But I theorized that no sane person would ever spend their time ejecting chickpeas from their skins, because it would be such an arduous task, even reorganzing bookcases, which we did last night, would be preferable.
I have found that if you help them - put a single chickpea between your thumb and next two fingers and press gently until it pops out with a rather satisfying soft pop, then plink! into a bowl - it makes all of the difference in the texture of your final hummus. It hangs about them like they’re trying hard to shake it, but just couldn’t. From there, there would be the loud, synchronized clicks of “Unfollow!” “Unfriend!” “Hide these updates, please!” and the under-breath mutters of “Lady, you have got to be kidding me.” Because, you see, the path between the probably acceptable, vaguely grainy but borderline good-enough hummus you probably have been making and the stuff that I dream about sweeping cold, sweet carrots sticks through - the January version of fresh strawberries and whipped cream - has only one extra stop but most of you will argue that it’s at Cuckoo Farm: you see, you must peel the chickpeas.Ĭhickpeas, when they’re cooked, have a thin skin that sags a bit, kind of like a Sharpei’s, but less cute. But, in my defense, I had my reasons, mostly that I knew if I told you how to make it, I’d be able to hear your eye rolls through the screen, they’d be at once so dramatic and in unison.
For as long as I have written this website - yes, even longer than it has been since I told you the wee white lie that Paula Wolfert’s hummus was all I’d ever need - I have known how to make the most ethereally smooth, fluffy, dollop-ing of a hummus and never told you.
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