There’s a lot of hummus going down in the WriteBrand fridge these days. Clearly, hummus keeps us writing. So we thought it was time for us each to explore our deeper feelings on the subject. Hummus-related PTSD None of the hummus in that fridge is mine, I promise you. Hummus is dead to me. It’s not hummus’s fault. It’s not even that I dislike the taste, exactly. It’s that, like creamy peanut butter, mild cheddar, and apple juice, I’ve fed so much of it to my children over the past ten years, I’d rather go hungry than eat or drink it. I’ve smelled hummus literally thousands of times. I’ve cleaned its dried, caked beige-ness off of so many plates and knives—oh god, the knives!—off the table, off the floor… For years at a time, hummus was like my cologne—the scent that I carried with me, unknowing. Even thinking about it now, I can smell it, I can feel its texture. It’s with me. Chickpeas? Not a problem—I still drop them on salads all the time. But once you blend them with tahini, lemon, garlic, salt, I’m out. My kids, however, would love some. – Mouncey My feelings are fuzzy Hummus and me go way back. We were tight before it was cool, back when it was still considered “foreign” and even a little risky. I love me a falafel roll, slathered in the stuff. We’ll still be friends long after the masses have abandoned it and moved on to Icelandic Kale & Coconut Oil Spread, or whatever other condiment takes the throne next. But I’ll be honest. I rarely finish a tub of hummus before it begins to resemble a middle school science project. All […]