It’s difficult to not become slightly enamored with the eggplant when you peruse Yotam Ottolenghi’s cookbooks. His eggplant is a crowning piece, resplendent and as he coins it, “mighty.” This is a sensuous, regal eggplant, proudly dressed in a purple casing. Smooth and glossy with firm skin and a spongy, creamy interior, its shape reminds me of womanly curves. When I think of eggplants, though, three images come to mind: ratatouille, the decadent eggplant chunks hidden in the falafel and shawarma from L’As du Falafel, and the Japanese ginger soy sauce dish my mother always prepares. The eggplant is my favorite component of a ratatouille. At L’As du Falafel it is deep fried and swelling with oil and spices: the pieces melt in your mouth like the best jamon iberico. My mother sautés eggplant with copious amounts of fresh ginger for a spicy finish, and serves the dish in a delicate porcelain bowl.
 
I recommend soaking eggplant pieces in cold water for ten minutes to remove the bitter flavors. Soaking it in salted water also prevents oxidization (I do the same with cut apples), or if you like you can sprinkle salt on the slices of eggplant, wait a half hour or so, squeeze some of the liquid out, and rinse. I’ve had a few bad days with the eggplant, when its deceptive skin hides a browned interior. You’ve probably mostly seen large emu-egg shaped eggplants, though they do vary in color and size. Their coloration ranges from white and light violet to darker purple shades. There are the small round eggplants, the medium-sized Italian kind, or the Japanese, which are narrow and slender.
 

KEEP READING & EATING

 

 
We say that New York kitchens are small. They require gymnastics of the body, elbows tucked-in, and backside bumping is inevitable when there are two cooks. True, they are often these narrow, somber, rectangular spaces that look more like hallways for minuscule people than actual feeding grounds. In Philadelphia I was spoiled, like a queen in my kitchen overlooking a vast green garden (not mine, but still) I could juggle many pots and roll out the largest and thinnest piecrusts on the massive counter space. My roommates and I would cook three at a time without stepping on one another’s territory. Fried eggs with toast, walnut tomato pesto, apple-cheddar pies. Last year was a little harder, but there was enough room and even a window overlooking New York rooftops. We had a somewhat functioning oven, a sizeable fridge, and four efficient burners. It got cozy and we took turns, like going to the bathroom. Then I moved to Brooklyn, and I found myself breathing again, twirling in the kitchen, walking with actual strides rather than the one-step forward shuffling I did in Chelsea, my hips hitting the counter by accident, my shirt always splashed wet from the sink.
 

KEEP READING & EATING