… or houmous … or hummous (if you are taking a wild orthographical stab)…

I’ve just returned from holidays; four weeks of self-satisfying and socially-acceptable selfishness where the ‘what’, ‘when’ and ‘where’ were mine alone to decide.

Holidays always involve a supermarket shop (because, I believe that the supermarket is a unique place that offers the visitor a rare insight into the non-visitor’s everyday)

Holidays always involve some sort of food discovery.

Last time it was France : madeleine …

The madeleine is simple perfection where success relies on knowledge and patience.

I read the history and the poetry and shopped for conventional wisdoms; I ate wholes and halves and crumbs and asked questions of kitchens and salons and bistrots ; I collated recipes and bought moulds and started exploring …

But I have not yet read Proust in the original French; and I believe that any exploration of the madeleine should involve a little Proust.

…

…

No comments necessary.

… laughing …

It’s a self-imposed bar.

… laughing …

And so, my musings on the alchemy of a perfect madeleine have been shelved … for the time being.

There is no Proust-shaped equivalent in the history of hummus … that I know of.

The exploration has a realistically-located end point.

This time – food discovery was Jordan : hummus. And I ate ladle, spoon and bowl-fuls; from tetrapacks, Lonely Planet-identified “Places to Eat” and self-identified holes in the wall …

And it turns out that good hummus, really good hummus, is quite the difficult concoction to achieve; contrary to better and common judgment.

It requires two things … craft and attentiveness.

In other words #TheSimpleThings …

In other words it was the perfect subject for exploration …