|Eggplant Caponata on Crisped Flat Bread|
Writing is a strange enough occupation on its own. Writers spend long hours alone, talk to themselves, and tend to forge deep relationships with people online that they've never met in person, or even talked with on the phone. Mostly, I think, we're observers of life, most comfortable stepping away from the action and watching scenes unfold around us. We like to analyze information, turn it over in our minds, process it, and then translate it--at least try--for others.
I enjoyed the event and had a several great conversations with an interesting mix of people. I also met another writer and really enjoyed connecting with her and sharing a few stories about our work. But then, I found myself in writer's mode, silently slipping around the room, listening in on other conversations, taking in the details, and of course, making mental notes. Talking to a writer is risky; one can never be sure that what they say won't wind up in a story down the line.
I arrived home well past dinner. Mr. B had already eaten and since the earlier part of my day had been frantic, he'd had to scratch together his meal from a mix of leftovers. Thus, my only option was to rummage through the refrigerator in search of the leftovers of the leftovers. Luckily, I spied a jar containing the last of the caponata I'd made on Saturday. I'm not sure how Mr. B overlooked it, but his questionable eyesight turned out to be my lucky break.
Caponata, or eggplant salad, is a traditional Sicilian dish made from 'fried' eggplant, celery, olives and tomatoes. Just like anything, it has its regional variances and depending on where you are in Sicily, it can contain fish or anchovies, pine nuts and even raisins. I've even seen recipes that included a spoonful of cocoa powder. It's a simple dish to make, but be warned, it's highly addictive. In fact, it took me only minutes to polish off the entire jar, stopping only long enough to put down my caponata topped flat bread and take a picture.
It made for the perfect late evening August dinner. I enjoyed eating it standing up at the kitchen counter and recounting, for Mr. B, the events of the evening.