What is a comfort food?

My quest to recreate my grandmother's eggplant

If I close my eyes and think about a place where I was incredibly happy, a handful of spots come to mind: The bench at the tippy top of Monhegan Island in Maine where Ben and I listened to the wind and watched boats bob in the harbor. My bed in my first studio apartment where I’d curl up on a gray Sunday and listen to the rain. And my Grandma Margie’s kitchen in the home she lived in before my grandfather passed away.

I have such a clear memory of it: The kitchen table shoved in the corner, and the deep wood of the cabinets, and the picture of Jesus hanging right by the entryway. But what I remember most about her kitchen was, of course, what came out of it. Christmas Day dinners. A pudding frosting for a chocolate cake that she’d let me lick out of the bowl. And an eggplant dish that she kept in a Tupperware container in her fridge that she’d dip into when she was feeling a little hungry.

I have become obsessed with that eggplant recipe recently. Well, to call it a recipe is a bit of a stretch. My grandmother (and eventually my mother) would typically make it from leftovers of other dishes. It was simple: Cooked eggplant layered with sauce, a little bit of parmesan cheese, and fresh basil. But instead of warming it in the oven, the women of my family would make the dish in a storage container and stash it in the fridge. There, the flavors would mix and melt together, creating a deliciously custard-y dish that we’d eat cold, straight from the container.

When I think of the idea of comfort food, this is what comes to mind. A simple, easy, not-even-a-recipe recipe that I’d eat in moments when I felt the most at ease — with my grandmother when I’d stop by for lunch or with my mother during a break in our Christmas cooking prep.

So back in August, when eggplants were at their peak, I started messing around with recreating it. It was easy enough — like a minimal version of our eggplant parmesan recipe — but I wanted to take it a step further. So day after day, eggplant after eggplant, I fried, and layered, and tested new ways in. I fried up some breadcrumbs to make a muddica that I’d sprinkle over the top of my dish for a satisfying crunch. I’d layer in a little bit of fresh, shredded mozzarella for a creamy tang. I added a pat of butter to the sauce to mellow out the acidity of the tomatoes.

After a few weeks, I finally nailed my version of this recipe, which I am dubbing Icebox Eggplant Parmesan, and realized something about comfort food. I don’t think the comfort comes solely from the act of eating something that makes you feel warm and cozy inside. No, I felt the comfort while actually crafting this eggplant dish. I was buoyed by the connection I felt to my grandmother, even though it’s been almost five years since we lost her. I felt peaceful when I served it to Ben, knowing that, even thought he will never meet Grandma Margie, and that breaks my heart, he still knows her through the food I make for him.

That is what I consider a comfort food — a dish that you can make and serve that says “Here is a little slice of who I am, and all the people who came before me.”

So, allow me to show you a little bit about myself.

Icebox Eggplant Parmesan

Ingredients

• 2 medium eggplants, peeled

• 3 cups of tomato sauce

• 1 cup of grated parmesan or pecorino

• A large handful of basil leaves, roughly torn.

• 1 cup fresh shredded mozzarella

• 1 cup breadcrumbs

• 2 cloves of garlic, grated

• Olive oil

Method

1. Thinly slice your eggplant — I like to use a mandoline set at the 1/8 inch setting. In a shallow pan, heat a layer of olive oil and fry the eggplant until browned on both sides. Transfer to a colander over a bowl and allow to drain for at least 5 hours. (Grandma and I leave it overnight.)

2. In a large Tupperware container (or a casserole dish if you plan to bake this eggplant), start layering your ingredients. Start with a thin layer of sauce, followed by the eggplant, the a sprinkle of your cheeses, and a few pieces of torn basil. Repeat your layers — sauce, eggplant, cheese, basil — until you hit the top of your container or casserole dish. The final layer should be sauce, topped with a little cheese.

3. Stash your Tupperware in your fridge for a minimum of a day to allow the flavors to meld together. Or, if you plan on baking, slip your eggplant into a 350 degree oven for about a half hour, or until the cheese is melted and bubbling.

4. While your eggplant is marinating (or baking) make the breadcrumbs. Heat 2 Tbsp olive oil in a pan over medium heat. Add your breadcrumbs and garlic, mixing constantly until toasty brown. (You can keep these breadcrumbs in an airtight jar in your cupboard for up to a month — they’re good on literally *everything.*)

5. When you’re ready to eat, plate your eggplant and sprinkle your breadcrumbs on top. Take a bite. Enjoy the satisfying crunch. Let the custardy eggplant melt in your mouth. And send a thank you to grandma.