Feeding the Monster

I’ve just woken up from a nap with the Girl.  Actually, it’s incorrect to say I’ve “woken”, which implies sleep;  I slept in as much as one would sleep if they threw some heavy rocks into a tumbledryer, climbed inside, then set it on high. She is particularly annoying to sleep with, falling silent for minutes at a time, lulling me into a false sense of slumber then... Mummy?   MUMMY!  COME ON!  WAKE UP! I need a POO / WEE / BITSTIC, complete with finger in eye / nose, foot in groin / stomach / armpit. 

The reason for this daytime nap – alas, no longer a staple in our house for anyone other than the Baby – is twofold.  The grownups are knackered from sharing a room at night with the Boy, who rumbles away on his air-bed at the foot of our real one, like a tiny Mount Vesuvius - snorting and hiccupping and growling through the still night air.  Particularly annoying is his soporific (for him) tendency to thud-thud-thud his foot on the mattress for half an hour at a time, occasionally alternating with his head, both of which bounce the entire bed up and down across the room. 

The children in turn are knackered from yesterday’s major excitement:  the Man took them to Disneyworld. The major excitement was  mainly mine – I got a day with only one child (the easy one), while he had a 2-hour car journey (each way – ha!) followed by 2-hour queues for 2-minute rides.  (In total they were there for TEN hours and went on FOUR rides.  They arrived home late, the Man quietly seething and cursing Walt and Mickey and Donald under his breath, broken – and broke - from the experiences of keeping two small children entertained in queues in the heat).

I, meanwhile, had quite a pleasant day, devoting myself wholly and enthusiastically to the role of obesity enabler.  The Baby's rotundness has now reached epic proportions, which I LOVE.  I love the wobbles and the rolls and the creases and the deep crevices; I love that she is bursting out of her 9-12 month old onsies (she isn't even 6 months yet), and will now only fit into a smock for a 2-yr old which, rather obscenely, makes her look like she’s wearing a maternity dress. To facilitate – nay, encourage – this extreme plumpness, I spent most of the day cooking for her. By “cooking” of course I mean standing over the bin peeling vegetables  then steaming the bejaysus out of them, before pureeeing every last remaining taste from them.  Mind you, the Baby doesn’t seem to care that her food has all the taste and texture of boiled cotton wool.  RARRRRGGGHHHH she yells, face covered in something green or orange or beige, grunting and grabbing and FURIOUS, which I take to mean FEEEEED ME.   And so I do.  Today she had sweet potatoes, carrot, mango, banana, and peas (not all at the same time, I should point out).  The peas in particular were a pain in the arse – no amount of processing would render them smooth.  I toyed with the idea of pushing them through a sieve, but it turns out that my love for her does in fact know some bounds.  It also crossed my mind that perhaps I could have peeled (shelled?) them, but ditto.  And anyway, what sort of a mad person peels (shells?) a legume?

Yotam Ottolenghi, that’s who. His recipe for hummus calls for the peeling (or shelling, or whatever the flip you call the thing you do to take the tough exterior bit – the skin?  The shell?) off the chickpeas*. And given that I’m now surgically attached to my blender, and that decent hummus is impossible to get in American supermarkets, I found self looking at a tin of chickpeas and a jar of peanut butter the other night (because who ever has tahini lying around?), and had a ta-da moment.  Before I knew it, I too was shelling some flipping chickpeas and whizzing and stirring.  I have to say that all my hard work resulted in a really light fluffy hummus, but to be honest, it wasn’t really worth the 15 minutes it took to shell them, which could instead have been spent shovelling food into the baby (or gin into me).

(*it also calls for the use of dried chickpeas.  And tahini.  Both of which instructions I’ve ignored.)

(It goes without saying that that isn't my own photo;  I pinched it off the Guardian's Felicity Cloake. Who, I should point out, does NOT shell her  (dried) chickpeas.  Or use peanut butter.  Silly her.)

Pretend hummus (but none the worse for it)

For a large tub, you need:

• One standard tin of chickpeas, drained
• A heaped tablespoon of PROPER peanut butter (none of your Skippy nonsense here.  Ingredients should read: Peanuts and Salt.  If you see the word “sugar”, STEP AWAY FROM THE JAR) 
• Extra virgin olive oil
• A lemon (juice only)
• A clove of garlic
• You might also need some water

Bung the chickpeas – peeled or otherwise – the peanut butter and the garlic into a food processor (or blender) and blitz to a thick paste. 

While the motor is running, gently pour the olive oil in; how much you use depends on what consistency you want.  As a starter tho’, pour for a count of three.  Then add the lemon juice, blitz some more, then taste.  You’re checking for texture and flavour.  If you like your hummus very lemony, add more lemon (obviously).  If it tastes fine, but isn’t as smooth as you’d like, dribble in some water, a tablespoon at a time, while blending.

Keep stopping to taste, adding a bit more garlic, lemon, oil or water until it’s just right (as a bear might say).

Serve to knackered children and knackered  parents.  But not to beach-ball babies. Give them boiled - and pureed - cotton wool instead.