The oven was already on. That’s how it started.
Rain like a slow leak outside, wind pretending it meant it this time. Mae wasn’t home. I hadn’t planned dinner. But there was that jar of sauce, and the eggplants sulking in the fridge like I’d wronged them.
And somewhere between peeling them and beating two eggs with a fork I stole from a ferry ride picnic… Her Highness’s Eggplant Parmesan showed up like a ghost of perfection.
I didn’t chase it. I let it haunt the kitchen. Then I made it mine.
What the Original Looked Like
Martha’s version is strict but not cruel. She brushes her pans with olive oil—never sprays—and builds a breadcrumb mix like it’s a sacred blend: Parmesan, oregano, basil, all in measure. No frying, just the oven doing its slow goldening. She stacks the slices with a kind of grace I’ll never have. Layers of sauce, mozzarella, a final snow of cheese like applause.
I can almost hear her say don’t rush it—but I always do.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t peel the eggplant. I like the skin. It bites back.
And I didn’t use six cups of sauce. I used what I had—two jars of chunky red stuff I bought during a sale I regretted. Also, no fresh mozzarella. Just the shredded bag. It clumps, yes. But it stretches like memory when it melts.
I added chili flakes. Not for spice. For spite. Her Highness would say no. But she isn’t here, is she?
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
The breadcrumb bowl looked too clean, so I added more cheese.
Then more again. I was barefoot and damp from the porch. The radio was on low, something cello-heavy. I breaded each slice like it owed me something.
When I flipped them halfway through baking, the skin stuck a little. Good. They were stubborn, like me.
Mae called just as I layered the second round. She wanted to know if I still had that Dutch oven—the blue one with the dent. “Of course I do,” I said. I didn’t tell her I’d tapped it with a spoon just yesterday, out of habit. Or love. Or something in between.
I layered sauce, eggplant, cheese—twice. Didn’t measure anything after the first pour. The oven felt hotter than it should’ve been. So did I.
When it came out, the edges were crisped. Burnt in places. I didn’t care. The smell was like Sunday in a different life. Maybe the one where I didn’t leave. Maybe the one where I did.
A Few Things I Learned
Let it rest. Even if you’re starving. Let the heat settle, let the cheese sigh down into itself.
And don’t skip the skin unless you want something too soft. Some things need a little tension.
What I Did With the Extras
Left it on the counter. Mae came by the next morning and we ate it cold, over the sink, sharing a fork. No words. Just steam from the kettle and her hair smelling like rain.
Would I Make It Again?
Yes. But not because of the recipe. Because of how it felt after.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The oven’s off now. But the kitchen still smells like basil and heat.
I’ll make it again when I need something that holds together, even when I don’t.
If you want something messier, I did a version of Martha’s cheesy leek bake last winter that nearly broke the oven—but worth it.
FAQs
Yeah, but the eggplant gets a little sad. still edible, still fine—just not as crisp. like me in February.
No. and honestly, don’t. the skin gives it a bite. like armor for vegetables.
Absolutely. I used a jar I didn’t even like that much and it still worked. the cheese fixes everything.
Yes. and it’s better the next day. cold from the fridge, straight from the pan, no judgment.
Use what melts. provolone, fontina, even cheddar if you’re feeling rogue. Her Highness would object. I don’t.
Check out More Recipes
- Martha Stewart Chicken Salad
- Martha Stewart Chocolate Cake
- Martha Stewart Cornbread
- Martha Stewart Cream Cheese Frosting
Martha Stewart Eggplant Parmesan
Description
Baked, not fried. Crispy edges. Cheesy enough to make me forget the rain.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Preheat the oven to 375°F and brush two baking sheets with olive oil. Not dainty—just enough to keep things from sticking and to make the eggplant feel wanted.
- Set up your breading station by whisking the eggs in one shallow bowl. In another, mix the breadcrumbs, ¾ cup Parmesan, oregano, basil, salt, and pepper. I didn’t measure the pepper. Just kept going till it smelled right.
- Coat the eggplant slices by dipping them in egg, then the crumb mix. Press them a little. They should wear the coating like they mean it. Lay them on the sheets without crowding—give them space to crisp, not steam.
- Bake for 20–25 minutes, until the bottoms are golden brown and smelling like a memory. Flip each slice—gently, or not—and bake another 20–25 minutes until both sides are browned and crisped enough to stand alone.
- Raise the oven to 400°F while you gather your sauce, your cheese, and whatever’s left of your patience.
- Layer the dish by spooning 2 cups of tomato sauce into the bottom of a 9×13-inch pan. Add half the eggplant in a loose pattern. Top with another 2 cups of sauce, then half the mozzarella. Repeat the layers: eggplant, sauce, cheese.
- Sprinkle the top with the remaining 2 tablespoons of Parmesan. You can whisper a thank-you or an apology to Her Highness here. Up to you.
- Bake for 15–20 minutes, until the whole thing bubbles and the top melts into something that looks louder than it sounds.
- Let it rest for 5 minutes before diving in. Or stand there with a fork and burn your tongue like I did. Either way—it works.