Creamed Potatoes

New Year's Eve, and the Hoppin' John simmers. Carrie is in the kitchen with me — the last evening before she returns to Fukuoka — and we cook the peas together, the two of us at the stove, mother and daughter, the same stove, the same peas, the same tradition that has been cooked in this kitchen for twenty-six years and that Carrie will someday cook in her own kitchen, wherever that kitchen is.

2023 is ending. The year Mama died. The year the cookbook was published. The year the guest bedroom door opened. The year I decided to retire. The year the blessing became mine. The year that was both the worst and the best of my life, and the worst and the best are not contradictory. They are complementary. They are the two halves of a year that broke me and made me, and the breaking and the making are the same thing, the way grief and love are the same thing, the way the ending and the beginning are the same thing.

Robert and I toasted at midnight on the piazza. Carrie joined us — the first midnight toast for three. We drank champagne and watched the fireworks and I thought about Mama and I did not cry. The not-crying was the milestone. The not-crying was the year's gift. And the gift was the peace — not the absence of grief but the presence of something larger, something that holds the grief inside it the way a bowl holds the soup: the grief is there, but the bowl is bigger.

I made Hoppin' John. Carrie helped. The peas promised continuity. The continuity was delivered. And the delivering was the year — the terrible, beautiful, grief-filled, book-filled, blessed year — ending, as it should, at the stove.

The Hoppin’ John was always the centerpiece — the black-eyed peas, the tradition, the promise — but every year, these creamed potatoes are the thing that fills the spaces between. Rich and unhurried, cooked low on the same stove where Carrie and I stood shoulder to shoulder that last evening, they are the kind of food that asks nothing of you except that you stay close and stir. That night, with the year’s weight still warm in my chest, I needed something that gave back in equal measure — and creamed potatoes, simple as they are, never fail to do exactly that.

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

Ingredients

2 1/2 pounds Yukon Gold potatoes, peeled and cut into 1-inch chunks
4 tablespoons unsalted butter
3/4 cup heavy cream, warmed
1/2 cup whole milk, warmed
1 teaspoon kosher salt, plus more to taste
1/2 teaspoon white pepper
1/4 teaspoon garlic powder
2 tablespoons fresh chives, thinly sliced (optional, for garnish)

Instructions

Boil the potatoes. Place the potato chunks in a large pot and cover with cold, salted water by at least one inch. Bring to a boil over high heat, then reduce to a steady simmer. Cook until the potatoes are completely tender and yield easily to a fork, about 18–20 minutes. Drain thoroughly and return to the pot.
Dry the potatoes. Set the pot with the drained potatoes over low heat for 1–2 minutes, shaking gently, to allow any remaining moisture to steam off. This step keeps the finished dish from becoming watery.
Cream the potatoes. Add the butter to the warm potatoes and mash with a potato masher or pass through a ricer for a smoother texture. Slowly stream in the warmed heavy cream and milk, stirring gently between additions, until you reach your preferred consistency — creamy and loose, but still with a little body.
Season and finish. Stir in the salt, white pepper, and garlic powder. Taste and adjust seasoning as needed. Transfer to a warm serving bowl and top with chives if using.
Serve immediately. Creamed potatoes are best served right away, straight from the stove, while they are at their silkiest. If holding, keep covered over the lowest possible heat and stir in a splash of warm milk before serving.

Nutrition (per serving)

Creamed Potatoes — The Stove That Holds Everything