Of Multicultural Confusion

I’m a Jersey girl, baking Cypriot pittas by the billion in my little Victorian kitchen in Suffolk whilst listening to Indian music on French radio.  No wonder my brain’s a bit wonky.

To be fair, the Indian music was accidental but such is the joy of FIP.  Never let it be said their music combinations aren’t eclectic: Miles Davis followed by Wham and then perhaps Manuel Volpe & the Rhabmontic Orchestra.   I love it.  But then I love everything French.  It’s my dark secret.  As I tap away here, the Greek God is whizzing up mint for tzatziki and marinating his pork (ooh er) for tomorrow’s souvlaki.  But naughty me is having secret thoughts.  French thoughts.  Ooh la la.

I’m surreptitiously working on the Greek God: in the spirit of ‘you are what you eat’, I’ve started feeding him all things français: jarrets d’agneau braisés au vin rouge last week (“d’you fancy lamb stew on Sunday, darling?”) and caviar d’aubergine:

Halve three aubergines lengthways and score the flesh in a criss-crossy pattern.  Bung ’em on a baking tray and drizzle with oil (I’m loving English rapeseed at the mo).  Grab six garlic cloves and squish them flat with a knife, leaving the skins on and put one on each aubergine half, along with a sprig of thyme.  Cover with foil; bake at 180 for an hour or so.

Take ’em out, discard the thyme and peel the garlic.  Scoop out the aubergine flesh and chop it finely, adding the garlic, S&P and a drop more oil if you need it.

I think I swerved international suspicion by serving it with pitta chips made from leftovers.  OPA!  Cheeky AND cheap.  What’s not to love?

Recipe swiped from the utterly gorgeous French Brasserie Cookbook by Daniel Galmiche.  Le sigh.  I love this book.