Ratatouille

For some reason the word "Ratatouille" was rattling around my head.

It is a strange and evocative word that to an everyday jobbing cook like myself is ripe for a bit of a joke on a rodent theme although, of course, all of the humour and puns were used up in the Disney animated movie of the same name.

It is still a word that sounds made up.

It could have been thought up by a celebrity Chef as one of those signature dishes or as an attempt to just invent a word to creep into the sub-concious of the nation, like conflab, staycation and twerking.

As with most culinary things Ratatouille originates from the French language and the Nice or Provencal Region from the verb touiller meaning to stir up.

The sudden arrival of the idea to try to cook this famous vegetable stew was no coincidence as at the time I was staring into the fridge trying to work out what, of the motley assortment of chilled foodstuffs, might go together to form a flavoursome and filling family meal.

Our household were not long returned from a self catering week in a cottage and a few vegetables had survived being pulped during the 400 mile road journey in the overloaded boot-space beneath biking gear and walking boots.

I had a faint recollection of what goes into a Ratatouille (although I have never even contemplated making it) from photographs in food magazines and coffee table cook books.

In one of my regular open fridge door commentaries on random ingredients the visual sequence of peppers, red onion, courgettes, aubergine-y things and a few mangey ripe tomatoes just shouted out Ratatouille and I could not resist.

Hunting around in the kitchen cupboards secured further components of balsamic vinegar , olive oil, sugar and one further item which I will reveal later. It was just down to a final rummage around the contents of the kitchen window cill fruit bowl to retrieve a few past their sell by date garlic cloves. Instead of fresh basil and thyme I had to use dried herbs.

I was pleasantly surprised to have sourced everything "in house" as they say without having to dash down to the local shops.

I piled all of the ingredients on the big marble chopping board and began the preparation of the vegetables. There appears to be a matter of contention amongst Ratatouille gourmets whether to peel off the skin of the aubergines or leave it on. I actually hate the taste and texture of aubergines and could as easily leave them out of the recipe if they were not such an integral part of the whole dish. I peeled them in of a sort of vege-sadistic rage and chopped them into chunks. It felt good.

The courgettes were topped, tailed and sliced. After decapitating and de-seeding the peppers these were hacked into irregular strips. I could not be bothered to scald and peel the tomatoes as they were a bit too far gone to retain any outer firmness anyway.

Onions were cut into wedges and garlic thinly sliced.

First into the large thick bottomed pan were the more exotic of the vegetables to be slowly fried in the olive oil until, as they say,  golden and softened. Personally I couldn't really see much of a change apart from a degree of transparency. It is important not to overcook them so that they do not reduce to a mush.

Temporarily removed to a separate bowl I splashed into the pan some more oil and in went the onions, garlic and dried basil for frying before adding back the already semi-cooked veg.

At this stage the mixture was eye-catchingly colourful but bordering on the dry side. This was easily resolved by the addition of the well travelled but sad looking tomatoes, a tin of altogether happier tomatoes, some balsamic and seasoning to taste.

My secret ingredient was next, a glossy black, gloopy concentrate of pomegranate syrup which crawled off the wooden spoon like an oil slick on a mediterranean beach.  I didn't mind because licking off the last bits of sharp, citrusy residue is most pleasurable.

It was now just a case of being patient and leaving the pan to simmer on the lowest heat setting for about half an hour.

The aromatic smells invaded the kitchen. Standing quietly I could hear the faint bubbling sound which seemed to murmur the word Ratatouille. I was obviously missing my cooking companion- a nice glass of chilled Pinot.

Served up with some crusty french bread (brought in by one of the family after a bit of an afterthought of a mobile phone call) it made for a great evening meal. The liquid had reduced to an almost sticky consistency with an acidic yet sweet kick.

I was satisfied with my efforts and in big scrawling handwriting the word Ratatouille was marked up on the blackboard wall in the kitchen as a worthy addition to the weekly family meal rota, somewhere between the thursday takeaway and my wife's saturday lasgane. I love it when a plan comes together.