Fried chickpeas, or, The heat of the moment --- A hot chick, an errant chick pea, and a sizzle that wouldn't stop

The afternoon started as usual. Children screamed. Grandma's TV blared. And a woman who had not managed to put on make up or futz with her hair stood in front of the stove wondering what she should cook.

There was no plan, only an array of cans in the cupboard and an arsenal of spices stacked in a bin next to the stove. A few wayward vegetables loitered in the fridge bins. The screams were getting louder, the temperature outside was rising and she knew she couldn't just stand there. She had to act.

The woman fumbled through the pullout drawer. There in the back, hiding behind a jar of Korean chili paste, were the chickpeas. Two cans with a calling. She grabbed the first can and sank the opener into its smooth metal top.

Sixteen years she'd been married. Sixteen years of Moroccan Chicken with chickpeas and raisins, chickpeas in salad, in curry, marinated, sprinkled, souped and stewed. Her husband had never yielded. "That's a fine way to prepare chick peas," he'd say before pushing all the offending tan balls to the side of his plate.

This time things would be different, she said to no one in particular. The children, the TV, the dog and visiting relatives faded to a din.

She remembered a night long ago when she'd allowed a chick pea to linger too long on the stove, something to do with pasta and a ringing phone and perhaps a tush that needed wiping. When she'd returned, the errant chickpea had grown crisp and nutty on the outside. The inside had gone to cream. It had seemed like a mistake then. But now she reconsidered.

She poured olive oil into a non-stick pan and waited for its fruity scent to waft up from the stove. Then she added crushed red pepper and a couple pinches of cumin. More. She added another pinch. More. She had never gone this far before. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was the whirling cacophony around her. She grabbed the cumin and dumped. One spoon, then another, and another. The oil turned yellow and a deep rich bite rose up to her nose. She tossed in the two cans of chickpeas, which she'd rinsed and drained.
Now, she mumbled, walk away.

One minute, two, three.

Wait, she told herself. Four, five. She peeked in the pan. Wait. Six minutes. Seven. Eight. She couldn't hold back. She flipped the round little balls with a few quick slides of the pan. The once golden surface had darkened and the skins had started to peel back. She sprinkled a liberal amount of sea salt and backed away from the stove.
Wait.

Patience was never her strong point. She set the table. Still the chickpeas sizzled. She willed herself to ignore them. The peas darkened and grew dry as the oil sunk into the skin, now curled back into crisp wafts. She grabbed the pan's handle and held on for a final minute. Then she released the peas from the heat and poured them onto a flat platter so they wouldn't steam.

It was everything she'd imagined. Almost. Something was missing.

She looked around the kitchen. Her eyes scanned the spices, the condiments, the sauces. No, no, no. She glanced at the fruit bowl and there it was -- a lone lemon, slightly past its prime, but not without promise. She sliced it open before she could think and waved her hand over the chickpeas dripping the juice. Done.

The woman wiped the sweat from her brow and tucked her rebellious hair back into its ponytail. Then she called her family to the table. Her husband took his seat and she set the chickpeas in front of him without comment.

He glanced at them, did a double take and then sunk in his spoon. The dark balls rolled across his plate. The first bite. The second. The third.

There was a second helping. And another. A finger snuck across the plate for the last crumbs of spice.

Sixteen years. You think you know someone. And then this.

Maybe there was hope. Next week, she would buy an eggplant.