All the Ways to Cut & Cook a Carrot

Elizabeth Deanna Morris Lakes and Ah-reum Han

Whole

In the garden, I see you sneak with a carrot to the hose & find you, legs splayed, back against the house & face to sun, chewing your most recent harvest. So much chewing to process the carrot into swallowable pieces but the joy in earth to hand to hose to mouth.

Shaved

I held the carrot flat against the cutting board, peeling ribbons down its length & hoping each time it landed on the board & not the floor. Coiled into roses, placed in a bowl, & sprinkled with apple cider vinegar, olive oil, almonds, salt & pepper from the mill. You said eating them was vulval, layered tenderness.

Baby Carrots

Baby carrots are a lie, you said, & we will not have them in this house.

Matchsticks

Instead, you took our sharpest knife & cut the whole carrots into matchsticks, the carrots bending to one side with each slice. You placed them upright in a half-pint Mason jar & packed them in my lunch with French onion dip. At my desk at work, this was what I masticated on to stay awake in the long afternoons.

Oblique Cut

For roasting, you chopped the carrot up its length an inch at a time, a 45 degree angle a slight roll with each cut. These carrots turned crisp at the edges with soft warm insides, the root’s sweetness having expanded & bloomed. You tossed the carrots with cumin & smoked paprika. We ate them from a common bowl with a shared fork, orange jewels.

Julienned

For someone who saw it once a month, I’ve never known someone to be so afraid of blood. Not horrified or disgusted, but afraid. When I gasped as I julienned the carrots for our noodle soup, the knife slicing the joint of my curled knuckle, you looked up & flushed before draining white. So I alone held pressure to my finger, found the gauze & tape, wiped up & disinfected from where the blood had dripped on the cutting board & vinyl floor. I even added the julienned carrots (ones in a bowl, uncontaminated) to our broth & let them simmer—one handed. I ladled the broth over noodles in shallow bowls and—one at a time—carried them to the table. & yes: I sulked. & as the steam rose up to your cheeks & color returned, I saw your face relax & unfurl. You slid your chair to me & scooped the soup into the spoon & then my mouth. The intimacy so intense that when your mouth replaced the soup it held the same heat, except instead of satiated my hunger grew.

Blended

After cutting them into coins & steaming them, the carrots went into the fridge overnight. In the morning, they went into a blender with a frozen banana, frozen pineapple, an inch of turmeric, & orange juice. The smoothie nearly glowed, existing perfectly between orange & yellow. Carrots aren’t breakfast, you told me, as I rolled my eyes & took a long sip from a straw, the threat of brain freeze crystalizing on my tongue.

Shredded

The next morning, I shredded carrots on the large side of a box grater & stirred them into buttermilk & eggs. I sifted flour, baking soda & powder, cinnamon, nutmeg, & salt on top before folding it in. After I fried a whole stack, I brought you the plate of carrot cake pancakes, & you squealed. I guess carrots are breakfast, I said, & you screeched, & I cackled & we ate the pancakes together, thighs touching, on the couch.