Our Christmas Family Feast

New Year. 2017. I'm not a resolutions person — I think the idea of deciding to become a better version of yourself because the calendar changed is like deciding to make better gumbo because you bought a new spoon. The spoon isn't the variable. You are. And you either make good gumbo every day or you don't, and a new year doesn't change the fundamentals. But I will say this: 2016 was a year. It was a YEAR. The flood. The rebuild. The anxiety that crept back in like water under a door. And also: the first cook on the brick pit. Colette's birthday party. The fishing trip to Cocodrie with the boys. Rémy in his crawfish costume. The Christmas at the cottage. A year, cher. Full of everything.

New Year's Eve was quiet by Beaumont standards — just us, no guests. Danielle made champagne (for us) and sparkling grape juice (for the kids), and I made black-eyed peas and cabbage, because that's what you eat on New Year's in the South for good luck and prosperity, and I don't believe in superstitions except for all of them. Black-eyed peas: simmered with a ham hock, onion, garlic, bay leaf. Low and slow. The ham hock is doing the heavy lifting — it turns the pot liquor into something smoky and rich and deeply satisfying. The cabbage: smothered, with bacon and onion, cooked until it's soft and sweet and nothing like the cabbage you're thinking of.

We let the kids stay up until midnight. Luc made it, barely — he was fighting sleep from 11:30 onward, but pride kept him upright. Colette fell asleep at 11:45 and was furious the next morning when we told her. Rémy lasted until 10 PM, which was his personal best, and he woke up briefly at midnight to the sound of fireworks, said "boom," and went back to sleep. Happy New Year, Rémy.

January in Baton Rouge is the pause button. The holidays are over. The decorations come down. The yard is brown. The trees are bare. The crawfish aren't running yet. The hunting is winding down. And there's this stretch — January, February, early March — that feels like the world is holding its breath. Waiting for spring. Waiting for the crawfish. Waiting for the azaleas to go crazy and the air to get thick and the pit to get hot and the cycle to start again.

I don't mind the pause. Some people do — they get restless, or bored, or sad in the grey months. But I like January. I like the quiet. I like making a pot of soup on a Tuesday and sitting on the porch in a jacket and watching the sky do nothing. I like the stillness. Because I know what's coming. I know the spring is coming, and the crawfish are coming, and the noise and the heat and the life of a Louisiana year are coming, and the pause before all of it is the inhale before the song. You need the inhale. You need the quiet before the roux starts sizzling and the family starts gathering and the pit starts smoking. You need the pause so the music means something when it starts.

The black-eyed peas and the smothered cabbage were the heart of that quiet New Year’s Eve — but the spirit behind them is the same spirit that drives every big holiday meal we put on the table in this family: low and slow, nothing fancy, everything intentional. Our Christmas family feast is the blueprint for that kind of cooking, the same patience and the same instinct to feed people something that actually means something. If you want to bring that same warmth to your own table — whether it’s Christmas, New Year’s, or just a grey Tuesday in January — this is where you start.

Prep Time: 45 min | Cook Time: 3 hrs | Total Time: 3 hrs 45 min | Servings: 10–12

Ingredients

1 bone-in ham (8–10 lbs), scored on top
1/2 cup whole-grain or Creole mustard
1/2 cup brown sugar, packed
1/4 cup apple cider vinegar
1 tsp ground cloves
1 tsp smoked paprika
2 lbs baby potatoes, halved
3 tbsp unsalted butter
2 tbsp fresh thyme leaves
Salt and black pepper to taste
1 large head green cabbage, quartered and cored
6 strips thick-cut bacon, chopped
1 large yellow onion, sliced thin
3 garlic cloves, minced
1 cup chicken or pork stock
1 lb dried black-eyed peas, soaked overnight and drained
1 smoked ham hock
1 bay leaf
1/2 tsp crushed red pepper flakes
Cornbread, for serving

Instructions

Prepare the ham glaze. Preheat oven to 325°F. In a small bowl, whisk together mustard, brown sugar, apple cider vinegar, cloves, and smoked paprika until smooth. Set aside.
Roast the ham. Place the scored ham cut-side down in a large roasting pan. Brush generously with half the glaze. Cover loosely with foil and roast for 2 hours. Remove foil, brush with remaining glaze, and roast uncovered for another 45 minutes to 1 hour until the glaze is caramelized and a meat thermometer reads 140°F at the thickest point. Rest 20 minutes before slicing.
Start the black-eyed peas. While the ham roasts, combine soaked black-eyed peas, ham hock, bay leaf, red pepper flakes, and enough cold water to cover by 2 inches in a large heavy-bottomed pot. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat to a low simmer. Cook uncovered for 1 hr 30 min to 2 hours, stirring occasionally, until peas are tender and the pot liquor is rich and smoky. Season with salt and pepper. Remove ham hock, shred any meat from the bone, and stir it back into the pot.
Smother the cabbage. In a wide heavy skillet over medium heat, cook chopped bacon until the fat renders and the edges crisp, about 8 minutes. Add sliced onion and cook, stirring occasionally, until soft and golden, about 12 minutes. Add garlic and cook 1 minute more. Nestle cabbage quarters into the pan, pour in stock, cover tightly, and reduce heat to low. Cook 35–45 minutes, turning cabbage once halfway through, until completely tender and sweet. Season with salt and pepper.
Finish the potatoes. About 30 minutes before serving, toss halved baby potatoes with butter, thyme, salt, and pepper. Spread on a sheet pan and roast at 400°F for 25–30 minutes until golden and crisp-edged.
Serve family style. Arrange sliced ham on a platter. Set out the black-eyed peas in their pot liquor, the smothered cabbage, and the roasted potatoes alongside a pan of warm cornbread. Let people serve themselves. That’s the whole point.

Nutrition (per serving)

Our Christmas Family Feast — The Meal That Carries Us Into the New Year