Sometimes I feel compelled to buy an eggplant. This happens year-round, but especially in late summer/early fall, when they’re dark and shiny, and so effing seasonal I can’t resist. But unlike so many other summer veggies, which can be easily pitched into a grain dish or salad, you have to have a plan when it comes to dealing with eggplant, since, obviously, it needs cooking. A couple of days later--coming down off the farmers’ market high and lazily scoping out my haul--I wonder why I’d buy something that needs more attention, when I could just eat another tomato sandwich.

But eggplant is worth it. You can spice up thick slabs of it Indian style, then grill them and serve with yogurt, or you can stir fry cubes of it with ground pork, scallions, ginger and garlic, seasoning with soy and chile paste. You can be lazy and just throw it whole in the oven when you have it on for something else—when it’s completely collapsed, scoop out the flesh and mix with tahini, chopped parsley and/or mint, and garlic, then dip toasted pitas into it. Another one of my favorite ways to use it is Sicilian style, in caponata.

Sicily’s food was a true revelation to me. Beyond the also-delicious food of mainland Italy, which skews a bit expected, it scratches some itch for me that no other cuisine quite touches—that rich, vegetal cucina povera, full of cooked tomatoes, peppers, anchovies, herbs, olives, capers, and the raisin/pinolis duo, so popular they are often sold in markets already mixed. I seemed to eat only the same 10 ingredients for the whole 10 days I was there—the aforementioned, plus some pasta, cheese, and the occasional piece of swordfish—but not only did it not feel repetitive, it felt like I had nowhere near enough time to relish it all. Cannoli filled with sheep’s ricotta were sweet and decadent. Pastas, rich with olive oil, were actually quite plain, using just a couple of perfectly qualified ingredients.

Cucina povera is exemplified in caponata, a sweet and sour eggplant “condiment,” as it’s often called in old recipe books. It’s made with eggplant, peppers and tomatoes, cooked almost to a mush; then raisins, sugar, vinegar, olives, and capers are added to further offset and balance the sweet and sour. There is texture in the form of still-crunchy celery and toasted nuts. It arrived on almost every table, from lunch to dinner, at agriturismos to fancier dinner spots. It was good paired with things (polenta, fish, pasta, cured meats, cheese), and it was good on its own with a glass of inky Sicilian red wine. Humble ingredients always have the potential to be something sublime—this is a case in point.

Caponata

On a large sheet pan, toss together a large cubed eggplant (neither pre-salted nor peeled), 5 to 10 halved mini peppers or one chopped regular pepper, and a pint of grape tomatoes with olive oil and salt. Roast at high heat—400 to 450 degrees—until very brown and tender, tossing once half way through.

Meanwhile (or up to a couple of days later—you can refrigerate the roasted veggies until you’re ready), sauté an onion until soft, then add a few chopped stalks of celery and a couple large chopped tomatoes, ripe to on the verge of rot. Cook that down about 5 to 10 minutes, until the tomatoes lose their raw flavor but the celery still retains some crunch. Add the roasted vegetable mixture, a handful of golden raisins, a splash of white vinegar, a sprinkle of sugar, a spoonful of capers, some torn kalamatas and a little of their brine, salt, and a handful of toasted slivered almonds (pinolis are also great, though much pricier—either way don’t skip the toasting). Taste a lot to make sure it’s seasoned enough: it takes some adjusting at the end to make sure you have the right balance of vinegar, and enough salt. You can add herbs, but there is enough going on without it.  Pile it on toasted bread, eat on the side of a hunk of fish, or with a spoon, cold, straight from the fridge.