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File Under FAIL: Roasted Chickpeas

February 24, 2010

Roasted chickpeas, loosely based on a recipe I found on Tastespotting.  I have a weakness for all things Snack.  As a kid, I’d down an entire bag of potato chips and remorselessly ruin the dinner my mom worked so hard to prepare for me.  To this day, when I stop home for dinner, she’ll shake a wooden spoon at me if I go digging in the cupboard for chicharrones before dinner’s ready.

This recipe caught my eye as a healthier snacking alternative – chickpeas tossed in olive oil, salt, and paprika, and baked in a 350 degree oven for an hour.  As combining descriptive terms such as “healthy” and “alternative” is usually and indicator of looming disappointment, the same was true for these guys.  I was hoping the heavens would smile down on me with culinary favor and I’d be ahead of the curve.  Hey you, foodie…put down the wasabi peas and have a bite of these.  But no, as chasing a trend is always and inevitably futile, these were just as ineffective at producing satisfying results.  Chickpeas are just too damn waxy to make room for a good crunch.  I could get all Heston Blumenthal and find a way to make this recipe work, to successfully break down the proteins and turn them into something with a good bite, but I’m gonna shelf this one next to my kale chips fail.

Postscript:

So why tempt you with a sexy picture of a Fail?  Ees ah vehry sexy image, oui?  I guess, on some level, I wanted to prove that food photographers and stylists can cover a multitude of sins.  There’s not much that’s sinful about these roasted chickpeas – they were made from scratch and in the (food) safety of my own home.  On the contrary, corporate food processing giants will dish out big bucks to hire a good (but spineless) photographer who can make a McChicken look appetizing…and that shit is fucking poison.  Just as I should have used my gut when reading about this healthy snacking alternative, listen to your gut when you’re tempted to drop $.99 on a McDouble.  I know this is even more difficult when you’ve been out at the bars all night, and curse McDonalds for being conveniently tucked between The Turf Club and Big V’s.  I’m not saying you should preemptively pack a baggie of carrot sticks and a bottle of kombucha for your next night out.  Nights out are for indulgence, not poisoning.  You’re much better off dishing out a few extra bucks for the little old tamale lady that makes her way around University Avenue bars with a cooler full of tasty homemade tamales and burritos.  I think the world of her, going head-to-head against the corporate giant yellow arches across the street armed only with a sense of ingenuity and confidence in what’s good.  She’s the Patron Saint of late night University Avenue bar-goers, a catcher in the rye intercepting the wayward missteps of the drunk and rocked out.  She’s saved my life a few times – literally.  So eat up!  I may have to track her down one of these nights and snap a picture of her.

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