Turns Out, Eggplant and Trauma Cook the Same Way

Those who know me know that I have a deep love for charred food. Since the dawn of cooking with fire, humanity has been trying to master it. I’m not talking about acrid, burnt food just overcooked and forgotten. I’m talking about intentional char. A dish where fire becomes an ingredient. One dish stands out as one of the hardest to cook correctly but we’ll get to that.

First, let’s talk about something that might seem unrelated: mental health.

Sounds crazy, right? That cooking could help your mental health? For years I heard chefs say, “Cooking saved my life.”And I didn’t get it. I used to think, How the hell can a career with long-ass hours, no weekends, and barely a personal life actually save someone? But stick with me.

There’s nothing more primal than cooking over open fire. And I don’t mean turning on your gas range, lighting your propane smoker, or plugging in your pellet grill. I mean real, open-flame, out-of-your-control fire the kind that demands total presence. The kind that doesn’t give second chances.

Cooks those of us who live in this chaos we are wired differently. We’re constantly under pressure: prep lists, tickets, labor cuts, payroll, inventory, managing staff, managing ourselves. The restaurant industry leads in addiction and substance abuse. So again, how does cooking save a life?

I’ve been doing this for over 30 years. I can tell you this craft demands your full attention. Every second. Because if you’re not present, you’ll get burned literally and figuratively. I’ve seen horrific accidents. I once saw a prep cook lose his footing and catch himself elbow-deep in 350-degree oil. I had to rip a red-hot sauté pan out of a coworker’s hand once because she grabbed the handle without a towel. These are reminders: the kitchen doesn’t care if you’re distracted.

So, when my friends in recovery say, “Cooking saved me,” I finally get it.

For many, the kitchen becomes a place of focus, of purpose, of identity. It forces you to be present. To care. It’s like that fortune cookie I once got: “Choose a job that feels like a hobby, and you’ll never work a day in your life.” Cooking gave me purpose. It still does. And serving others? That’s sacred. Feeding people really feeding them isn’t just transactional. It’s deeply human.

After Bourdain’s death, I realized I should’ve never stopped talking about my own suicide attempt. Cooking taught me that we all need to feel to exist fully. Security and nourishment are the most basic of human needs. And sometimes, all it takes is a hot meal to remind someone they’re not alone.

When Hurricane Milton hit, our development got wrecked. People were without power, without food. I had a generator. I had heat. So I fed my neighbors. Simple hot meals but they were so grateful. They still thank me. And that’s when it really clicked: this is how cooking saves people.

And now, let’s go back to that dish I mentioned.

Baba Ghanoush.

Let’s talk about eggplant and fire.

Cooking with open flame brings out deep, complex layers. Eggplant, when charred correctly, is magic. I throw it over charcoal until the skin is ash-gray. I add some wood for smoke. The second that eggplant hits the heat, you hear that sizzle that life-giving hiss. Dr. Frankeggplantstein is alive.

The skin blackens, splitting open, steam bursting out. The “meat” inside begins to transform, trapping smoke and flavor. That flesh soaks in everything. It becomes creamy, smoky, rich. If done right, it’s one of the sexiest bites you’ll ever taste.

And here’s the metaphor:

We are all eggplants.

No, seriously stay with me. Eggplants start as seeds. They need sun, water, nurture. They need to be cut from the vine before they reach us. But inside? They carry bitterness specifically, a compound called solanine. If not treated right, eggplants taste bitter. Just like life.

We all have moments that leave us with “a bad taste in our mouths.” A breakup. A betrayal. A fall. Like the first time you crashed your bike as a kid scuffed knees and hurt pride. You wanted to quit. But someone your parent, your coach, your friend told you to get back on.

That’s life. We crash. We burn. We char. But we also rise.

Some chefs salt eggplant first, pulling out that bitterness. Just a small act, and the transformation is stunning. That’s what life does to us. Every experience, good or bad pulls a little bitterness out and adds something new in its place.

Me? I prefer the char. That smoky, seductive, soulful flavor that only comes from standing in the fire. It’s deeper than roasting. More primal than grilling. If you do it right, it transforms every thing without changing much at all.

We, too, transform with age. We get seasoned. We get scarred. We learn. We mature. Like charred eggplant, we develop complexity and depth. And like cooking with fire, we can’t always control the flame but we can learn to dance with it.

And maybe just maybe, that’s how cooking saves us.