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.
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.
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 too often, when I open it up for a quick dip, I find it… furry.
I’m not saying I never buy the stuff—I do. It’s quite likely that there’s a half-eaten tub (or two) of the eggplant variety hiding in a dark corner of the refrigerator with my fingerprints all over it. But I’m not responsible for the family size container that’s in there, scaring all the other sauces into submission. Because that thing would be greener than an Irish pub on St. Patrick’s Day before I could even skim the surface. I’m just too darn slow.
DIY is my MO
I blame The Silver Palate Cookbook for my hummus addiction. Back in the day, before it was trendy, I stumbled across a hummus recipe in this iconic foodie Bible of the early ‘90s. It was the perfect recipe for the inaugural whirl of my fancy new food processor. Finding tahini was another matter. Only the crunchiest of the crunchy considered it a staple back then. But I persevered, and it was worth it. To this day, the Silver Palate recipe is my go-to. It is SO DAMN GOOD (and easy—like two minutes easy).
I’ll still partake of store bought these days. I can’t help it. It calls to me from the shelves. Ooh, artichoke. Oooh, edamame. Oooh, a trio. But when you want the goods, make it yourself. And then you’ll understand.
What the hummus?
I had no idea the controversial feelings I was stirring up with hummus! It satisfied all the requirements of a good office snack: veggie friendly – check, protein rich – check, decently healthy – check, goes with almost anything – check, available at Trader Joe’s – checkity check. I personally enjoy all the hummus (hummuses, hummi?). When I forget my lunch, which is way more often than it should be, it’s the perfect snack to hold me over. And no one wants a hangry Rebecca in the middle of the day. Hummus to the rescue!
But as for that giant tub of hummus in there, in the words of Shaggy, it wasn’t me. I smell sabotage. Or maybe that’s just the old, fuzzy hummus.