I grew up in Athens, Georgia, which is where my father made himself the same lunch every day, the main attraction of which is hummus on bread. My dad, my Abba, grew up in Ramat Gan, a smallish place within the greater Tel Aviv situation.
Being born there in 1944 and living, if comfortably, as something of a pioneer, may be why the hummus he makes from scratch is the best I’ve ever tasted, the only I really love. It is possible, though, that Israel has nothing to do with it, and that this hummus is just the kind of thing that a man who is reasonable, humble, and pleasure loving would chose to eat over and over. Its lemon and garlic are bold and bright but it is profoundly simple, plainly rich and satisfying and not creamy or dense.
But! His baba ghanoush is better! Better than anybody’s, he’ll tell you. The hummus is honest and articulates all its flavors clearly, but the baba is rare, accomplished, seductive! It’s tediously smoky but fresh and immediate with herbs, light on the stomach and smooth in the mouth and still decadent, fatty.
I’ve never tried to recreate either dish, and haven’t ever habitually bought them, either. Why, when the real thing is at home, safe and repeating, forever?
Still, earlier this month, sick with Strep and only wanting for pureed foods, I reconsidered. When I called from the store with a fever, staring into the nightshades, Abba obliged my inquiry generously. “All you do is grill the eggplant, some garlic, some lemon, t’hina, olive oil, and parsley. Not too much.” This list is obvious and not very helpful. I asked him to clarify the eggplant; without a grill, should I sear, or roast it? In chunks or slices? He laughed and said even thinking of slicing was unnecessary, the eggplant should simply live in heat, one piece and skin too, until point of collapse. This tip aside, it became evident that my father makes baba perfectly because he knows, exactly, what is and is not ‘too much’.
It will take me time to learn. My first baba was this; divine eggplant mush extracted, but then confused with a couple cloves of garlic, a whole lemon, skimp olive oil, roasted and salted pepitas in place of t’hina I didn’t have, some paprika, and half a head of parsley, all into the food processor. It was okay, but hasty and not elegant.
Today, health regained and looking for something cheap and special, I went back in, this time hoping to cook like Abba, with intention, care, and calm.
I cranked the oven when I walked in the door, and left the eggplant I bought for 75 cents inside, first at 500 then lower, for well over an hour. I took it out and let it sit on a plate, diminished, till cool enough to handle. I chopped off the top and held it over a bowl inverted, just peeling off the skin, which was delicious and not bitter to eat, until only molten fruit remained.
Also in to the hot oven, for less time, went a dish of barely salted sliced tomatoes, some cherry, and one near-expired plum from the back of the fridge. These were chewy flavor packed and delicious.
I bottomed a pan with olive oil and added two cloves of garlic and dry oregano. Before the garlic burned, I lowered the heat and added the eggplant, and let them simmer together for about half an hour, stirring every once in a while. While everything gooed into brown gold, I added a sneak of balsamic vinegar and made some quinoa.
I kept the quinoa chewy and not too cooked, so that it would stay nutty and complement, not rival, the luxurious pudding on top of it. Adding some fresh tomatoes and parsley helped complicate the bowls slippery, unlovely appearance.
This was delicious, and good like Abba’s hummus and baba: Sweet, savory, filling, essentially easy to make and still reassuring, affirming, to eat. No tricks! Just let the eggplant collapse.
