Pasta alla Norma

I grew up at the knees of some of the South's great biscuit makers, but a Sicilian taught me how to cook. My senior year at Auburn University, serendipity introduced me to Flavia Mammana, a visiting mathematics scholar from Catania who was working on her doctorate. After a quick introduction over coffee, we decided to live together and signed a lease on a house. Flavia took it upon herself to take care of me, so, as any Sicilian would, she fed me. Constantly. She made pastas, cakes, breads, meatballs, and vegetables lovingly tended over the rental-house stove. But it was her pasta alla Norma, topped with a snowfall of grated ricotta salata she smuggled into the U.S. from Italy, that spoke to my increasingly pudgy little heart.

This pasta is the dish of Catania, hometown of Vincenzo Bellini, and is said to take its name from the heroine of one of his most famous operas. The story goes that after seeing Norma performed, friends of the composer were so awestruck they went around describing everything they deemed outstanding as "una vera Norma" ("a real Norma").

The dish is simple: pasta—often penne, sometimes spaghetti—with tomato sauce; silken nuggets of fried eggplant; aromatic basil; and salted ricotta. But, as with all great dishes, the result is so much more than the sum of its parts. Norma is the kiss of Sicilian summer. It's a composition that sings of seasonality, when tomatoes and eggplant are at their peak and balconies are overrun with potted basil.

To call pasta alla Norma my obsession would be an understatement. If it's on a menu, I compulsively order it. Through the years, with many, many return trips to this sun-drenched island off the tip of Italy's boot, I've eaten it baked as a casserole, prepared with wide planks of eggplant, in a timbale, deconstructed with modernist flair, and even as arancini. But this version—inspired by Flavia's mom's recipe, remains dearest to my heart.