Ratatouille

It’s a really good thing I got interested in cooking, or else I would have spent all of last July eating stuck-together spaghetti with a bit of jarred sauce.

Let me explain.

As those who have been following this blog for a reasonable amount of time may know, I spent this past July helping an old French tutor jump-start a language program in Southwestern France. She and her brother bought a house in the tiny town of Paziols, an hour away from Perpignan. She, her nephew Alex, Alex’s sometimes-present father Wolf, four of Anne-Marie’s brightest early-teenage students and I went down to the old vineyard house this summer for the month to experiment, to see what could be done in the area and to make plans for next year, when she will run two programs, one in July, one in August, with the help of Alex, me, and some of the kids who were campers last year.

Tangent. Back to the ratatouille. You see, when we arrived all bedraggled (this was right after my backpacking trip through Western Europe), and drove the hour out to the house, there really wasn’t anything to eat. Alex made a pot of pasta, but didn’t use enough water and overcooked it (can’t blame him… he’s French. His mother has been cooking for him for his entire life). That and some cheese was our dinner, and I knew right away that things were going to have to change. I need my vegetables.

Later on, I spoke with Anne-Marie, cautiously bringing up the idea of teaching the kids how to make some typical French dishes while we were there. She loved the idea and asked for suggestions, and the first thing that my vitamin deprived body thought of was ratatouille. She and I set out for the tiny épicerie, and she picked out some of the best summer vegetables. We got home, she pulled out an apron, and handed it to me.

What?

Apparently, this Frenchwoman considered herself a New Yorker. She made a mean quiche Lorraine, but I was going to be making this ratatouille… if I could figure it out. I started slicing the vegetables semi-confidently, wondering how in the world I was going to pull this off. OK. Think. Think like Alton Brown: food is science.

Onions in first, sweat them a bit, bring out the natural sweetness. A little garlic… hell, who am I kidding? A lot of garlic. I need all the help I can get. Then the eggplant… that takes longer than zucchini… right? Oh well… it’s seared now on both sides and nice and brown, so in goes the zucchini. That’s brown… now some tomatoes. How many? Who knows. I add two, then three, mush them down and try to create some semblance of a sauce. I cheat and reach for the tomato paste because it doesn’t look like enough, and then I toss in a few more tomatoes, just to be safe. Also because I ate half of the first ones while I was slicing them… they were summer tomatoes, and I couldn’t help it. Herbes de provence, salt and pepper. And then Alex is over my shoulder.

“Tu sais cuisiner?” You know how to cook?

“Un peu.” A little. Sometimes I set off the fire alarm, and I’ve undercooked chicken and had to throw it back under the broiler. I keep that tidbit to myself.

“Ca sent bon.” Smells good. It does, like onions and garlic. I wish I could taste it, but the kitchen is too central to do it without anyone catching me, so I feign confidence, prod a piece of zucchini with a fork, and declare it done.

Apparently, the ratatouille went over well: I decided what to cook for the rest of the summer. Anne-Marie taught all the kids to make mayonnaise and salad dressing from scratch, but all summer, my greatest pride was still in that first dinner. I still don’t use a recipe for ratatouille… every time I make it in my tiny Paris kitchen, I remember my experiment in the house in Paziols, and I feel like a real cook… before I burn cupcakes while I’m giving myself a manicure again.