Today’s guest post comes from Barbara in Robbinsdale.

It’s the end of harvest season in the upper midwest, and for us it was a good year for eggplant. The only difficulty with that is what to do with all that eggplant from the last picking. Since I have what we fondly refer to as “enough cookbooks”, I’ve discovered recipes for Eggplant Fritters, Eggplant Custard, Eggplant Lasagna, Eggplant Pizza, and Baked Eggplant. Some Trail Baboon readers already know about “PJ’s Eggplant Curry“. And of course there are my old standards, Ratatouille and Baba Ganoush.

I realized that Fried Eggplant is the first step in several recipes; I could get brave and try it again, then freeze it in small batches and decide later how to finally use it.

The “getting brave” part is because I’d tried fried eggplant once before, and it was horrible. Just because I consult a recipe doesn’t mean I follow it to the end. I didn’t salt the pieces and let them drain, didn’t use enough oil, probably didn’t get it hot enough, etc. So this time I promised myself that I would not deviate from the instructions, and I came close to keeping my promise. I cut the eggplants lengthwise, pretty close to the prescribed thickness, ¾”. I salted the slices and let them give up their beads of water, which I blotted away before frying. I heated the oil each time I added some, as directed. I drained on paper towels on a platter.

So I am inordinately pleased with my batch of Fried Eggplant. I changed only two things in the recipe (an un-breaded version from: The Best of Ethnic Home Cooking by Mary Poulis Wilde). Instead of frying in an inch of olive oil, I chose a half inch. (I’m rather stingy with my olive oil.) And I didn’t peel the eggplant (what, and lose all that shiny dark beauty?), so some of my pieces are rather chewy. But as I taste them, I am transported to a little corner of heaven. Wow, it worked!

Now somewhere in the middle of winter, I’ll pull out a package from the freezer and decide whether to use it for some version of Eggplant Parmigiana, or maybe even Moussaka.

When have you, successfully or not, altered a recipe?

Today’s guest post is from Anna.

I believe in the power of waffles. Not the big, fluffy kind you get at a restaurant loaded with fruit and whipped cream and heaven knows what all. Real waffles – the kind with little tiny squares that make your butter clump and not spread smoothly. The kind of waffles your mom can make with ingredients she always seems to have on hand – flour and baking power and eggs, not a mix. Waffles made on an iron that likely dates to the Eisenhower administration. The best waffles do not cook evenly or have a uniform shape. They are crisp, brown, warm, melt in your mouth – and if you’re really lucky, like I am, your mom serves ‘em up with peanut butter.

I believe in the power of waffles because one less than fabulous, perhaps even horrid, day my mom saved the world with waffles. Daughter, then 2-years-old, had been very two that day, my husband was struggling with something in his grad school class, and I was just tired and crabby – something had to be done to turn this around. “Come on over,” Mom said when I called, “bring the little one and we’ll all have some dinner.” I arrived, Daughter in tow, relieved that someone else would entertain my toddler for awhile and I could just sit. Mom made waffles.

The waffles arrived at the table piping hot, bumpy on the edges, straight from the iron. Butter, maple syrup, lingonberry preserves – I topped waffles with each – but the best were the ones with melty, oozy peanut butter that dripped down my chin. My daughter was calmed and contentedly ate her waffles. I ate mine. All was right with my world again. Those waffles had delivered a mother’s embrace directly to my taste buds – the sort of reassurance generations of moms have cooked up in the kitchen for their children when they need it most. Plain ordinary waffles.

We spend a lot of time worrying about the big things in our lives: Who won the election? I’m over 40 and I haven’t yet saved the world and I don’t have a book deal – does that mean I’m a failure? Paper or Plastic? We lose sight in all of that of the little things, remarkable and not, that make up our daily lives. Even with the huge motivational-industrial complex out there churning out mugs, magnets, posters, and books chock full of pithy sayings to remind us, we still pay most attention to the big, whiz-bang things and pay little or no attention to the goodness of ordinary things – like waffles.

I believe in the goodness of ordinary things. I believe in the power of waffles.

What is your favorite comfort food?

Today’s guest post comes from Barb in Blackhoof.

OK, it’s never going to happen.

I am not going to research and write the book for which I’ve had the title since at least 1990. I wanted to visit all those little ethnic churches and record the foods served for funerals (with the recipes). The book would be titled “Food to Die For” and it would have been about funeral food in the Midwest. But it’s too late to do it now. Most church basement ladies have ascended to the great jello-kitchen in the sky. At a funeral in Minneapolis a couple years back, there was a veggie tray with dip, some cookies and sandwiches – all plainly bought at Cub Foods.

Gosh.

My Mother was part of the Ladies’ Aide Society in her Wisconsin Synod Lutheran Church (mostly German heritage) in Arlington, MN for probably close to 50 years. The geriatric LAS disbanded last year – they sent Mom a corsage and some pictures of the history. (“oh, oh – I thought – what now? Who will make the egg salad sandwiches that Mom ordered???” “Gosh, I hope I don’t have to spend the night in the church kitchen – boiling and peeling eggs and buttering the bread, because the bread MUST be buttered, even for salads that have mayonna— ooops, I almost said mayonnaise. I mean Miracle Whip”).

Well, the Mission Club (women) of the church has taken over that duty. For her funeral Mom had ordered egg salad sandwiches (on buttered white bread), ham sandwiches (on buttered rye), but she never specified what kind of salads or desserts. I wondered why? I communicated her wishes to the Mission Club Ladies and they didn’t ask about desserts either… hmmmm.

Then, about a week before Mom’s service, my crazy cousin “Ruby” sent me an email with the following message:

“Was wondering for Saturday if you need people to make jello or bars? This is a Lutheran service, I think it’s an 11th commandment or something like that. There will be jello. What does this mean? This means that when a Lutheran dies, jello will be brought by friends and relatives, but not immediate family. If someone is truly ambitious, and they have a good recipe, potato salad may be brought and set on the head table. Those that don’t bring jello will make a cake or bars, and have them cut. An overnight cake is to be admired and then set on the trays with the other bars. The church ladies will supply the name of the person who made the overnight cake to any who ask. This is most certainly true.”

If I had only known the 11th commandment (in perfect form, with the “What does this mean?” and the “This is most certainly true.”) I would not have worried. After Mom’s service, we all went downstairs to the basement where a huge table was laden with the sandwiches as well as about 15 jello salads, at least 10 kinds of “bars” and THREE overnight cakes. All cut and on platters.

After the luncheon and socializing was over, the church ladies brought out a huge box of bars and cakes (including some of the three overnight cakes) for the four of us to take home (enough for about 20) with a list of everyone who brought something: Person #1 – bars, Person #2 – cake, Person #3 – Overnight Cake, Person #4 – jello, Person #5 – etc.
In Superior, WI a friend says they have “Calico Beans” at funerals. My friend Sue said the “Range” funeral food used to be rye bread spread with Miracle Whip and layered with crushed potato chips.

For my non-funeral food, I want that oval shaped rye bread spread with Cheese Whiz and pimiento olives sliced and arranged carefully over the cheese.
Oh, and lots of EPA.

What do you want served at your funeral luncheon??