Braised Mustard Carrots

May came in warm and bossy, the way it does in Savannah. By Wednesday it was eighty-five degrees and the humidity had arrived like a houseguest who doesn't know when to leave. I opened all the windows in the school kitchen at six a.m. and by nine it didn't matter because the ovens had the room at a hundred degrees and my hairnet was soaked through. Thirty-one years in that kitchen and I still haven't gotten used to May through September. You don't get used to it. You endure it. You drink water and you keep moving and you don't complain because Hattie Pearl worked in kitchens without fans in the 1950s and she never said a word about the heat, so neither will I.

Mother's Day is coming up this Sunday and my children have been calling with that particular tone that means they're planning something. Earl Jr. called from Atlanta and asked what I want for dinner, which means he's coming down. Denise has been suspiciously quiet, which means she's up to something. Patricia called and asked if I wanted "anything special," and I said, "For my children to call me more than once a month when it's not a holiday," and she laughed in that guilty way that tells me I scored a direct hit.

But you know what I really want for Mother's Day? I want to cook. I know that sounds backwards — the mother is supposed to be cooked for — but cooking is how I love people. It's the only language I've ever been fluent in. When I stand at that stove and I'm stirring gravy and I can hear my people in the next room laughing, that is my Mother's Day. That's my everything.

This week I made fried okra for the school kids and they went crazy. Now, most of these children think okra is that slimy green thing their grandmother makes them eat, and they're not wrong — boiled okra is a commitment. But fried okra is different. You cut it in rounds, toss it in cornmeal with salt and pepper and a little cayenne if you're brave, and you fry it in hot oil until it's golden and crunchy and the slime is gone and what's left is pure Lowcountry magic. I made two sheet pans extra because I knew they'd come back for more. The little girl — the hungry one, the quiet one — she ate two helpings and for the first time she looked up at me and smiled. Not a big smile. Just the corner of her mouth. But I will take it.

The garden is exploding now. The tomatoes have their first flowers — little yellow stars — and the okra seedlings are getting tall. I planted peppers last weekend — cayenne, jalapeño, and some Carolina Reapers that a man at church gave me seeds for. I don't intend to eat the Reapers. I intend to make hot sauce so strong it'll wake up the dead, bottle it, and give it away at Christmas. Earl says I'm going to burn somebody's mouth off. I said, "Then they'll learn to read the label."

Now go on and feed somebody.

Now, feeding people doesn’t always mean frying something crispy in hot oil—sometimes it means pulling out a pan of carrots that nobody expected to love. These braised mustard carrots are the kind of thing I make when the garden’s giving me more than I can handle and I need a side dish that’s quick, honest, and full of flavor. The mustard gives them a little bite, the butter makes them tender, and before you know it folks are reaching for seconds without even thinking about it. Here’s how I make them.

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

Ingredients

1 1/2 pounds carrots
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
3 garlic cloves, minced
1 cup diced onion
2 bay leaves
2-4 tablespoons mustard (we used a combination of Dijon and whole grain)
3 tablespoons water
Salt and pepper to taste
Chopped fresh parsley for garnish, optional

Instructions

Prep the carrots. Peel and shred carrots, using the coarsest side of a boxed grater to get large shreds. (Alternately, you could use a mandoline to cut julienne slices.) Set carrots aside.
Cook the aromatics. In a large saucepan, over medium heat, melt butter along with minced garlic and diced onions. Sautee the onions and garlic for about 2-3 minutes, until the onions start to soften. Add 2 tablespoons of mustard (half Dijon and half whole grain) and the bay leaves. Cooking the onion-mustard mixture another 2-3 minutes more until the onions are lightly golden in color.
Braise the carrots. Add shredded carrots to the saucepan, along with the water and stir well to combine. Cover the pan and allow the carrots to braise for about 7 to 10 minutes (or more depending on how soft you like your carrots and how large your shreds or julienne slices are) until they reach your desired tenderness.
Season and garnish. Add more mustard and season with salt and pepper if desired, and sprinkle with chopped fresh parsley (optional).
Serve. Serve immediately for a hot side dish or chill and serve cold as a salad.

Nutrition (per serving)

Braised Mustard Carrots — The Side Dish That Makes Somebody Smile