A Mediterranean Eggplant Recipe with a Story: Slow Cooker Ratatouille

In 2012, I was invited to visit friends in Corsica. My daughter was two at the time, and I was still relatively new to motherhood. The idea of traveling internationally with a spirited toddler—without my husband, no less—was daunting, to put it mildly. But the invitation was too special to pass up.

The villa I was headed to had belonged to their family since the 1400s. I’d already heard the stories: rosé after morning caffè, the soft Mediterranean breeze, a place where time was measured not by clocks but by sunlight, conversation, and meals. A place where food was never just food—it was ritual.

So I booked the flight, packed our bags, kissed my husband goodbye at the United gate, and boarded the plane with trembling hands and a tight grip on my toddler. I was terrified she’d scream the entire flight, vanish in a foreign airport, or just never sleep.

But none of that happened.

Instead, Emily bloomed into a world traveler. Her life changed on that trip—and so did mine.

From San Francisco to Frankfurt, Frankfurt to Marseille, and finally Marseille to Corsica… we arrived exhausted but wide-eyed, just in time to meet the spellbinding Corsican roads—all cliffs and switchbacks, hugged by wild herbs and sea air.

As we entered the village, the sun was setting. I remember the glow—how it gilded the stone walls and softened the edges of everything. A small gathering had formed in an open space between homes, glowing with lantern light and the sounds of laughter. It wasn’t a party, exactly. It didn’t feel planned or hosted. No one owned the space. It simply was. We paused, smiled, exchanged a few greetings, and kept going. It wasn’t for us, and that was the magic of it—it had existed before us and would long after we left.

The villa itself was everything and nothing. Earthy and unassuming, yet steeped in quiet elegance. Its walls were thick with history, its floors uneven with time. It wasn’t trying to be luxurious—but it was. It didn’t just feel like home—it felt like it had always been home. Like everything else in the world was the newcomer.

The front entryway was the heart of the house—a kind of perch over the Mediterranean, built into the hillside, far from the popular beach towns and tourist paths. From the patio, you could see the island of Elba rising out of the sea. I’d never looked at Italy with a glass of French rosé in my hand and the breeze kissing my cheek—and let me tell you, it hits different. 

This wasn’t just relaxation I felt—it was substance.

The apartment Emily and I stayed in was tucked into the village like a secret. A woody, two-story nook with steep, mismatched stairs that might terrify a safety inspector but were perfect in their charm. The back door opened to a grassy back alley, where the only real noise came from the kitchen of the bed and breakfast three doors down. You could smell the chef’s delicious moods. And she was as lovely as the sablé she traded Emily for a couple francs each afternoon.

Emily ran barefoot through the streets of that hillside village—linen-clad, sun-kissed, and free. She came home potty trained, of all things. A Corsican gift. But what changed most was the rhythm we fell into—a rhythm that matched the hills, the meals, the light, and the quiet.

Up the street and in the heart of the villa was a stone-walled kitchen, updated just enough, but still holding every ounce of its history. That kitchen was the soul of the home. It was there, watching the family matriarch cook with the kind of ease that only comes from generations of doing so, that I first learned about ratatouille—a classic Mediterranean eggplant recipe.

She didn’t measure. She didn’t consult a recipe. And we didn’t share much language. She quietly gathered what was ripe—or overripe—and tossed it in a pot. Tomatoes, eggplant, onions, herbs, garlic… anything past its peak but still full of promise. It all went into an iron Dutch oven and simmered low on the stovetop while we sipped wine and let the day unfold.

We laughed. We napped. We sipped wine again. The ratatouille cooked in the background like it had done for centuries. 

What struck me most wasn’t the flavor (though it was extraordinary). It was the intention behind it. It wasn’t pretty, and it wasn’t meant to be. Sometimes it came out deep and dark, other times vibrant and rustic. But every time, it was perfect. Not because of how it looked, but because of how it felt—how it fed everyone from toddlers to great-grandparents, how it brought people to the table. Always enough.

And perhaps that’s what made it so beautiful. It fed everyone, quietly and completely. It had done so for years. Likely through war. Through hardship. Through joy.

And that’s what I brought home with me: the memory of that pot, that kitchen, and that moment in time. The flavor of ease, heritage, and connection.

So no, my version isn’t cooked in an iron pot tucked into the hills of Corsica. But it is cooked slowly, with intention—and it is meant to feed you deeply.

Simple. Soulful. Enough. So let’s leave it exactly how it is. Bon Appétit. —Maggie

Slow Cooker Mediterranean Ratatouille 

Ingredients:

• 2 tbsp extra virgin olive oil

• 1 large yellow onion, diced

• 2 cups thick-sliced mushrooms (cremini or portobello)

• 3–4 cloves garlic, minced

• ½ cup dry red wine

• 1 red bell pepper, sliced

• 1 green bell pepper, sliced

• 1 medium zucchini, halved and sliced

• 1 medium to large eggplant, cubed 

• 4 medium tomatoes, diced

• 1 cup low-sodium tomato purée

• 1 tbsp fresh lemon juice

• 1 tsp fresh thyme (or ½ tsp dried)

• 1 tsp fresh oregano (or ½ tsp dried)

• 2 tsp fresh basil, chopped (or 1 tsp dried)

• 1 tsp herbes de Provence (optional)

• ½ tsp ground cumin

• Salt & black pepper to taste

• Optional: pinch of crushed red pepper flakes

• Optional garnish: Fresh parsley or basil leaves

Instructions:

1. In a large skillet, heat olive oil over medium heat. Add onions and mushrooms, sauté until they begin to caramelize (about 6–8 minutes).

2. Add the minced garlic and cook for another 1–2 minutes until fragrant.

3. Deglaze with red wine, scraping the pan. Let simmer for a minute, then transfer the mixture to your slow cooker.

4. Add the remaining ingredients to the slow cooker and stir to combine.

5. Cover and cook on high for 2 hours, then reduce to low for 4–5 hours, until the vegetables are tender and flavorful.

6. Adjust seasoning as needed and garnish with fresh herbs if desired.