Name: Split Pea Soup Recipe
Prep time: 20 min
Cook time: 1 h 30 min
Total time: 1 h 50 min
Yield: 6 servings
Cuisine: American
Ingredients: 2 cups dried split peas, rinsed; 1 medium onion, diced; 2 carrots, chopped; 2 celery stalks, chopped; 3 cloves garlic, minced; 1 bay leaf; 1 teaspoon dried thyme; 6 cups vegetable broth; Salt and pepper to taste; 2 tablespoons olive oil

Let Me Tell You About This Split Pea Soup (And My Slight Obsession)

So, gather round the stove—I’m about to share my split pea soup recipe and a handful of stories that have simmered alongside it over the years. Honestly, I didn’t even like peas as a kid. The first time I made this was on a rainy March Thursday because it was cheap and, more importantly, the only thing left in my cupboard that day. But magic happened. My house smelled like, well, comfort (and not in a mysterious grandma way, more like in a “wow, did I accidentally do something right?” sort of way). And my neighbor, Mrs. Murphy, swears this is the one meal that’ll fix whatever ails you—though she also puts ketchup on eggs, so take from that what you will.

Why I Keep Coming Back to This Recipe

I make this split pea soup whenever my fridge is basically a tundra of random leftovers, or when I want to feed a small army without breaking the bank (hi, winter holidays). My family goes bonkers for it, mostly because it tastes way more like home than the stuff from a can (no shade—okay, maybe a little shade). Plus, if you’re feeling lazy, you don’t have to stand over the stove like a hawk. Admittedly, I once forgot to soak the peas… still worked, just took double the time and my patience wore thin—lesson learned.

Gather These Ingredients (Trust Me, Flexibility is Key)

2 cups dried split peas (green or yellow—my grandma stuck to green, but honestly, both taste great!)
1 large onion, chopped (sometimes I swap in shallots if I’m feeling fancy)
2 carrots, diced (Or a handful of baby carrots when that half-used bag gives you the stink eye)
2 celery stalks, chopped (oddly, I skip this if I’m making it just for me—don’t tell anyone)
1 ham hock, smoked sausage, or skip it for veggie version (I’ve even thrown in leftover bacon. Don’t judge.)
3 cloves garlic, minced (Okay, I almost never measure this—it’s practically a handful. Use less if you prefer.)
6-7 cups chicken or veg broth (I use the boxed kind when I’m out of homemade, or honestly just water plus bouillon cubes most days)
1 bay leaf
Salt and black pepper (season as you like, and taste—don’t just dump it in all at once)
A smidge of dried thyme (optional, unless you’re like my cousin who dumps it in by the fistful)

Making the Soup (Don’t Overthink It)

Prep those veggies. Chop, dice, whatever. Mostly the same size, but no need to get fussy—it’s rustic, not a beauty contest.
In a big pot, add a splash of oil then onion, carrot, celery (if you’re using it), and garlic on medium heat; give it a few minutes to soften (I usually listen for them to start cracking jokes). If you used bacon, crisp that up first and use the fat—just trust me.
Toss in the split peas (nope, no soaking required, but if you did, good on you for thinking ahead).
Add broth (or water and cubes if you’re running low on fancy). Plop in the bay leaf and thyme if you remembered it.
Meaty addition: If you snagged a ham hock or bone, put that in now. If not, sausage or bacon bits work. Or skip it entirely—your call.
Bring it to a gentle boil, then turn down the heat so it simmers lazily. Pop on a lid but leave a crack. Give it about 45-60 minutes, check and stir sometimes. If it looks weird and kind of foamy, that’s normal! (Promise.)
Now, check thickness, If it’s too thick, splash in more water (or even a glug of milk for extra creaminess). Fish out the ham hock or bones—shred up any meat from it and toss back in if you want.
Season to taste, and here’s where I always sneak a spoonful (burnt my tongue last time, will I ever learn?)

Notes (Aka Stuff I Only Figured Out After Years of Making This)

If your peas are stubborn and won’t soften, they might be old—happened to me once, so now I give them a quick stare-down before buying.
The soup thickens a ton as it sits. Sometimes I have to add extra broth the next day, or just eat it as a chunky stew. Actually, I kinda like it that way.
If you forget the bay leaf, you’ll survive. Don’t stress.
I tried pureeing the whole soup once—tasted great. Looked… odd. Just go with light mashing if you want it smoother.

If You’re Feeling Wild: Variations I’ve Tried

I once tossed in sweet potatoes. Interesting, not my thing, but hey, you might love it. Sometimes, I replace all or half the peas with lentils if I’m out (works better than expected, though it’s not exactly traditional).

Some people stir in a splash of cream or coconut milk at the end for richness. Tried it once, and honestly, it’s a nice change—especially if I’m bored of the classic green. Oh, and a drizzle of chili oil for spice hurts no one (unless you go overboard—which, um, I did).

Tools I Use (But You Don’t Need to Be Fancy)

Large soup pot. Borrow your neighbor’s if you have to.
Wooden spoon, for stirring and for feeling like a real cook
Blender or potato masher for a creamy texture, but you can just use the back of a ladle. Or skip this if you want it chunky.
I said a soup pot, but, honestly, I made this in a big ol’ Dutch oven once and it worked great.

Keeping Your Leftovers (If There’s Any Left)

Store in airtight containers in the fridge; it’ll last 3-4 days—but honestly, in my house it never even makes it to day two. If you’re thinking ahead, it freezes like a dream (just use a zip-top bag, lay it flat for easy stacking). It gets thicker in the fridge, so just add a splash of water or broth when you reheat it.

What to Serve With Split Pea Soup (Or, How I Really Eat It)

Bread is a must in our house. Crusty sourdough if you want to impress, but store-bought sandwich bread works (just toast it). My uncle insists on a dollop of mustard (!) in his bowl—strange, but he’s onto something. And a hunk of cheddar on the side is pretty nice, too.

Things I Learned the Hard Way

Don’t rush the simmer time, or you’ll get pea gravel instead of creamy soup. I did that once, and no one forgave me (though the dog didn’t seem to mind).
Stir every once in a while or it’ll stick to the bottom, and burning peas smell awful.
Actually, I find it works better if you use low heat for most of the cooking—even if you’re in a hurry.

Questions People Actually Ask Me (And My Real Answers)

Do I have to soak the split peas? Nope! I hardly ever do. But it can speed up cooking. (I usually forget, so…)
Can I freeze it? Yep, just make sure it cools first or you’ll end up with pea-scented ice crystals in your freezer.
What if I don’t eat pork? Drop in a smoked turkey leg, or just skip the meat—you really don’t need it for flavor.
Which brand of split peas? Eh, I buy whatever’s cheapest. My friend swears by Bob’s Red Mill, but honestly, store brands are fine.
How thick should it be? I like mine somewhere between stew and soup, almost spoon-standing thick. Add more broth if you want it runnier—this isn’t science.
Can I add other veggies? Absolutely. I once tossed in kale because it looked sad in my crisper, and it worked out all right.
Can I make this in a slow cooker? Sure thing, just chuck everything in and set it on low for 7-8 hours—super hands-off, which is great if you want to catch up on a series or take the dog for an extra walk. Or nap. No judgment.

Quick sidenote: If you want to deep-dive into different versions, this guide from Simply Recipes was genuinely helpful to me back when I started. For the science-y folk, Serious Eats does a breakdown that’s worth a read (fair warning: you will spend 20 minutes nerding out on peas). Or if you need a walk-through with photos, Bon Appétit’s take is pretty spot on.

Alright, if you made it this far—thanks for sticking around through my digressions. If you try my split pea soup recipe, let me know how it goes. Or send a photo of your bowl, weird toppings and all. I won’t judge (much).

Split Pea Soup Recipe