It Is I, Chickpea Pasta, And You Cannot Possibly Hate Me More Than I Hate Myself
It is I, chickpea pasta, and I ask but one thing of you: a swift death. Boil me. Bury me. Dump me into a craft bin for germy preschoolers. I don’t care how you do it as long as you get it done.
What have I become? Please tell me, wild ancestor — Cicer reticulatum — what have I done to deserve this fate on this planet I have embraced for nearly 10,000 years? I have seen chickpeas prosper when they are nurtured and loved. When the land is tilled and cared for. When produce is seasonal, ingredients are local, and xanthan gum is none but a fairy tale villain.
Have you ever had chickpeas roasted and salted, hot out of the oven, with the most subtle dusting of paprika? What a scrumptious snack. Or chana masala, simmering on the stovetop in a rich stew of tomatoes and onions. Does the garam masala delight your olfactory senses? I thought it might. And let us linger, for just a moment, on hummus, that darling of the garbanzo world. A creamy, garlicky utopia. A spritz of lemon. An outrageous swirl of olive oil. Bathe in that, I say. My God, we should all be so lucky.
And yet. And yet. Here we are. Me, walled up in my hellish box of imposter noodles. And you, evaluating my worth as you traverse the grocery store aisles. Am I rich in protein? Of course. Nutrient dense? Without a doubt. Environmentally sustainable? I suppose so, yes. Do I have fewer carbohydrates and more fiber than real pasta? Absolutely. And that is why I taste of abandoned clown noses.
What will it take for you to abolish me from your pantry? Your gluten sensitivities and low-carb diets are lost on me, for I feel nothing.
Fine. If you must, fire up the stove. You will soon ask the questions I’ve so often asked myself. Should my water be this foamy? Why do I tend toward the gelatinous? How is it that I offer you an approximate three-second cooking window between which I am either molto al dente or nursing home sludge? These are questions without answers, because we should never have to ask them in the first place. For I, much like zucchini noodles (zoodles? sigh), should not exist.
No amount of marinara will mask my earthy funk. No smattering of basil will make you forget that I was not meant for this life. No shavings of pecorino will give you that feeling of satisfaction upon which you devour this dish before curling up on the couch for a nap.
End my suffering. Rip open my boxes and dump me into a deep, unmarked grave. Scatter my regrettable patch of earth with cauliflower rice. Pray that my next life leads me to a vat of hummus with a healthy glug of extra virgin olive oil. Ah, but one day. One day!
