Two years ago for the big Christmas dinner at Mom’s I watched as she put a pan of water on the stove to boil and took a package of carrots out of the crisper.
I looked askance at the carrots. Carrots? The only times I had eaten cooked carrots since childhood had been 1. in the college dorms. they were awful and 2. when I bought them frozen in my early twenties. They were rubbery and disgusting. Mom was going to serve carrots?
As bowls and platters and assorted crystal vessels of food were being carried to the dining room, Mom stuck a fork in the cooking carrots, poured them into a strainer, back into the pan, added salt, pepper, butter, stirred, put them into a family holiday dish and handed them to me. I took them to the table.
My cousin John took carrots straight away. “Love carrots,” he said. His father Greg took carrots while exclaiming, “Wow! Carrots and beets even!” I spooned peas and parsnips onto my plate along with the prime rib and other options without comment. On my second plateful of food I added a couple of carrots.
They were marvelous. Like, totally wow.
“Mom,” I said, “these carrots are great!” “Thanks, honey,” she said absently. “How did you make these?” I asked. She looked up, “Well you saw me, I boiled them.” “For how long?” “Until they’re done.”
“How do you know when they’re done?” She laughed, “you stick a fork in them.” I nodded carefully at this. My brother looked over to see what was going on. “Dude, you have to try the carrots.” “I know,” he said, “this is great!”
“Mom,” I said, “I’ve never had carrots like this.”
“Well, how have you had them?”
“I bought them frozen.”
“Frozen?” she looks at me, “They’re carrots.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So, you don’t pay someone to cut up your food. They’re carrots, just boil them fresh.”
One family dinner the winter after that Christmas I got wind of the meal before my brother and I called him, “Dude, can you come to dinner at Mom’s on Saturday?”
“Yeah, I can make that.”
“She’s making,” slight pause, “carrots.”
“Really? Yeah, I’ll definitely be there.”
Now, most family meals contain carrots. Including ones that feature items such as stuffed shells and marinara sauce. Mom will email around to announce a family dinner and I’ll email back and say, “Can we have carrots?” One time we had carrots and Grandma said, “Diane, I just love your carrots” as she scooped up a second helping (Grandma doesn’t eat a lot of second helpings anymore). Mom says, “Guys, they’re just carrots.“
“Yes,” we nod in deep satisfaction, “they’re carrots.”
