“Is there nothing else to eat?” I asked opening the pot on the stove. “No” said mom, “sit down and I’ll fix you a plate.” “No,I don’t like it, I’ll make something.” “What will you make?” Mom insisted, “salad” I answered opening the refrigerator. “But salad is not a meal”.
The first time I tasted quiche was in the first apartment I ever rented in Tel Aviv. We were 3 roommates in our early 20’s. To this day, I can’t explain why we chose a 30 something woman that just came back after living quite some time in Canada to take the place of the roommate that left. Back then, mid 30’s seemed to us as one leg in the coffin.
“No salads?” asked dad as he sat down for dinner on Friday evening. “I didn’t get to it” answered mom, and started detailing what she did get to that day. She cleaned the house, baked two trays of bourekas, 3 trays of cookies and a cake. Even though it might sound like it it was not a lot, we were 5 kids after all.
There are times that I don’t really get what all the fuss about humus. All in all we are talking about a crashed legume with tahini sauce, lemon juice garlic and spices. Sounds like a nice veggie spread, but not something to write home about.
All this instantly forgotten when I sit at the table with fresh made humus in front of me and pickles hot sauce and pita bread along side. At this moment I forget all high end chef’s specials, with their poetic descriptions and indulging in sheer pleasure reserved only for good hummus.