Instant Pot Split Pea Soup

End of the school year is chaos in a house with two educators and three kids. Danielle is grading final assessments and packing up her classroom. Luc is finishing fifth grade and trying to convince me that his grades entitle him to a new video game, which — no. Colette had a dance recital on Thursday in which she performed a routine that was technically hip-hop but was, in my unbiased opinion, the greatest athletic achievement in human history. Rémy had "graduation" from pre-K, which involved tiny caps and a song about butterflies and fifteen parents crying, and I was one of them, and I am not ashamed.

The pit progressed. I got two more courses of bricks laid this weekend — the walls are about eight inches high now, which means I can see the shape of the thing. Pierre came by on Saturday to look at it and said four words: "Not bad. Needs mortar." Which from Pierre is practically a TED Talk. He's going to weld the grate for me next weekend at his shop in Port Allen. I told him the dimensions and he wrote them on his hand with a Sharpie, which is Pierre's filing system and has been since he was twelve.

Something happened this week that I want to talk about, because it's the kind of thing that sits in your chest and doesn't leave. I was driving home from a job in Prairieville on Wednesday evening, taking the River Road because I like the view and because it adds fifteen minutes to the drive and sometimes fifteen extra minutes of quiet is the most valuable thing in the world. I passed a fishing camp on the river — just a shack, really, built on stilts, with a dock and a flat-bottom boat — and I had to pull over because for about thirty seconds I thought it was Joey's camp. It wasn't. Joey's camp was in Cocodrie, sixty miles south, and it's been gone since Gustav in 2008. But the shape of the roof and the way the boat sat in the water hit me like a two-by-four, and I sat on the side of River Road for ten minutes with the truck running and my hands on the steering wheel, just breathing.

Grief does that. It hides in the ordinary. It's not the anniversaries that get you — you can prepare for those, armor up, make gumbo, surround yourself with family. It's the fishing camp you didn't expect. It's the smell of diesel at the gas station. It's a roux that turns the exact shade of chocolate at the exact same speed Joey's used to, and suddenly you're not stirring a roux, you're standing next to your daddy at age eight, learning the thing he taught you that you're now teaching your sons, and the gap between then and now collapses like a levee you thought would hold.

I went home and made gumbo. Not because we needed gumbo — it was eighty-five degrees and gumbo is technically a cold-weather dish — but because gumbo is what I make when the world gets unsteady. A dark roux, forty-five minutes of stirring, the trinity going in with that hiss and sizzle, the stock, the andouille, the okra. Four hours of standing at the stove, and by the time it's done, whatever was wrong is still wrong, but you've got a pot of gumbo, and in this family, that's close enough to an answer. Danielle didn't ask why I was making gumbo in May. She just set the table. That woman knows me better than I know myself, and she loves me anyway, which is the definition of grace.

I made gumbo that night, and I don’t regret it — but gumbo takes four hours and demands your full attention, which is part of why it works: it doesn’t leave room for anything else. This Instant Pot split pea soup scratches the same itch on the nights when you need something deep and warming and done in one pot, but the grief sits a little quieter and you can’t commit to four hours at the stove. It’s got smoked sausage in it, which nods to the andouille, and the way it reduces down into something thick and almost velvety reminds me of what a good pot should feel like: steady, unhurried, substantial. Danielle sets the table for this one too.

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 45 minutes | Total Time: 55 minutes | Servings: 6

Ingredients

1 lb (about 2 1/4 cups) green split peas, rinsed and picked over
12 oz smoked andouille or kielbasa sausage, sliced into half-moons
1 medium yellow onion, diced
3 medium carrots, peeled and diced
3 stalks celery, diced
4 cloves garlic, minced
6 cups low-sodium chicken broth
1 cup water
2 bay leaves
1 tsp dried thyme
1/2 tsp smoked paprika
1/2 tsp black pepper
1/2 tsp kosher salt, plus more to taste
1 tbsp olive oil
Fresh parsley, chopped, for garnish (optional)

Instructions

Brown the sausage. Set the Instant Pot to Sauté mode. Add the olive oil and sliced sausage. Cook, stirring occasionally, for 3—4 minutes until lightly browned. Remove sausage with a slotted spoon and set aside.
Build the base. Add the diced onion, carrots, and celery to the pot. Sauté in the remaining drippings for 4—5 minutes until softened. Stir in the garlic and cook 1 minute more, until fragrant.
Deglaze and load the pot. Pour in about 1/4 cup of the chicken broth and scrape up any browned bits from the bottom — this prevents a burn warning and adds flavor. Add the rinsed split peas, remaining broth, water, browned sausage, bay leaves, thyme, smoked paprika, salt, and pepper. Stir to combine.
Pressure cook. Secure the lid and set the valve to Sealing. Cook on High Pressure for 20 minutes. When the cook time is up, allow the pressure to release naturally for 15 minutes, then carefully turn the valve to Venting to release any remaining steam.
Finish and adjust. Remove and discard the bay leaves. Stir the soup — the split peas will have broken down into a thick, creamy texture. If the soup is thicker than you like, stir in additional broth or water, a little at a time. Taste and adjust salt and pepper as needed.
Serve. Ladle into bowls and garnish with fresh parsley if desired. Serve with crusty bread or cornbread alongside.

Nutrition (per serving)

Instant Pot Split Pea Soup — The Pot You Make When the World Gets Unsteady