Fried eggplant: Something new, something old, something learned

There are two kinds of people in the world: the kind who can take simplicity at face value and those of us who can turn a morning greeting a theological moment.

How are you?

Is it a lie if I say I'm fine?

Do I tell this unsuspecting coworker who or may not even know my last name that my heart is aching and so is my left hip, that I didn't get much sleep, that I am wondering if maybe I should move my family to Spain. Oh, and I think I'm getting fat. And sometimes, despite my good intentions, I wish I were rich. But I don't know very many happy rich people, so maybe that isn't the answer. But I'm convinced that I could be the exception, I could be that happy rich person. Or how about just flush. Flush isn't really rich now is it? Flush is just paying the bills with a sense of nonchalance and maybe a weensy bit of flair. And also, I'm worried that I'm getting fat.

Fine, I'm fine. And you?

Obviously, since I've managed to stay employed for most of my adult life, I've learned to navigate the morning-greeting minefield. (If it has never occurred to you that morning greetings could be a minefield then I'm guessing that you also appreciate a fine shortbread and eat your hamburgers with a bun without ever spending time wondering whether you should go with the west-coast-style mayo and onions, or mushrooms and blue cheese, or ketchup and relish, which is all good, but how and when do you get the mustard on there?)

How are you? I answer fine, but a little part of me always feels like I'm cheating.

Until, recently, my cooking has followed suit. What, three items and a two-minute prep? Impossible. What are you hiding? Where are the secret ingredients buried?

But then, somewhere along the way, my outside life started to get more complicated than my inner musings. Three kids, three jobs, elder care, dogs with issues, loved ones with issues, issues with issues. And the more complicated my outside life gets the fewer theological moments I have.

The mornings are easy now. I'm fine. And you? It's an honest answer. There is no time, energy or mental capacity for anything else.

As for cooking, simplicity now seems, well, simple. Simple and honest.

So, I've been frying eggplant.

And in turn, the eggplant is schooling me. My own personal little serene, half-smiling, incense-wafting, red-robed guy who would lead me to understand peaceful, simplistic bliss? Well, for me, that guy turned out to be an eggplant.

Here is what I've learned: It takes a while to draw the bitterness out. You can't rush it, but it is worth the wait. You can curry and coconut and stuff and scrape, but just know that you are doing that for your own toodles. Eggplants themselves need no such shenanigans.

I started with breadcrumbs because when I make eggplant parm I always want to stand at the stove and eat all the eggplant pieces as soon as they come out of the oil. So why not skip the parm pretensions?

The first night that I made them, they were good, but they still stung the tongue just a bit at the end of the bite. The second time, I sliced them thinner, maybe about the thickness of two stacked checkbooks. Then arranged them on a plate and sprinkled both sides liberally with salt. And then, pay attention this is the important part, I forgot about them. Instead of the usual rush rush, they sat over in the corner of the kitchen having some sort of salt-induced therapy session. When I found them an hour later, they were soaked, having wept out all their bitterness. I rinsed them. Patted them dry. Dipped them in a quick bath of egg and milk and then pressed them into the Italian breadcrumbs. Then into the hot olive oil until they were golden.

They were sweet from end to end. Hot cream and crunch. The leftovers went into the fridge and came out the next day as a cold side dish.

My mother was visiting, and she told me that the eggplant reminded her of my great-grandmother Pearl. Grandma Pearl made a similar eggplant, but no breadcrumbs. It was very simple, my mother said. Just a little egg and milk, salt and pepper and then into the olive oil.

Grandma Pearl was a Turkish Jew. A woman I can see only through the borrowed memory of a black-and-white photograph. There she is with a kind gaze and swept-up graying bun holding me, an infant wrapped tightly in her grandma arms. And yet, of all my ancestors, it is this line, the Spanish-Turkish Jews, that I feel the most connected to at that tug-your-bones level. The level that makes you do things like look for answers in an eggplant. And cook it once a week even though no one else will eat it.

So last night I tried Grandma Pearl's approach. I left the eggplant in the salt for an hour and then rinsed and dried them. I cracked pepper and sprinkled salt into a mixture of two scrambled eggs and a dash of milk. Then I dunked the disks and put them in the hot oil. It took a while, but they turned a glowing burnt-sunset brown. I pulled them out and put them on paper towels. All except one. This I tore apart with singed fingers and popped into my mouth. Without the breadcrumbs there was nothing to mask the essentials. I could taste the fruity sweetness of the olive oil against the deeper sweetness of the creamy center. Both came alive with bits of salt and a whisper of pepper. It needed nothing else. And neither did I.