In the meantime, he caught this fish:

He caught several fish last weekend, so I know his casting isn’t a fluke either.

I married up.

Come dinner, I felt like I had a first class ticket to an old lady’s house in Tripoli. No jet lag. I was wrong to think that the magical combination of Middle Eastern spices could only be had in some far away place–or at a restaurant owned by someone from a far away place. As it turns out, Christopher substitutes fine for a Lebanese grandmother.

I watched him make these on July 4th. It looks pretty simple, and requires only things my parent’s already had in their spice rack. The only critical component was leaving enough time for the spices to enliven the lamb. He made the meatballs after lunch, and let them sit until dinner. On the grill, they get crispy outsides, but hold up fine, even without breadcrumbs or yolks. We served these with a simple yogurt, cucumber and dill sauce.  Some call it tzatziki.

Lamb Kafta

4 cloves garlic

1 tablespoon kosher salt, plus a pinch

1 pound ground lamb

3 tablespoons grated onion

3 tablespoons chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley

1 tablespoon ground coriander

1 teaspoon ground cumin

1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1/2 teaspoon ground allspice

1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper

1/4 teaspoon nutmeg

1/2 teaspoon curry powder

1/4 teaspoon ground ginger

Freshly ground black pepper

Olive oil, for brushing the grill

__

Dice the garlic as finely as possible, then rub in sea salt to form a paste, using the flat-side of a knife.

Add the spices, onion, garlic and parsley to a large bowl and mix completely.

Add the ground lamb to the spices and mix until fully blended.

Roll into 1/2″ patties and refrigerate, at least 3 hours.

Grill for 3-4 minutes per side.

But it’s a funny thing, the bean. So many legumes satisfy me in ways that nothing else can—refried, they fill me in a ½ c flat. In soups, I need a scant cup. Just a few pods of edamame and my belly swells. But no humble bean can match the might of pureed garbanzos, swirled with sesame paste. The rich, nutty combination puts my gut at ease—and keeps it there for a long time, which is a good thing when you’re hearing stomach rumblings at 10:30am (as I often do), but not so pretty when you’re preparing dinner for company and are looking forward to dessert.

I’ve mastered the art of hummus making, I dare say, largely because of my friend Carlos, who whips his up with some garbanzo juice (whether from boiling or from the aluminum jar) to lighten the oil load. The dip is no less satisfying, just slightly less unctuous. Throw in some garlic, roasted or raw, a lot of lemon and a generous scoop of tahini, and you’re on your way to healthful satisfaction. I’ve found—gasp—that a tablespoon or two of humus even kills a chocolate craving.

Because I don’t have a lot of self control, and making a batch of anything involves innumerable licks of the spoon, I try to make this on an empty stomach and around mealtime. I’d say I lose a conservative ¼ cup during the hummus making process, which is a guaranteed appetite-spoiler. I might have room for a small salad or a soup after that, but certainly nothing substantial. The point is, this is an extraordinary little dish—an energy powerhouse. When people try to argue that vegetarians don’t get enough nourishment, I wonder if they’re crazy—or if, perhaps, they’re not so well acquainted with beans.

On another note, we planted garbanzos in the Rodriguez Elementary school garden, and guess how? By opening a bag of dried beans! They’ve since grown into the most exotic, majestic looking plants, and have dropped fuzzy pods, each one suspending its very own shriveled chickpea, soon to be a glorious garbanzo.

Simple Hummus

4 c cooked chickpeas (or 2x 15 oz cans)
½ c cooking liquid (or juice from can)
1 ½ large lemons, juiced
2 raw garlic cloves, minced
3 ½ tbsp tahini
3 tbsp olive oil

In a food processor or blender, combine the beans, garlic, lemon juice, olive oil and tahini, adding chickpea liquid a tablespoon at a time to loosen the mixture.
Season with salt and pepper and garnish with parsley.

*If you’re not sure what kind of hummus you like, you can add the garlic, lemon juice, tahini and olive oil in small doses and taste along the way until you’ve reached the desired thickness. NOTE: If you do this, you will quickly become full. Goofy, but true.

No matter how beautiful—or how well their flavor stands up to their wan, grocery store brethren—these early tomato specimens don’t thrill me the way a sun-ripened fruit might. But that’s ok, because the weather here has still been dipping at night, and I’m not yet averse to turning on the oven and coaxing a little sweetness out of my preemptive tomatoes. In a few months, when the season is at its peak, I’ll eat nearly everything raw. But for now, roasted tomatoes with a dash of sugar are a total pleasure, especially if you gussy them up a bit, say with some basil, peppers and a dash of cream.

I’m also highly inclined towards soup in the evenings. It is the epitome of comfort to slowly spoon your dinner—savoring each bite by necessity. I wish I were capable of eating slower in general, in which case food would probably satisfy me more quickly. Alas, I am not. Instead, I play tricks on myself, like roasting and pureeing and making things boil in order that I might enjoy them for a slightly longer period. It doesn’t always work: right now, I have a burnt tongue, for example.

But what is better, a blistered mouth or the stomach ache I’m guaranteed through July and August, when I go about devouring quarts of gazpacho? I think it’s a symptom of having been to prep school, where dinner lasted fifteen minutes and I spent four years rushing to get my marinara and penne  down in time for study hall. There are some things I savor: wine, chocolate, cheese (whatever wine, chocolate and cheese I consumed in high school was undoubtedly of low quality). For some reason, I spend the warmer months of my adult life rushing at the tomato—perhaps because they come and go, apparently abundant, and then notably absent for so long. Well, my cup runneth over with spring and I really do need to take a deep breath and give thanks for modern technology: God bless the hoop house and all its advances.

This soup put to use a few other things, lurking locally: some fennel from the garden, and basil, too. I also have lots of onions on hand, and loads of roasted red peppers, a jarred recollection of August 2009. The recipe is a rendition of one I read in my favorite vegetarian food blog, 101 cookbooks, although I’m not shy about swirling in a bit of cream at the end. Roasted tomatoes and cream… who needs strawberries?

Roasted Tomato Soup with Basil and Bell Peppers

2-3 pounds of tomatoes, any kind, cored and halved or quartered, depending on size
1 c roasted red peppers
(alternatively, you can roast two raw peppers alongside your tomatoes)

1 fennel bulb, sliced
3 medium yellow onions, quartered
1 head of garlic, generously coated in olive oil
3 cups of stock—vegetable or chicken
1 c basil, torn plus 1 T chiffonade for garnish
2 t turbinado sugar
2 T olive oil
1 t balsamic vinegar
Heavy cream for garnish
s & p

__

Heat oven to 375.

In a large bowl, coat tomatoes and sliced fennel with olive oil.

Spread evenly across two baking sheets, placing the tomatoes on one sheet and the onions, fennel and garlic on another.

Sprinkle with salt and roast about 20 minutes, or until vegetables begin to soften.

Drizzle balsamic vinegar and sugar across tomatoes and rotate both pans.

Cook an additional 25 minutes, or until caramelized.

While vegetables cool somewhat, bring broth to a simmer and cover.

When garlic cloves are cool enough to handle, squeeze them from their skins.

Place ingredients in a blender and puree until smooth, working in small batches to prevent heat-related injuries.

Just before serving, reheat blended soup and garnish with cream and basil.

Alternatively, allow to cool completely and serve chilled.

But the garden at the school where I teach has changed all of that. And it’s not just parsley that is growing like delicious kudzu: it’s basil, dill, cilantro, mint and rosemary. I am embarrassed to admit to my former ignorance here, but herbs are not limited to being tiny sprouts—they can be vegetation at its most expansive.

This herbal bounty is something I have never enjoyed. In fact, I’ve always sort of detested fresh herbs, if only because a bunch can cost upwards of $5 to enhance a single dish before slipping into the darkest corner of my crisper, only to be found black and mushy months later. I wonder how many dollars have rotted in my refrigerator in the form of un-tapped flavor. Those were the herbs that I cursed.

What I really should have regretted was my dependence on the grocery store. But thanks be to the parsley shrub, I have been set free. Herbs growing in this quantity never go bad because they are always content: sucking water, swaying in the breeze, happily rooted and alive. Now that I have them, I never cook without them. I even keep bunches on my dashboard to keep the car smelling good. Try that with an overpriced basil leaf.

I feel wealthy, really. Sort of spoiled. But I have vastly changed my view of planting: I’ll never have a garden without rows of my favorites: basil, parsley, oregano, thyme and dill. I will plant them like lettuce. I realize that someday I may not be lucky enough to have herbs growing so abundantly in March, in which case, I’ll be sure to build an extra bed so that my summer crop can be dried and hoarded through a more traditional winter.

So what do I do with so many herbs to spare? Aside from making everything with meunière sauce, I like to make dips. Pesto is an obvious choice, but some parsley butter can be just as satisfying—especially when spread on a homegrown radish. I was recently inspired by Melissa Clark’s Greek Goddess dip, a spin off the more typical Green Goddess dip. She made it in anticipation of the Super bowl, which was easily accommodated by my Texas garden. That said, if I ever live on the east coast again, I won’t be making this much before June.

If you can’t wait for the season, or simply don’t have the requisite herbs growing nearby, make enough of this dip to use up whatever fresh herbs you buy: it’s really extraordinary stuff and  will practically guarantee that those extra basil leaves don’t rot forgotten.

Herb Dip with Feta and Greek Yogurt

Adapted from Melissa Clark, Serves 6-8

½ cup packed fresh dill
½ cup packed fresh mint
½ cup packed fresh parsley
½ cup packed fresh basil
2 garlic cloves, chopped
2 scallions, white and green parts, sliced
1 ½ tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice
½ cup extra virgin olive oil
½ cup crumbled feta cheese
½ cup Greek yogurt (preferably 2%)
1/4 c cream cheese, optional
Salt and pepper to taste

Raw chopped vegetables (radishes!) or pita chips, for serving.

Place herbs, garlic, scallions, lemon juice and a pinch of salt in a food processor, pulsing until finely chopped.

With food processor on low, drizzle in olive oil until blended. Add feta and pulse until smooth. Add cream cheese (if using), and pulse until smooth. Finally, pulse in yogurt. Add salt, pepper and lemon juice according to your taste.

Serve dip cold with vegetables or pita chips. This dip can be stored in the refrigerator for a few days—it also goes well on a toasted onion bagel for lunch.

I met the pair just before Christmas, when the weather was beginning to nip a bit. They came to Houston for an event that Recipe for Success was holding at a new restaurant called Canopy. The chef cooked recipes inspired by their book “In Late Winter We Ate Pears,” a chronicle of falling in love while following a hunger trail. I didn’t eat the food that night because I was helping to the event run smoothly, but I did sneak into the back, buy the cookbook, head home, and drink almost an entire bottle of wine while losing myself in a Mediterranean love affair.

I finished the book the next day and even managed to meet Caleb and Deidre for a drink at Anvil, a favorite bar that serves esoteric, antique cocktails, which—as it so happens—are one of Deidre’s specialties. The two-day whirlwind of book reading and author-meeting gave me a very clear sense of fate: Deidre and Caleb own one of the restaurants where Christopher and I flirted over pizza during weekends when we escaped the quiet Dartmouth campus and went to the (even quieter) town of Woodstock. Their restaurant, Osteria Pane e Salute is in the center of Woodstock—just a short walk from the church where we got married in October. Christopher and I spoke to Deidre about wine years ago while eating at the counter, though at the time I had no idea that cooking and growing food would become such serious habits of mine.

And then she reappeared, full of uncanny ties to my life. I first met she and Caleb amid sawdust and cherry pickers as restaurant workers tried desperately to get Canopy ready for the event that evening. Connections to food and gardening were unearthed, and I invited them to join me in the classroom that afternoon, where my co-teacher and I would be making pizza, pesto and tomato sauce with our students. After observing the garden and the classroom kitchen, Deidre spent some time deconstructing a recipe with a rather pouty 3rd grader while Caleb showed a group of 5th graders how to make the perfect dough: not too sticky, not too dry.

Later that night they disappeared into the bright lights of Canopy, while I snuck out through a dark back door after the last guests were seated. Don’t get me wrong: it exactly what I wanted to do. Somehow I knew that the book they’d written would make my own path clearer. I learned about their vineyard; their greenhouses; their own raised beds. I learned that they don’t grow certain things so that they can feature the produce of other local Vermont farmers. They keep Woodstock and its visitors warm and welcome year round—except when they head back to their own gastronomic homeland when winter becomes impossibly bleak.

There is a card on my desk that I bought for them at Christmastime that I keep meaning to send to commemorate our evening of retro drinks and everything that they have inspired me to remember. But I keep forgetting to send it. I’ve written more than one, in fact, since the Christmas card quickly became untimely. Instead of reaching out, I reach in: I’ve made almost a dozen recipes from their book and I dream of myself learning someday at their oven. I keep my fingers crossed that Christopher will go back to Dartmouth for business school, so that I can sneak away to Woodstock once again—going somewhere new and familiar all at the same time.

Which brings me back to tomato sauce. I always have a Ball jar full, waiting to be spread over all sorts of things in addition to pizza dough. I spoon it over baked yams, set it beside grilled fish or just dab some onto warm, buttered bread. Caleb and Deirdre have a wonderful recipe for wintertime pizza sauce, which I beef up with onions and serve as a full-blown tomato sauce perfect for pasta or as a thicker spread on pizza. It’s just right when you want something savory and “blessedly simple,” as Caleb describes. The sauce reminds me of the tastes of childhood, yet brings into relief all the delicious details of being an adult: the pleasure of watching garlic go gold; the glow of home-grown herbs on the countertop and the pride that comes from making something so good that people eat it straight from the jar, with a spoon.

Tomato Sauce

Inspired by “In Late Winter We Ate Pears”

1 15 oz can of crushed, concentrated plum tomatoes
3 garlic cloves, finely chopped
1 medium yellow onion, chopped
3 T tomato paste
1 T red wine vinegar
1 bunch fresh Oregano, chopped or 1 T dried
2 pinches crushed red pepper flakes
¼ c olive oil + 2 T
s & p to taste

In a medium sized sauce pan, sauté onion in 2 T olive oil until golden—about 6 minutes.

Add garlic and sauté until light brown—about 3 minutes.

Meanwhile, mix remaining ingredients together in a separate bowl.

When onion and garlic are ready, add tomato mixture and allow liquid to bubble.

Lower the heat and cook until sauce has reduced somewhat—or thin it out with 1 c water and use for pizza sauce.

It started, as with all great holiday seasons, on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. Giving myself over to a solid month and a half of revelry was not even a question and I smiled from ear to ear at the sound of that first POP. This year, I drank my weight in champagne. I can’t seem to get enough of the stuff, a predilection that was born about a year ago, when boxes of congratulatory bottles started rolling our way. Worried that our house would be buried in booze before the wedding even arrived, Christopher and I began slugging back the bubbly, a drink I had formerly considered outré on any night other than December 31. Well 2009 really was a year of changes. And I rang it out just as I’d rung it in: with a very effervescent belly.

New Year’s Day ended on a high, if slightly indulgent note, punctuated by my ordering (with embarrassing gusto) “S’mortinis!” Let me just tell you, the S’mortini is a toxic way to end an evening—or start a year for that matter. Cream, chocolate liquour, vodka and a Godiva swizzle stick are topped with toasted marshmallows floating about… not exactly health—or dignity—in a glass.

Saturday marked my final indulgence: all-I-could-eat General Tso’s and dumplings finished off with dozens of chocolates, Dots and Tootsie Roll Pops that had been smashed out of a piñata. Our friend James, in town from New York, had a craving to visit his boyhood again and we obliged by hanging a rainbow donkey in the threshold. We stuffed it greatly with candy—some of which I pilfered through a hole in the Ass. After the ceremonial smashing, the floor was littered with candy wrappers, the confetti falling mostly at my feet.

Well, one massive, pickled belly-aching body later, there I was, standing at the grocery store on Sunday morning, deciding that all of those January health nuts have something right after all… at least for a month or so. So here I am, grinning in a whole new way, two day deep in soup. I’ve had at least 8 cups by now. The stuff is better than any swill I swallowed from November to January 5.

Believe it or not, I’ve already finished the batch. I made it just two days ago and have been the only one to touch the stuff, yet merely a single bowl remains. If my skin turns orange, I shall wear it proudly as an all-body badge of righteousness and good health.

Cleansing aside, this is a delicious soup: it is entirely vegetarian, but could easily be supplemented with some pork salt or Parmesan. It is a thick, sage-y brew, full of bright spots of tomato and smooth Cannelini beans. I had it for dinner last night with some salmon and wished I’d invited someone over to share in my merriment.

Butternut Squash and Sage Soup

Adapted from Gourmet

Serves 6

1 large butternut squash, cut into ½” cubes
1 clove of garlic, minced
1-2 T sage, chopped (or to taste)
1 medium onion, diced
1 15 oz can of Cannellini beans
1 small can of whole tomatoes, chopped
1 Qt vegetable (or chicken) broth
2 T olive oil
S & P
Toasted pumpkin seeds (for garnish)
Parmesan (for garnish)

Heat olive oil in a large, heavy bottomed soup pot.

Add onion and cook over medium until translucent, about 10 to 15 minutes.

Add garlic and cook until slightly brown, about 4 minutes.

Deglaze pot with tomato juice from can then add squash, sage, tomatoes and broth.

Bring soup to a boil then turn down heat and simmer for thirty minutes or until squash is soft and broth has reduced somewhat.

To thicken soup, smash cubes of squash against the sides of the pot.

At this point soup can be refrigerated for up to 3 days. Reheat soup and add beans about 15 minutes before serving.

Garnish with sage and, toasted pumpkin seeds or Parmesan.

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.

Houston, Texas is another story. If you’ve ever gardened this far south, you know that the summer lasts a lot longer—and that ‘winter’ isn’t the same arctic affair as it may be up in places where snow and hail put the soil to sleep. When I gardened in Connecticut, it never crossed my mind to put anything in the ground as late as or November, but here I am, seeding lettuce near Halloween.

But beets, radishes and recently planted broccoli aside, this lack of cold does bring with it certain small tragedies—namely the pulling up of crops that don’t seem ready to go. It’s hard for me to believe, but I’ve actually had to unearth a tomato plant while fruit still dangled from its branches. It’s tempting to want to keep it in the ground, one of moments of defiance against inevitability, which I so often have while watching great, tragic films: maybe, just maybe, I think to myself, the director changed this particular DVD and made it a happy ending.

I’ve gone through it enough to know that there are certain things that simply must happen: Rosebud will burn and the tomatoes will inevitably tumble to the ground, leaving a dry, brown bush in their wake. I’d never thought of gardening as a violent sport, but this month it is: you have to know when to make room for the next crop, even if it means the jig is up for some of summer’s favorites.

This may fall on deaf ears for Yankees, (who I hear have been wearing winter coats for the last few days) but here in Houston, where the 90 degree weather just broke, it’s hard to imagine willfully ending the life of my favorite culinary fruit. But even the farmers don’t have them anymore: markets have moved on to string beans, mushrooms, garlic. And so this post is an ode to an old friend: a plant that gave me so much this summer—I roast to you.

These photos are from a few weeks back, but the tomatoes were just spectacular, ripe, red, gorgeous. They came from a place called Waldingfield Farm, where I once spent a summer twining unruly toms and learning to love the bitter, yellow chalk that graces the hands of any tomato plant handler. The tomatoes were soft and sweet, though their undersides had a slight crunch from caramelized sugar and their skins slipped off invitingly. Their insides were smooth, warm and a perfect mix of tangy and sweet.

I made these to serve on a bed of buttery orzo, flecked with parsley and pine nuts. Alongside was some roasted salmon, whose rich flakes were a nice compliment to the flavor of the tomatoes. And here’s the really wonderful thing: if you’re absolutely dying for the flavor of tomatoes, but you know all you can look forward to until next June or July are whitish, grainy things from the supermarket, fear not. Even mealy, tasteless tomatoes can be roasted into something good—enough time, heat, sugar, salt and herb oil will surely make you feel like summer graced your plate.

On that note, if you have a toaster and are making a small batch, definitely use it. Your small oven will heat much more quickly than its larger brethren, and will use up a lot less energy in the process.

Roasted Tomatoes with Herb Oil

For 4
Adapted from Gourmet

1 lb of tomatoes, halved lengthwise (use whatever variety you like best—even a medley
is nice here)
1 1/4 teaspoons turbinado or brown sugar
¾ tsp Kosher salt, divided
½ tsp black pepper, divided
1/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil
2 garlic cloves, finely chopped
10-12 fresh basil leaves
12 whole, fresh oregano leaves plus 3 tablespoons finely chopped
2 teaspoons fresh lemon zest
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice

__

Put oven rack in middle position and preheat oven to 250°F.

Toss tomatoes with sugar, half of salt and half of pepper and nestle together, cut sides down in a snug, shallow baking pan.

Heat oil in a heavy skillet over medium heat until hot but not smoking.

Cook garlic, stirring constantly, until golden. (About 2 minutes)

Add in basil and whole oregano leaves, and heat briefly.

Pour oil over tomatoes and roast 2-2 ½ hours until soft, but intact.

You can then transfer tomatoes to your serving dish and pour oil over them as is, or strain the oil first—I don’t mind a few sautéed herbs in my orzo, so I left them in.

Otherwise, pour oil through a fine-mesh sieve into a small bowl or measuring cup, discarding solids.

Stir in chopped oregano, zest, juice, and remaining 1/4 teaspoon salt and pepper, pour over tomatoes, and serve immediately.

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

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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.