Eggplant Caviar
It’s Fall. Returning from a scientific conference, I navigate the narrow passageway leading from the garage into the basement mudroom, my well-worn little red leather suitcase in tow. It’s battered and well traveled, but then again so am I. I spy my husband comfortably watching TV on the couch, propped on his usual beanbag. Besides working, he’s had the extra duty of caring for our cats, Rascal and his brother Chaos, in my absence.
“Hi there! I’m home!” I chirp, as much to greet the cats as to greet him.
I take off my shoes, park my suitcase and take only two steps into the room until it hits me; a stench so massive and pervasive that I gag and nearly toss my cookies right then and there. Meanwhile, the cats have heard my voice and have trotted downstairs. Chaos promptly sits on my left foot and Rascal parks directly in front of me. I inhale through my mouth so as to avoid the stench. ‘The Boys’ stare up at me unwaveringly, wide-eyed and silent as if to say, “Fix this. Please.”
“What’s that horrible smell?” I ask when I have recovered my breath.
“What smell?” asks my husband.
*****
Forever in my mind, eggplant is associated with a favorite uncle and aunt on my husband’s side and the delicious Eggplant Caviar that they taught us to make. We visited Leonard and Susie on long weekends on breaks from graduate training. Leonard was a white Russian from Manchuria so, as an homage to him, here is Ikra, a baked Russian version of this recipe.
“Susie, the children are home!” Leonard would call out giving us each a bear hug. Susie would come quickly, arms open wide, her whole body a sunny smile. In their gracious home, they spoiled us with gourmet dinners and lavish breakfasts made lovingly just for us. We had no idea that they cooked for days in anticipation of the weekend they would provide for us. They never let us leave after just the evening meal.
There were two reasons for this: 1) Leonard’s Law and 2) the rigors of graduate school and medical residency. Leonard’s Law states unequivocally that there should be a bottle of wine for every person at the table. Furthermore, this law states that ALL of those bottles of wine should be opened in advance. Not sure if this was guilt or invitation, but suffice it to say that the glasses were always full. To this day, we allude to Leonard’s Law, even if we do not follow it. Merriment notwithstanding, we were perpetually exhausted anyway and the trip home to our little apartment was long and cold after sitting near the warm fireplace adjacent to the solid wood table laden with far too much food for four people.
We always slept in their oldest son’s room. We loved a painting of Susie’s making that hung on the wall, facing the bed. This painting appears again in the last portion of this story so stick around…
*****
“You don’t smell anything?” I ask, marching quickly towards him.
“No. What does it smell like?” he says.
“Awful. Putrid. Beyond gross.” I choke out making a beeline back to the garage.
“Where is it coming from?”
“Trying to find it.” I say aloud. “There’s courage in clean, fresh air” I think to myself.
Out of self preservation, a strategy develops. Holding my nose, I walk quickly in various directions, take a cautious sniff, run back to the mud room for a few cleansing deep breaths. The cats recede to watch in silent approval. I tick off the directions as in the old Marco Polo hotter:colder searching games that kids play - except there’s no one guiding me here. Ok, still horrible, but not to the north. Not up the stairs - whew. Yikes, it’s clearly worse when I walk to the East where my husband sits placidly. I take a breather in the mud room to clear my nose.
“How’s the game? Can you help? My nose is wearing out.”
“Game’s ok. Of course I’ll help, but I don’t see anything” he says stirring.
“Me neither. Can you smell it?”
“Nope. Well, maybe a little bit. Doesn’t bother me though.”
To be continued…
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Cover image by: Dina Russell, date unknown, "Striped Eggplant".
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