Super Long Free Entry, Week 2

Eggplant Parmesan

      I always start with the sauce. I work in my galley kitchen that is much too small, endlessly shuffling things around to make them work. “You have to start with a good base!” My father would say, so I pour an extra virgin, first-cold pressed olive oil into the large saucepan. I add the garlic. It doesn’t take long for the aroma to hit my nose and so I add olives, red pepper flakes and capers. I used to measure these things out, but I can eyeball the amounts now. After a minute I toss in the tomatoes and let them simmer over a low heat. As I watch the tomatoes boil and pop I think back to when we were kids and my brother accidently broke the needle on our record player. My dad looked at us and said “Just tell me the truth and no one will get hurt. I just want to know what happened.” I didn’t see my brother break the needle, but it must have been him, because I knew I didn’t do it. And I convinced my brother to fess up. I can remember telling him that it was always better to tell the truth – to accept responsibility. My brother, with his bouncy blonde curls, saw the truth in my eyes. Resolved to do the right thing he made his way into the other room to tell my dad the truth. Then I remember hunching over myself, clasping my hands to my ears so as to drown out the thunder of my brother being thrown against the walls of the house. I think that was the last time my brother ever told the truth.

       I stir the pot, adding basil, salt and pepper. I should mention that this is not my father’s recipe. Not entriely. I watched him make eggplant parmesan countless times but I never thought to ask him how to make the sauce. Maybe I always thought I could ask him later. Or that I could easily pick out a substitute from the myriad of choices at the local grocer. After all, it was just sauce. But I’ve never been able to find anything that comes close. His sauce was surprisingly sweet and oniony. The only trick I learned from him was one time in the kitchen; he took a palm full of sugar and added it to the sauce. “This is the secret ingredient!” he confided with a bursting smile.

                I open the cupboard to grab the bread crumbs, garlic powder and oregano. I mix them with some salt and pepper in a shallow glass bowl. I grab three eggs out of the fridge. My husband comes peeking in around the corner but he dare not cross the boundary into the kitchen. He is annoyed that all the cupboards are open and I’ve managed to use every pot and pan we own. My mom used to complain about the same thing when my dad cooked...

                I set up the second bowl of flour and I start arranging my assembly line. I hum to myself, anticipating the end result. The third bowl is for the egg wash that will help the flour and breadcrumbs stick to the eggplant. I crack the eggs into the bowl and as I whisk them into froth I remember my brother again. This time he is eight. My mom had picked me up from a friend’s house and as we turned the corner to our street we saw fire trucks and flashing lights. My best friend was running down the street towards us, tears flinging back into her jet-black hair. “It’s your brother” was all my mom said.  Matter-of-fact. I remember seeing him in the hospital. His eyes looked like shiny hard boiled eggs resting on top of his head they were so swollen. His skull was a cracked egg running from his eye all the way to the back of his head. He had more than 200 staples holding his brains in.  The first words out of his mouth: “Is dad mad at me for breaking my skateboard?”

                I’m ready to fry the eggplant. I move from bowl to bowl, dredging then dripping the eggplant slices as I continue to sing. This is when my father was happiest too, in the kitchen. He would scat jibberishly jazzy tunes and make up lyrics to songs he didn’t know, occasionally snapping his hands down and across like a lounge singer impersonating Sinatra or Manilow.  He really was quite talented. I remember one time when he helped me make a lagoon scene for a story we had read in 5^th grade. He molded dolphins out of clay for me. They were beautiful.

                I always watch the eggplant fry and it always takes too long. I have no patience. Dad always seemed to enjoy this part – the waiting. When he wasn’t a snarling monster he was s slow animal taking in the moment. I crowd as many slices into the pan as I can making sure to cook them until tender and well-browned on both sides. As I set them to drain on a paper towel I notice that one of the eggplant’s bread-crumb crusts has cracked and split away, exposing the flesh. It reminds me of the terrifying crack in my dad’s tongue that would open up like the San Andreas fault when he folded it under his clenched teeth - when he was about to strike.

                I combine 2 pounds of whole milk ricotta cheese, ½ cup of Parmigiano, 2 eggs, basil, salt and pepper to taste. I preheat the oven to 350. I hear the phone ring. I grab the large buttered baking dish my mother handed down to me – the same dish that has cooked this meal a hundred times before. I have my eggplant, ricotta mixture, tomato sauce and shredded mozzarella cheese.  Layers. Always layers. Sauce, eggplant, ricotta, mozzarella. Repeat.  I finish the top with a handful of Parmigiano. I slide it into the oven and wait.

“April”

“Yes dad?”

“You have to do something about your brother.”

A flash of anger.

“I can’t dad. I’m a mom now. I have my own family and my own problems. I want to help him but I can’t!”

He knows I am going to hang up.

“Wait April, don’t hang up. I’m sorry. Just tell me you’ll try to look after him. Don’t be angry with me. I love you. ”

“Ok. I love you too dad.”

                The dish comes out great, bubbling hot and nicely browned. It looks splendid. I take it to my family who are sitting together at the table. I cherish the first bite, but something isn’t quite right. Some people don’t get lucky enough to have “I love you” be the last words they say to someone. But if I could go back and change anything...anything at all, I would have asked my dad to tell me how to make his sauce.