Roasted Carrots with Thyme

Summer solstice. The fourth one. The longest day. I sat on the porch until the light gave up at ten-fifteen. Alone. Sven beside me, asleep, his gray muzzle on his paws. The lake was visible through the trees, blue and enormous, doing what it does. Four solstices. The first: Paul mentioned his hand. The second: the diagnosis was confirmed. The third: we danced by the wheelchair. The fourth: the porch, the dog, the lake, the absence. The light is generous. The light gives more than it should in June, stretching past ten, past reasonable, past the point where the sky should be dark but isn't, because Duluth is far enough north that the summer light is extravagant and I've lived with this extravagance for fifty-seven years and I've never appreciated it more than this year, this solstice, this specific stretch of light that refuses to end. I made a solstice dinner: grilled salmon with dill and new potatoes. Paul's meal. The meal he'd eat every day. I grilled it on the back deck and I ate it on the porch and the evening was warm and the fish was good and I ate it and I thought about Paul eating it and I thought about Paul not eating it and both of those realities coexisted on the porch with me and Sven and the light. Elsa came by at eight — late, after work at Jay Cooke. She sat on the porch step and we watched the light together. She said, "The wolves are howling at Voyageurs. I heard them on the webcam." I said, "Do they howl on the solstice?" She said, "They howl every night. The solstice is just the night we notice." The night we notice. That's good. The wolves howl every night. The lake is there every day. The light is generous every June. The solstice is just the day we stop and pay attention. I'm paying attention. That's what this year has taught me — the year of Paul's dying and the lockdown and the grief and the ocean. Pay attention. To the light. To the fish. To the dog at your feet. To the daughter on the porch step. To the wolves howling and the lake being there and the evening refusing to end. Pay attention. The solstice says: look. The light is here. It won't last. Look. I looked. I'm still looking.

Paul’s solstice meal was always the salmon — but around it, I built the table, and these carrots were part of that table more times than I can count. They’re simple enough that your hands can make them while your mind is somewhere else entirely, which is exactly where my mind was that evening. Sweet from the oven heat, fragrant with thyme, a little caramelized at the edges — they tasted like every solstice dinner we ever had together, and somehow, impossibly, they still tasted good.

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 30 minutes | Total Time: 40 minutes | Servings: 4

Ingredients

1 1/2 lbs carrots, peeled and cut into 2-inch pieces (halved lengthwise if thick)
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves (or 1/2 teaspoon dried thyme)
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
1 teaspoon honey (optional, for extra caramelization)
Fresh parsley, chopped, for garnish (optional)

Instructions

Preheat the oven. Heat your oven to 425°F. Line a large rimmed baking sheet with parchment paper or leave it bare — either works.
Prep the carrots. Peel and cut the carrots into roughly even 2-inch pieces so they roast at the same rate. Halve any thick pieces lengthwise so nothing stays raw in the middle.
Season. In a large bowl, toss the carrots with olive oil, thyme, salt, and pepper. Drizzle with honey if using. Spread in a single layer on the baking sheet — don’t crowd them or they’ll steam instead of roast.
Roast. Roast for 25–30 minutes, flipping once halfway through, until the carrots are tender at the center and caramelized and golden at the edges.
Finish and serve. Transfer to a serving plate. Scatter fresh parsley over the top if you like. Serve warm alongside salmon, roasted chicken, or anything else worth sitting down for.

Nutrition (per serving)

Roasted Carrots with Thyme — The Side Dish on the Solstice Table