Creamed Peas And Carrots

October and the school had its first COVID scare — a student in the junior class tested positive, and the class was sent home for two weeks, and the rest of us held our collective breath and washed our hands and continued teaching with the heightened awareness of people who are walking through a minefield and have been told, cheerfully, that most of the mines are probably inactive. I was not in direct contact with the student. I am fine. But "fine" is a word that has lost all meaning this year — fine means not yet sick, fine means the bomb didn't go off today, fine means I am still standing behind the plexiglass and the plexiglass is still standing and we are all still standing, for now.

Marvin had his flu shot this week — David arranged it, a house call from a nurse practitioner, because taking Marvin to a doctor's office in a pandemic is an exercise in risk management that I would rather avoid. The nurse was kind and efficient and Marvin said, "Thank you, doctor," and the nurse said, "You're welcome, Mr. Feldman," and Marvin's manners — his impeccable, Depression-era, Queens-Jewish-boy manners — continue to function even as everything else erodes, which is either a testament to the depth at which manners are stored or a commentary on what matters most in a man, and I choose to believe it's both.

I made a potato leek soup — simple, warming, the kind of soup you make in October when the nights get cold and the kitchen needs to smell like something that isn't hand sanitizer. Potatoes, leeks, onion, garlic, broth, cream, thyme. Pureed until silky. Served with a heel of challah. Marvin ate a full bowl, slowly, methodically, with the concentration of a man for whom eating has become a practice rather than a habit. I watched him eat and thought: we are still here. The school is still open. The soup is still good. The here is still here. I will not take it for granted. I will not take any of it for granted ever again.

The soup taught me something that week — that the simplest food, made with care and attention, is an act of gratitude in itself. I’ve been returning to that instinct ever since: when I need to feel grounded, I cook something honest and uncomplicated. Creamed peas and carrots is that kind of recipe, the kind your hands know before your brain does — soft vegetables, a little cream, a little butter, nothing extraneous. It sits beside roast chicken or a heel of good bread and it asks nothing of you except to slow down and eat it.

Prep Time: 5 minutes | Cook Time: 15 minutes | Total Time: 20 minutes | Servings: 4

Ingredients

2 cups frozen peas
2 cups carrots, peeled and sliced into 1/4-inch coins
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1 cup whole milk
1/4 cup heavy cream
1/2 teaspoon salt, plus more to taste
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
1/4 teaspoon garlic powder
Pinch of sugar (optional, to brighten flavor)

Instructions

Cook the carrots. Bring a medium saucepan of salted water to a boil. Add the sliced carrots and cook for 6–8 minutes, until just tender but not mushy. Add the frozen peas in the last 2 minutes. Drain and set aside.
Make the cream sauce. In the same saucepan over medium heat, melt the butter. Whisk in the flour and cook for 1 minute, stirring constantly, until the mixture smells slightly nutty and turns pale gold.
Add the milk and cream. Slowly pour in the milk and heavy cream, whisking continuously to prevent lumps. Cook over medium heat, stirring frequently, for 4–5 minutes until the sauce thickens enough to coat the back of a spoon.
Season. Stir in the salt, pepper, garlic powder, and sugar if using. Taste and adjust seasoning.
Combine and serve. Return the drained peas and carrots to the pan. Stir gently to coat everything in the cream sauce and warm through for 1–2 minutes. Serve immediately as a side dish.

Nutrition (per serving)

Creamed Peas And Carrots — The Simplest Things Keep Us Here