — the same varieties, the same patch of dirt, the same ritual of kneeling in the soil and pressing the seeds into the earth and talking to them and telling them they're going to be wonderful. The talking is different now — the talking used to be supplementary, a side conversation with the plants while the main conversation happened with Marvin inside the house. Now the talking to the plants is the main conversation, because there is no one inside the house, and the plants are the only living things I speak to between two o'clock and seven in the morning, not counting the cat from next door who visits the garden uninvited and whom I have named Fitzgerald, because he is beautiful and unreliable and he shows up when he wants, which is very Gatsby of him.

I made a spring pea soup — fresh peas, shallots, mint, a touch of cream, blended until smooth, served cold. The soup was green and bright and tasted like the season that is coming, the season of growth and warmth and the long evenings on the porch where I now sit alone, in my chair, without Marvin in his chair, because his chair is in Cedarhurst and my chair is on the porch and the two chairs are in different buildings and the distance between them is ten miles and also infinite.

After I came in from kneeling in the garden Saturday — hands in the dirt, talking to the tomato seeds, Fitzgerald the cat watching from the fence with the detached amusement of someone who has never once had to plant anything — I wanted to make something else that was orange and alive and tasted like the earth had opinions. The soup was already done and cooling in the refrigerator, but I still had carrots on the counter, and carrots have always seemed to me like the vegetable equivalent of getting up in the morning: unglamorous, reliable, quietly essential. So I made these mashed carrots, which are simple enough to make alone and good enough to have served to company, back when there was company.

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 25 minutes | Total Time: 35 minutes | Servings: 6

Ingredients

2 pounds carrots, peeled and sliced into 1/2-inch rounds
3 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 tablespoons sour cream or cream cheese
1 tablespoon brown sugar or honey
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
Salt and white pepper, to taste
Fresh parsley or chives, for garnish (optional)

Instructions

Boil the carrots. Place the sliced carrots in a medium saucepan and cover with cold salted water. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat, then reduce to a steady simmer. Cook for 20–25 minutes, until the carrots are completely tender and yield easily to a fork.
Drain and dry. Drain the carrots thoroughly in a colander, then return them to the warm saucepan for 1–2 minutes over low heat to evaporate any remaining moisture. This keeps the mash from turning watery.
Mash and season. Add the butter, sour cream or cream cheese, brown sugar or honey, ginger, and nutmeg. Mash with a potato masher or hand mixer until smooth and creamy, or leave slightly textured if you prefer. Taste and season with salt and white pepper.
Finish and serve. Transfer to a warm serving dish. Garnish with fresh parsley or chives if desired. Serve immediately alongside roasted chicken, pork, or on their own as a quiet, satisfying supper.

Nutrition (per serving)

Company Mashed Carrots — The Garden Still Grows, Even When You’re Tending It Alone