Herbed Boiled Potatoes

Marvin's decline is accelerating. That is the clinical word — accelerating. I prefer a different word, though I do not have one. The clinical words are insufficient. They describe the progression but not the experience, the way a map describes a landscape but not the feeling of standing in it. Marvin is standing in a landscape that is dissolving, and I am standing beside him, and the clinical words — decline, progression, acceleration — do not capture the sound of a man asking his wife who she is at three in the morning, the sound that is not a sound but a silence, the silence of recognition leaving.

He did not ask who I was. Not yet. Not this week. But he asked where he was — in our bedroom, in the bed we have shared for thirty-seven years — and the question was genuine, not confused-upon-waking but genuinely lost, and I said, "You're home, Marv. You're in our bed. You're safe." And he said, "Oh. Good." And went back to sleep. And I lay beside him for two hours, not sleeping, listening to him breathe, memorizing the sound of his breathing because even his breathing is a thing I might someday miss.

I made potato soup. The simplest soup. Potatoes, leeks, cream, salt. The soup you make when you need comfort without complication, when your hands need to chop and your mind needs to stop and the only thing between you and collapse is a pot of something warm. I chopped the potatoes with the precision of a woman who has been chopping for forty years and whose hands know the knife the way a musician's hands know the instrument: automatically, without thought, the muscle memory carrying her through the moments when conscious thought is too painful to deploy.

I went to synagogue alone on Saturday. Marvin stayed home. He can no longer follow the service — the Hebrew confuses him, the standing and sitting bewilders him, the building, where he was confused once before, is a place I no longer bring him because the confusion there is public and the public dimension of his disease is something I am trying to protect him from. He deserves to lose his mind in private. He deserves the dignity of walls.

At synagogue, the rabbi's wife asked how Marvin was. I said, "He's having a quiet day." This is my code. A quiet day means a bad day. The rabbi's wife understood. She is a rabbi's wife. She speaks the language of euphemism fluently. She put her hand on my arm. I did not cry. I nodded. I went home. I reheated the soup. I fed Marvin. The soup was warm. The day was quiet. The chair held him. I held everything else.

The potato soup I described above began, as it always does, with boiled potatoes — plain, honest, requiring nothing of me but a knife and a pot and the willingness to stand at the stove. In the days since, I have found myself returning to the potatoes without the soup: just the boiling, the draining, the butter melting in, the herbs folded through. It is the smallest possible act of nourishment, and some weeks that is exactly the right size. If you are in a quiet week of your own, I hope this recipe finds you well.

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 20 minutes | Total Time: 30 minutes | Servings: 4

Ingredients

2 lbs small Yukon Gold or new potatoes, scrubbed
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 tablespoons fresh flat-leaf parsley, finely chopped
1 tablespoon fresh chives, finely chopped
1 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves
1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
1 teaspoon kosher salt, plus more for the boiling water
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

Instructions

Prep the potatoes. Scrub potatoes well under cold water. Halve any that are larger than an inch and a half so everything cooks evenly; leave small ones whole.
Boil. Place potatoes in a large pot and cover with cold water by at least an inch. Add a generous pinch of salt. Bring to a boil over high heat, then reduce to a steady medium boil and cook 15 to 18 minutes, until a fork slides through the center without resistance.
Drain and dry. Drain thoroughly in a colander, then return the empty pot to the burner over low heat for 30 seconds. Add the drained potatoes back in and let them sit in the dry pot for one minute — this drives off excess moisture and lets the butter coat them properly.
Season. Add butter directly to the warm potatoes and toss gently until melted and glossy. Sprinkle in parsley, chives, thyme, garlic powder, salt, and pepper. Fold everything together with a large spoon, taking care not to break the potatoes apart.
Taste and serve. Taste for salt and adjust. Transfer to a serving bowl and scatter a pinch of extra fresh parsley on top. Serve warm.

Nutrition (per serving)

Herbed Boiled Potatoes — The Simplest Thing, When Simple Is All You Have