The making of ratatouille

"Artichoke!"
"Are you wise in the ways of eggplants?"

I quote verbatim from an IM conversation with Firinnteine's sister. I asked about eggplants because I am not wise in their ways; I bought one yesterday for the first time at our friendly neighborhood grocery store. It didn't glow ripely, sitting in the produce section with a sort of gold halo like an icon in a painting, which would have been nice, but the recipe called for an eggplant and the others were definitely more bunged-up. I ran into a patient while I was contemplating it and had a nice chat with her. I also had to rescue a bell pepper that leaped off its shelf between us. But eventually I bought my eggplant and red bell pepper and yellow bell pepper and zucchini and nice crusty bread, and had just pulled out of the store driveway onto the main road, when I realized I'd forgotten the tomatoes.

Oh bother. Well, I figured I'd just go fill my gas tank and make the loop back to the store. But the gas station was completely full (it was two cents less a gallon than the neighboring gas stations), so I made the loop without getting gas and bought the tomatoes. I went for tomatoes on-the-vine, both because they were the best price and because tomatoes on-the-vine have a je ne sais quoi about them. In French, that's "sur-le-vigne," and if that phrase doesn't make you want to cha-cha up and down the produce aisle, I don't know what will. While pretending I wasn't dancing, I ran into Becca, who was also buying supplies for dinner. I eventually removed myself and my tomatoes sur-le-vigne, smiling sheepishly at the same checker guy I'd seen a minute before, and got myself out of the store. The gas station did have a space this time and so I stopped there, feeling rather like a rat in a cage going round and round town, and finally I made it home with all my vegetables and bread.

I was going to make RATATOUILLE. The rat chef inspired me. "It is a peasant dish," but I'm a bit of a peasant, so that's cool. I saw the movie last weekend, and spent my (only two!) days at work before the Fourth researching various recipes online until I felt I had a good grip on what it is and how it is made. (It's always rather amusing researching recipes at work, because one can consult with Becca and the good doctor and various patients and you never know what you're going to learn. I had the fun of discussing both the recipe and the movie with one patient who had actually been to the same showing of the movie as I and then turned up at the office opportunely. He had no particular interest in the recipe; he was more concerned with the hidden pictures in the June Highlights. But Becca and I got off onto Javanese potlucks.)

So I'd copied down a recipe, making various annotations from other recipes that I liked the sound of better, and now the time had come, the Saturday fit for cooking, when I'd start it. I'd also baked cookies that afternoon which had not been a success. I think they needed more flour or oats. They sort of fainted in the oven heat and went really, really flat. But did I allow one mixed success to turn aside my determination to make RATATOUILLE? No, I did not! The moral of the movie is that anyone can cook! I had my vegetables! I was going to stew them!

Roight. Olive oil in a Dutch oven: check. Sliced onions sauted in said Dutch oven and olive oil: check. Diced bell peppers: check. Diced zucchini: check. I think mine was a cucumber, but close enough. The heat was going and the veggies were cooking.

The time came for the important, the un-haloed, the mysterious eggplant. I got the thing washed and inspected it, knife in hand. It was a nice dark purple, slightly waxy. Finally I saw why they persist in calling sweaters and corduroy pants "eggplant": they really are that color. My specimen had a sort of hairy green starfish plastered to the smaller end, that presumably began life as its leaves and stem. I raised my knife--and paused.

Were you supposed to peel the thing?

I checked the recipe I'd written down. Of course it didn't mention peeling one way or the other. Now, I've always heard that in third-world countries you need to peel your vegetables or else soak them in iodine or else risk getting some horrible disease. I wasn't too afraid of horrible diseases, not from the friendly neighborhood grocery store where my patients shop, but the peeling could be...poisonous. Or bitter. Or just not edible.

When in doubt, poke it. I squashed an eggplant-colored surface experimentally. It smooshed slightly, like any normal plant. Hmm.

So I did what anyone in my place would have done and went to the computer. Maybe the omniscient Google could tell me. But wait! Instant messenger was up, and Ben was on! When it comes to food I definitely trust Ben over Google, so I shot him my random inquiry. But he didn't answer. Bummer. But just then Firinnteine's sister IMed me, mentioning artichokes, so I thought it worthwhile to ask her about the eggplant. She didn't really know about eggplants either, though she said there'd been one in her kitchen recently, until it molded. I resorted to Google and as far as I could tell, people peeled it about half the time and didn't peel it when they were afraid the innards might disintegrate (like if they were grilling it) or if they wanted to be extra healthy.

I, of course, avoid healthy recipes like the plague, so I immediately resolved to peel it. I told Firinnteinne's sister so and she said I just wanted to play with knives. Well, of course. I've got a really good paring knife. On that friendly note I went back to my cozily bubbling Dutch oven full of olive oil, onion, bell pepper, and cucumber, and attacked the eggplant.

I chopped off the hairy starfish and started skinning the remnant. It was whitish inside and kind of spongy, almost apple-like, and turned dark quickly when exposed to air. I cubed it and noted that it had lines of little black seeds in it like a banana. So I chucked my apple-banana-vegetable-bits in the Dutch oven and dealt with the tomatoes I'd gone to so much effort to procure.

Tomatoes, sur-le-vigne, on the cutting board! Slice, slice, in-the-pot! Slice, slice, in-the-pot! One, two, cha-cha-cha! A bit of water, a bit of simmering, a few scraps of basil and parsley and thyme, a slice of nice crusty bread, and voila!

Behold the RATATOUILLE.

Recipe:
olive oil
2 onions
2 bell peppers, of whatever colors please your soul
1 zucchini
1 eggplant
3 or 4 tomatoes
water
A sprinkling each of parsley, basil, thyme, and garlic
Salt and ground black pepper to taste

Slice or chop everything. Saute the onion in the olive oil until clear. Keep adding ingredients, from hardest to softest, letting it cook a little between each ingredient, and adding water so it doesn't stick to the Dutch oven. Add herbs and simmer until everything is soft but not falling apart. Salt and pepper to taste. Serve with nice crusty bread.