But eggplants can also be the best of what a vegetable can be—crispy or soft, at once charred and sweet, generally the best combination of side-dish flavors. There are quite a few ways to play it well: ratatouille is a personal favorite. Eggplant is still coming up in Texas by the bushel, and I thought it might be nice to share this summertime (and fall-time) favorite with anybody courageous enough to: 1. Stick his or her hands into open flames and 2. Serve eggplant—fairly naked—to a group of guests.

My folks have a nice big fire pit on their concrete dock out on Lake Waramaug in Connecticut. Much was grilled this summer over that fire, but few dishes excited me more than the eggplant I was able to roast while taking a dip. It’s too cold for swimming now, but everybody likes to stand by a fire in the fall, and I highly recommend that you do this dish on a wood-burning, outdoor flame… it’s one of those carnal experiences reminiscent of coming down from the excitement of a great hunt. Or in this case, twenty minutes of wading.

What I loved most of all, was that fact that several naysayers—of the, “Oh, no thanks, I don’t do eggplant,” variety—were greedily dipping into the serving bowl, with markedly more relish than those who’d expected something delicious from the get go. I hardly got a taste of this delight, but for the unexpected happiness of converted guests, it was well worth abstaining.

My friend Gardner Landry, a real Texas boy, taught me this trick in July when he came for a visit to the lake house. A few months later, back again to visit my parents, I tried it on my own, but instead of roasting the eggplant over charcoals from a grill, I called upon my inner Neanderthal and threw my black prize straight onto a load of burning logs. Then I jumped into the water, emerging just in time for dinner.
After about twenty minutes, the eggplant was thoroughly charred on one side, and needed to be turned. Some dubious onlookers—wimps who had decided not to swim in the late September water—wondered how this already detestable vegetable would taste when covered with ash and splinters. They poked at it with curious index fingers. I told them not to worry, but I could tell they weren’t listening. After another 20 minutes of roasting on the other side, the eggplant was ready: fully collapsed, wrinkled and covered with a layer of grey dust.

I took it inside for some doctoring: slipping off the skins with a knife, and pulling out the flesh with the tines of a fork. I cut off the eggplant’s tiny green top, reserving it for presentation. I mashed the garlic with some olive oil and garlic salt to taste, then cleaned the cutting board and re-formed it into the shape of an eggplant, adding back its green stem cap. I then drizzled the flesh with a bit more olive oil and covered it with a sprinkling of chopped parsley and toasted pine nuts. I got back to the dock at around 7:30, and the dish was done by 7:45—I kid you not. Serve it up with some thin crackers or toasted, crusty bread.

There’s nothing an eggplant couldn’t do, I think, spongy wonder that it is. You slice it, drain it and lo! Never have I met a vegetable so obliging in its texture, so willing to crisp up against some bread crumbs or soggy-down with a nice sauce. They’ve got their own flavor, sure, but better still, they’re the chameleon of the produce kingdom, able to suck in whatever you pour onto them, happy to absorb everything, while holding out some delightful texture and a signature chew. Chew and chew and chew. I could eat eggplant all day long—and in so many forms—which is good, because that’s what happens this time of year.

There are eggplants popping out of every garden in all their oblong glory, and I’ve found more than a few things to do with them lately. This quick spread is something of a baba ghanoush-pesto hybrid. Sometimes I find the pungency of pesto a bit sharp for plain old crackers or crudités, but this smooth, nutty dip is slightly softer and easier to palate on its own.

The day after I served it, I found myself spooning it onto salads as well: it goes well with some arugula, roasted tomatoes and cured olives, as you might expect. Best of all, I was able to surreptitiously serve it to someone who simply refuses to eat eggplant. It was a little bit sneaky of me, I’ll admit, but I think it’s always wise to feed people vegetables when you can. Especially when they’re overwhelming your garden.

If you’re too bashful to bring bushels of straight eggplant next door, I suggest a nice dainty mason jar of these as a neighborly offering—a basket full of pita chips won’t hurt either. It may seem like an effort, but the one thing eggplant doesn’t do is freeze well.

Basil Baba Ghanoush

Inspired by Patricia Wells

1 large eggplant or 4 small eggplants (In total about 16 oz worth)
2 Tbsp sesame tahini
Juice of 1 lemon
2 garlic cloves
1 c fresh basil
s & p to taste
sesame seeds for garnish

__

Preheat oven to 450 degrees.

Prick eggplant all over with a fork. Place directly on oven rack, with baking sheet below.
(Patricia Wells explains that roasting eggplant in the oven must be done this way in order to keep air circulating, which prevents the vegetable from steaming.)

Roast until eggplants are soft and start to implode, about 25 minutes.

Remove eggplants from oven and trim off ends. Cut eggplants in half lengthwise, and scoop out flesh with a spoon. Discard the skin and tops.

Place the tahini, lemon juice, garlic and basil in a food processor and pulse until combined. Add eggplant and purée.

Season to taste—if you like a richer blend, add more tahini.

Garnish with basil and sesame seeds and serve cool or at room temperature.

*This recipe can be made with the herb of your choice. If you’ve got lots of parsley around, add some  pine nuts or sun dried tomatoes for garnish.

Perhaps it was served to you. Perhaps you made it. Either way, if you’re looking for some help putting away all of those eggplants, zucchinis and basil bunches popping up in your garden just about now, then welcome. This is all about how to avoid lifeless ratatouille—from a gal who has had (and made) her fair share of both good and bad varieties. Before I launch into the finest recipe for ratatouille I’ve discovered, let me first admit that I hate recipes. The raison d’être of this blog, is in fact, my distaste for recipes—especially where things like ratatouille are concerned.

When I started this site, I wanted to create a place where it would be OK to riff a bit, because, even after years of cooking, I never fail to look at a recipe and wonder what I can change about it. When I open a cookbook, I glance at the ingredients, jot them down, and proceed to modify the steps involved to suit my fancy. Often this happens much later in the game—as in, when things are already simmering, boiling or stewing. There are always, always, at least two or three aspects of a recipe that I don’t appreciate and am not interested in following, and sometimes I change my mind at the last minute.

Because of this particular character trait, (good cooks would likely call it a major character flaw) I’ve made some pretty wilted ratatouilles in summers past. Nothing is worse than overcooked vegetables. Except, perhaps, wasting pounds of good produce. But still, every garden yields different results, every farmer’s market has different colors and shapes to offer. I can’t just follow every detail of a prescribed dish… at times like these, it’s actually impractical. That said, I’ve learned that some rules cannot be broken: when we cook, and especially when we bake, there are processes to abide. The trick is knowing where you can improvise, and where you must honor the author’s wisdom. I really do believe that once you learn some basic techniques—both in cooking and in baking—you can execute something right, but add your own touches as you go. That is the dream, at least.

Alice Water’s advice from “The Art of Simple Food,” was a great jumping off point for my summer stew ambitions in 2006—the year I finally got ratatouille right. Despite what I’ve said about her in the past, Waters does a slightly ingenious thing in the layout of her books: she lists the ingredients of her dishes with the steps in between. That way, you go along, adding things in clearly laid out steps, rather than staring at a long ingredient list separate from an even longer list of directions—which is, unfortunately, the way I write my recipes. Oh dear. Anyway, it was exactly this style of authorship that illustrated the importance of steps in the ratatouille process—even if you vary your ingredients a bit. Sometimes I feel like using different herbs, more onions, fewer peppers, a new type of zucchini, etc. etc.

Waters’ recipe allowed me to experiment while honoring the integrity of the flavor and consistency of fresh vegetables. In other words, she made my dreams come true. No wilted zucchini, no pulverized eggplant, no rubbery tomatoes resulted when I proceeded in a certain way—even if I did make my own substitutions. Ultimately, dear Alice taught me a great lesson: it all boils down to the order of things.

You must cook the eggplant first, then remove it, allowing it to soak up enough olive oil to have flavor and heft, but protecting it from your whirling wooden spoon and from the hard-bodied peppers and squash that might otherwise turn it into mash during the cooking process. Then, you must add onions; garlic and herbs; peppers; zucchini and tomatoes in that order, as it coincides with how long each vegetable will take to cook down to an equivalent consistency. When you’ve done it right, each vegetable will retain its integrity, suspended in a warm, salty and basil-tasting tomato sauce.

Finally, something all good cooks know, but that must be said: make sure that all of the pieces of produce you put in the pot are equal in size. That will ensure even cooking even if your ingredients are varied in consistency.

Le voila, un ratatouille parfait… there are so many possible versions, but a few essential steps.

Classic Ratatouille

Serves 6-8

Adapted from “The Art of Simple Food”

(Do this in a heavy-bottomed skillet over medium heat. Cut ALL vegetables into ½ inch pieces.)

3 Italian eggplant, sliced, salted and left to drain 20 minutes
Large can San Marzano tomatoes
2 chopped, red onions
4 tbsp olive oil, divided (plus more if necessary)
6 diced cloves of garlic
20 basil leaves, divided
1 tsp red chili flakes
2 chopped peppers (red, yellow, green or orange)
5 summer squash or zucchini (mix and match as you choose)
Additional herbs of your choice

__

Sauté eggplant in 2 tbsp olive oil until tender and golden, about 10 minutes.
Use juice from the canned tomatoes to deglaze pan, scraping brown bits into the eggplant mixture as you cook them—chances are they will start to brown the pan before they are cooked, and you don’t want to burn them or lose the flavor of the brown bits. Once cooked, transfer eggplant to a bowl.

Pour remaining tablespoons of olive oil into the pan to sauté onions. Cook until golden and translucent, about 8 minutes.

Add garlic, about 10 basil leaves and red chili flakes to the onions and stir a few minutes.

Add chopped peppers and cook until just softened, stirring constantly.

Add zucchini, and cook until golden and just softened, stirring constantly.

Add remaining tomato juice and tomatoes.

Season with herbs of your choice (or just salt and pepper) and cook another 3 minutes.

Add eggplant and cook another 10 minutes until vegetables are soft, but not insubstantial. If some remain too al dente, cover pot and simmer a few extra minutes.

As a side note, I like to serve this with a grilled cheese sandwich, preferably one made from Anima goat-cheese Gruyère on a toasted French baguette. For those of us working without a Panini maker, it’s easy enough to flatten out a thick sandwich like this between two piping hot skillets and a couple of pats of butter.

Ingredients:

1 eggplant, peeled and cut into 1 inch cubes * 2 red peppers, cut the same * 15 oz can of whole, stewed tomatoes in juice * your favorite herbs * olive oil * sea salt * pepper

I lay all of the sliced vegetables onto a baking tray and coated them with a drizzle of olive oil. I then cut each stewed tomato in half over the baking sheet so that the juice would fall directly onto the peppers and eggplant. When I was finished, I tossed the veggies with some of the remaining juice, sprinkled them with sea salt and pepper and doused them in Rosemary. This was baked at 400 degrees for about 40 minutes then rotated and mixed a bit to distribute the juices.Some recipes advocate pureeing this into a spread. I disagree. I like it chunky and tossed over salad. A splash of balsamic vinegar can really draw out the flavor and will be wonderfully absorbed by the spongy eggplant flesh. It’s almost as carniverous as a duck confit…

I bought them skinless, with bones in an attempt to add flavor to the Pomegranate Chicken Tagine recipe I’d selected. I decided to use white meat, though the recipe called for thighs. As a long-time vegetarian just stepping into the light of my carnivorous appetite, I am still afraid of the dark. So I passed on the thighs. Tonight I’ll make bison to compensate for chickening out on chicken… I am still stewing over my misstep.

The farmers market had fat, lumpy strawberries on offer (every week I hold my breath that the season will have ended) and an abundance of that voracious plant that never ceases growing–mint. I’ve hesitated to plant mint in my own yard out of fear that it will take over the entire property. So I bought a controlled bunch and as many strawberries as I could afford with cash on hand. I put them to use in a salad with almonds I browned in the toaster.

When cooking, I added a one-pound eggplant to the tagine to sop up the pomegranate juice and to hold some of the sugar from the prunes and apricots called for by the recipe.

Chicken tagine for dinner and dessert! It was really the sweetest main course I’ve ever eaten…

But I admit, I should have gone whole hog with the thighs. I could be licking my chops with enhanced glee. Alas. Otherwise, I do recommend adding the eggplant–and double the fruits / onions / cilantro / ginger for flavor. You can never have too much flavor, I’ve decided, ruefully regretting my breast meat abomination. I look forward to making this dish next winter, when I can sprinkle fresh pomegranate seeds on top along with the little toasted sesame seeds that speckle the dish.