Tarragon Carrots

The book launch. "Enough: Recipes from My Mother's Kitchen and Mine." Publication day. The launch event was at a bookstore in Princeton — a small, independent store that specializes in food writing and memoir. Sixty people in folding chairs. Raj and the kids in the front row (Anaya attentive, Rohan squirming). Arvind and Dina in the second row. Pushpa and Bharat. Jessica from the pharmacy. Mrs. Chen (who brought dumplings to a book launch, because Mrs. Chen). My colleagues, my blog readers who drove in from across New Jersey, strangers who found the book through the reviews. Amma and Appa in the front row, center. Amma in a silk sari — green, the color she wore to my graduation, to Anaya's birth, to every important moment. Appa in a suit — the same suit from the wedding, from Arvind's license ceremony. Both of them present. Both of them here. I read from the book. The sambar chapter — the beginning, where I describe Amma's kitchen and the smell of tamarind hitting hot oil and the way my mother measures with her hands. I read the last paragraph: "My mother measures in handfuls. She has been measuring in handfuls for forty years, and the measurements have never been wrong, because the hands know what the numbers can't. One day, the hands may forget. But the words are here. The book is here. And the food remembers, even when people can't." Sixty people, crying. Mrs. Chen, crying and eating a dumpling simultaneously. Raj, trying not to cry and failing. Anaya, not crying because she's five and doesn't fully understand but clapping because the room is clapping. Amma. In the front row. Listening. Her face — the face I've been watching for seven years, looking for lapses, for blank spots, for the fog — was clear. Open. Present. She heard it. She heard the book. She heard the love. After the reading, she came to the signing table. She picked up a copy. She held it against her chest — the way Anaya held the book at the Aksharabhyasam, the instinctive clutching of a thing you know matters. "This is our book," she said. "Yes, Amma. This is our book." I signed sixty copies. Amma stood beside me for every one. She didn't sign — she stood. Present. The author's mother. The cookbook's source. The woman whose sambar is on page forty-three with the asafoetida measurement that is (allegedly) too small. The book is launched. The sambar is in the world. The woman who made it stood beside me and watched it go. Enough. At last. Enough.

The night after the launch, after the folding chairs were stacked and the last dumpling was gone and Amma had been driven home in her green silk sari, I stood in my own kitchen and didn’t want to cook anything with a story. The book had the story. Amma had the story. What I needed was something that asked only for a knife, a pan, and a few minutes of silence—something that let my hands do their work while my heart caught up. These carrots were exactly that: quiet, bright, a little fragrant, and enough.

Prep Time: 10 min | Cook Time: 15 min | Total Time: 25 min | Servings: 4

Ingredients

1 pound carrots, peeled and cut into 1/4-inch coins (or thin diagonal slices)
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1/2 cup water or low-sodium vegetable broth
1 teaspoon sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt, plus more to taste
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 1/2 teaspoons fresh tarragon leaves, roughly chopped (or 1/2 teaspoon dried)
1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice

Instructions

Start the carrots. Place the sliced carrots, butter, water (or broth), sugar, salt, and pepper in a wide skillet over medium heat. Stir to combine.
Simmer until tender. Bring to a gentle simmer, cover, and cook for 8–10 minutes, stirring once or twice, until the carrots are just fork-tender but still hold their shape.
Reduce the liquid. Remove the lid and increase heat to medium-high. Cook another 3–4 minutes, stirring frequently, until most of the liquid has evaporated and the carrots are lightly glazed.
Finish with herbs. Remove the pan from heat. Add the tarragon and lemon juice, then toss gently to coat. Taste and adjust salt as needed.
Serve immediately. Transfer to a serving dish and enjoy warm. These pair well with roasted chicken, lentils, or rice—or eaten quietly at the kitchen counter after a long and meaningful day.

Nutrition (per serving)

Tarragon Carrots — The Humble Side of a Triumphant Day