It started with eggplant.
Not the one from the recipe. One in my fridge that had been in there long enough to feel… squishy at the top. I pressed on it and it didn’t fight back. Which felt weirdly familiar.
The house was too quiet. Mae was off somewhere, and the sun was slanting in like it meant something.
I didn’t plan to cook. But Her Highness’s ratatouille had been on the table at Nan’s house one August afternoon in 2007, and suddenly I could see that table again. The oilcloth with the grapes. Her chipped Corelle bowl. The way she said “marjoram” like she was auditioning for French radio. I hated that word for years.
What The Original Looked Like
Martha’s version reads like a page from a magazine that’s never seen grease.
The tomatoes roast separately, dignified and alone. The eggplant gets salted, weeps its bitterness, and is squeezed clean like a sinner before Sunday. Then she calls in the full cast: garlic smashed like it owes you money, peppers bright and bold, zucchini pretending to matter, and a flick of red-wine vinegar at the end—like a hair toss.
There’s structure. There’s grace.
She’d never forget the bay leaf.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t roast the tomatoes.
I mean—I meant to. But I got distracted reading an old letter I found in the junk drawer while the oven preheated. By the time I looked up, the tray was still empty and the sun had shifted and I was already holding the spoon.
I also didn’t salt the eggplant long enough. Twenty minutes? Try seven. I was impatient. Or hungry. Or both.
And I used oregano because marjoram makes me think of Nan’s perfume and that’s not what I needed today.
The Way It Happened In My Kitchen
The onions started soft, as they always do, and I tapped the spoon against the Dutch oven just to hear the dent ring.
It’s still there. From the night I left. The pot still works. So do I. Mostly.
The garlic went in with a hiss—loud and insistent.
I thought of my dad’s hands. The way he used to crush cloves with his fist, rub them with lemon. That smell still makes me miss him. That and lemon cake. But that’s another day.
The peppers were red and yellow because I refused to buy green. They make everything taste like belligerence.
Mae once said they tasted “like school lunch arguments.” She’s not wrong.
I threw the zucchini in before the eggplant because I forgot. Then the eggplant looked sad, so I added it anyway.
Bay leaf? I think I added two. One floated up later like a little boat. Maybe I forgot to fish the other one out.
The oregano smelled like a summer I ruined.
I stirred it in anyway.
I forgot the vinegar until the end. Just a splash.
I tasted it, and everything leaned in—like it had been waiting for the last word.
A Few Things I Learned
Don’t rush the eggplant. It holds grudges.
It tastes better when you let it sit.
Warm is fine. But room temperature tastes like memory.
Cold, straight from the fridge, tastes like survival.
What I Did With the Extras
I stood at the counter with the lid half off and ate it with the wrong spoon.
The big one I melted years ago. The handle’s warped.
But it fits my hand.
Would I Make It Again?
I already did.
Twice. Once with too much garlic. Once with none.
Both were right.
That’s As Much As I Remember
It smelled like Nan’s kitchen by the time it finished.
But quieter.
Like she’d finally stopped correcting me.
If you want something warmer, I made this fennel and white bean thing in February that nearly broke my heart. Different mood. Still soft.
FAQs
Yep. actually better the next day. the flavors get less shy and more interesting. kind of like people when they’re tired.
Her highness says yes. i’ve done both. roasted = deeper, toastier. straight from the can = still good if you’re rushed or moody or just… over it.
Somewhere in between. not soupy. not stew. just enough liquid to cling. like a hug that doesn’t overstay.
Then skip it. or swap in mushrooms. or just double the zucchini and pretend. martha’s not watching.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Ratatouille Recipe
Description
Soft, sharp, and soaked in memory—like summers you thought you’d forgotten.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Prepare the tomatoes: dumped the whole can onto a tray. broke them with my hands. no fork, just fingers. they looked a little too red. drizzled olive oil like i was angry. shoved them in the oven and forgot to set a timer. stirred them when i remembered. they thickened anyway.
- Deal with the eggplant: cut it too big. salted it. forgot about it. came back twenty minutes later and squeezed out the guilt. it dripped all over the sink and my shirt. i didn’t care.
- Start the base: oil in the dutch oven. not measured. onions in. they sizzled like they had something to prove. added garlic because i always do. smelled like my dad’s old kitchen. stirred until soft. until something softened in me too.
- Add the veg: peppers first. red and yellow. no green in this house. zucchini next. uneven chunks. looked wrong, tasted right. tossed in the eggplant like it hadn’t insulted me earlier. stirred everything like it meant something.
- Layer the flavor: scraped in the roasted tomatoes. added oregano instead of marjoram. she would’ve scolded me. i didn’t care. threw in the bay leaf. maybe two. stirred like i meant it.
- Let it simmer: half-covered the pot. walked away. came back when the house smelled like august. everything soft, not mushy. just… tired in a good way.
- Finish and serve: splashed vinegar. not too much. tasted. adjusted. tasted again. pulled the bay leaf. served warm. but it was better cold the next morning, eaten with my fingers at the sink.