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There’s something about this meal that is just so honest.
It isn’t flashy. Or even particularly pretty. It is eggplant, slumped and simmered. Simple.
Weeknights beg for meals like this.
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The market has been full of beautiful peppers. The usual bell peppers in red, orange, yellow and green, jalapeños, Hungarian wax, Trinidadian perfume, poblanos, and fiery habañeros.
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It’s been a hot summer in Chicago. This July and August we’ve watched the mercury climb into the nineties more days than I care to count. Too many.
Don’t they look lovely? A little bit exotic?
I know I’ve seen them before, sitting in baskets at the farmers market, pale and papery, like tiny tomatillos or ornamental lanterns.
The Tuscans have a way with beans.
If I came away from my year in Italy learning one thing about food, it was this.
We are in the bleak mid-winter in Chicago, the ground crusted with snow, the wind face-bitingly, finger-numbingly cold.
