Eggplant has long been the bane of my culinary existence.

It grows in abundance in the tropics and so has been a constant at the markets for as long as I can remember. They are usually of the Asian variety, long and thin, pale purple or with stripes of white, small seeds. I’ve seen them growing on peoples fences along a busy road, plump but unattended on withered looking vines.

Stacks and stacks of them appear, neatly organized at the fresh markets when they are in high season, 6 or 8 sold for a dollar. And don’t think of asking for only a half a pile. Even if you are willing to pay full price. Because the purveyor will just look at you with bright eyes, and smile kindly, and answer “No. You take all.” They have picked and eaten enough eggplants already this season, they will not be taking any home with them at the end of the day.

Unwillingly, I always tip the stack into my bag, thinking that this time I will fall in love with eggplant.

I have tried, several times, to stew it, to stir-fry it, to sauté it, and to barbeque it into deliciousness but have never had much success. Dishes like eggplant parmigiana hold no attraction to me, too much work to simply have it be smothered in cheese and sauce, so I have never bothered.

Eggplant always absorbs oil like a sponge and then is either under cooked and greasy, or over cooked and greasy. Either way it is rather tasteless, except for the underlying bitterness that always lingers in the mouth.

I occasionally turn to a Middle Eastern chickpea stew that reminds me of a favourite shop in north end Halifax, near where I lived in college. I would get a serving of the glistening red concoction made fresh that afternoon, take-out container of labneh, and a package of pita bread, still warm from the bakery next door. I’d eat it as soon as I got home, standing at my kitchen counter, bread as a spoon dipping back and for the between the warm stew and the cold, thick yogurt. However, no matter what recipe I follow or what type of eggplant I use mine is never as good as the original. The one made by the old woman, the mother, the sister who had been cooking eggplant for years, her whole life.

And so, eggplant is a battle I had long left behind. Or so I thought.

Recently I’ve been on a bit of a hummus kick but the other day I couldn’t find a tin of chick peas onboard and didn’t want to wait a whole day to soak and cook a packet of dried chick peas. (Yes, I know you can pressure cook beans without pre-soaking them, but chick peas never seem to soften quite enough for hummus when I use that method.) I was on my way to the market and upon arrival found eggplants dotting the stalls. I chose three stout looking oblongs and brought them home with a plan.I’ll revisit another old fav, I thought. Babaganoush.

Traditionally one should roast the eggplants, glistening with oil, in a hot oven.

Living in a small sailboat in the tropics I often find a work-around for any recipe that calls for me to light my probably older than me, should just be called a space heater, oven. Babaganoush is no exception. Roasting them in a blisteringly hot heavy pan (mine is cast iron) on the stove top works just as well.

Simply cut the eggplants in half and maybe quarters, depending on the size of your eggplants and your pan. Oil the pan generously and place the eggplant cut side down until it is charred and smoky and looks nearly inedible. Then flip them over and repeat the process, occasionally covering them to trap the heat and help steam them through.

When the eggplant is blackened and soft enough that it barely holds on a fork when you pick it up, remove from the heat and place it into a large bowl. Cover the bowl with a plate or another lid or a piece of plastic wrap if you must. If you have a lot of eggplant and a smaller pan simply work in batches.

Let the eggplants hang out in the covered bowl until cool enough to touch but still slightly warm. Tip them onto a cutting board and using a fork, spoon, and your fingers remove the flesh from the skins. As you work, pick out any stray pieces of chewy skin but leave in all the lovely charred bits and make sure not to let any of the deep brown liquid that leaks out escape from the board. Work quickly.

When there is a pile of floppy skins on one side, and a mound of soft flesh on the other tip the skins into the compost and the flesh and juices back into the bowl they steamed in. Add a few cloves of garlic – roasted or confit is my preferred for their mellow flavour. When I haven’t been thinking ahead, a few less cloves of freshly grated garlic will do just fine. A generous grind of salt and pepper, a couple overflowing soup spoons of tahini and the juice of half a lemon. If limes are all I have I use those, orange juice with a splash of vinegar in a real pinch. Blend into a uniform paste. Taste and add additional tahini, lemon, and salt as required.

I would usually blend babaganoush into silky spread with a food processor. But on days like today, when it is raining…again and we have to run the generator to keep up with the fridge, I use a small masher or a fork. I am not a stickler for ultra smooth when it comes to the dips and spreads category. Living with very few plug-in galley tools until recently (shout out to Steve for buying me THE BEST food processor for my bday a few years ago) ultra smooth always felt like a complete luxury. And besides, sometimes a bit of texture in life is a good thing.

I’ll admit that babaganoush isn’t much to look at.

But it is garlicky and creamy and so comforting that it doesn’t matter that you are eating grey mush.

I personally think babaganoush should be forkable, robust. I want to taste the char and the garlic. You might prefer it to be thinner, less lemon. I like to eat it, still warm, on crackers with strategic drips of hot sauce, and cold, sometimes straight from the jar on said fork. This will keep in my fridge for a few days, probably up to a week if it had the chance.

Babaganoush, it turns out, is suitable stand in for hummus, and the perfect balm for a grey rainy day.

Love,

H&S