Lockdown Romance

Colombo,

Sri Lanka

Friend,

I fell in love during lockdown.

I fell in a way I didn’t think I could. Psychotherapist, Esther Perel, speaks about how we should abandon certainty and embrace curiosity when we start getting to know someone romantically. How, thanks to online dating, we are faced with the prospect of a “human supermarket” and continuously wrestle with the uncertainty of whether we are with the right person. 

“Why would you want to be certain? There is no certainty in the beginning. There is curiosity, there is the unknown, there is the mystery of meeting someone new, there is the vulnerability of it all, there is plenty of uncertainty. There is no way to be certain,” she says sternly, somehow looking away from the camera but also right at us. Esther Perel knows the kind of romantic idiocy we get up to.

“You don’t know. The only way you will know is by being with that person. By exchanging, by discovering, by communicating, by exploring, by asking questions, by meeting, by getting to know. And you will feel much more relaxed if you allow yourself that uncertainty, that curiosity, that openness, rather than trying to, you know, know right away. Because we don't. We don't.”

I think this is what worked. For the first time in a long time, I learned how to be guided by curiosity. 

Friend, I fell in love with chickpeas. We spent a lot of time together during the lockdown. We asked each other the 36 questions to fall in love and realized that this relationship would survive a pandemic, inshaAllah. Chickpeas have always been in my life but I didn't truly appreciate it until this year. Do you know that scene in romcoms which is the antithesis of the meet-cute? Where the lead looks at their best friend with appreciative eyes and it dawns on them that everything they had been looking for was right beside them, all along? That’s the moment. 

And I know, I know. Chickpeas aren’t very glamorous. This is not the kind of thing to write about in a love letter but you already know about stomach bloat and what happens to our gut health with certain fibrous foods and, well, I'll stop right there. 

The curfew in March intensified what we already know about Sri Lanka's foodways and food insecurities. We know crop diversification and climate change are pressing issues. That it took time for towns to sort out delivery grids for curfew-locked households. We know we are heavily reliant on food imports, and to be self-sustainable would require far more thought than an influencer-studded social media campaign on home gardening. I’m all for incremental change and I recognize the therapeutic effects of gardening but this shifts the burden solely onto the individual. When the state advocates for community gardens and urban farms instead of trying to erect an apartment/office complex/shiny mall on every bare land in this city; when it works to ensure that agricultural labour is fairly compensated; when it builds robust and transparent food systems which are just and sustainable – then, then we can talk about home gardening.

The news during lockdown showed scenes of rotting produce in collection centres and tearful fishermen throwing piles of unsold fish into the sea – a reminder of the middle-men mediated disconnect from producer to consumer. We were also reminded over and over again that food is always political, that our food stories are written along class lines. On some days when the curfew was lifted, there were angry lines of people outside the Sathosa outlets, which sell government-subsidized commodities, understandably frustrated when the dry ration supplies were insufficient to meet the demand.

Our consumption during the lockdown was guided by our access to supplies, what we saw on the news and the knowledge that there was no foreseeable expiry date for the curfew. What sealed the deal with chickpeas was my approach to cooking during the lockdown. We scaled back, reducing the number of components for each meal and often opting for simple one-pots. My inherent over caution about the unreliability of our food supplies synced well with all my work projects drying up – I had the time and the privilege to think about meals and pay attention to each ingredient. With dry rations, there was an element of choice but most fresh produce came in pre-chosen packs during the curfew so we had to be creative to avoid ingredient fatigue.

And chickpeas really stood out in the kitchen. In Sri Lanka, what is commonly available is the dried chickpeas and they are affordable and easily accessible. Soak them for 8 hours until they plump up, boil them and the possibilities are endless. We always freeze batches for everyday use. While the tinned fish aisles were emptied the day before curfew, chickpeas were still available and it is the one thing we were able to stock up on before we were housebound.  

One of my favourite breakfasts is tempered chickpeas with scrambled eggs, spinach and tomato.  Boiled chickpeas are stir-fried with onions, curry leaves, mustard seeds, cumin seeds, chilli powder, chilli flakes, turmeric and whole dried red chilli. It's similar to the deviled chickpeas sold on the streets but I don’t have the patience or hand-knife coordination to break coconuts so I omit that. It’s filling and doesn't have me wandering around listlessly looking for a mid-morning snack. We bulk cook a batch of chickpeas and they also double up as an evening snack or as a side.

I haven't mastered a good chickpea curry yet but my mother makes this decadent chickpea curry which sings with coconut milk and we mop it up with both rice and chapati (similar-ish recipe here). Last year, I was so bemused to find beautifully plated chickpea curries punctuating my Instagram feed and to see the world raving about… kadala curry. When I looked up the food trend and came across ‘The Stew’ recipe, I was struck by how similar it was to the chickpea curry many of us in Sri Lanka and South India make. How it had discarded the curry label and entered stew territory and how it was not A Stew but The Stew but I didn’t feel like I had the authority to comment on this and sometimes the internet feels like so much white noise and so I folded my unsolicited opinion away. This is why I am especially grateful for essays like this by Roxana Hadadi which unpack ethnic erasure in popular food culture more eloquently than I ever could. There is a cashew-green pea-liver-carrot curry which is popular in Sri Lankan Muslim households and is a biriyani accompaniment and mama has recently started adding over-boiled, slightly mushy chickpeas to it for added texture. If you’re a fan, there’s also the Indian-style chana masala but I lean towards the Sri Lankan version.

For years, I've been trying to get that elusive smoothness in my hummus and keep experimenting. My latest recipe test was Refika’s one and while the tip to remove the skins was great, the graininess persists and that silken sheen continues to escape me. We use the hummus in our sandwiches and wraps and keep a jar in the fridge to dip crackers in or slather over on toast, speckled with chilli flakes. Olive oil in Sri Lanka is imported and is too expensive for me to justify my hummus habit so I  – please avert your eyes, hummus purists – have no qualms about cheerfully subbing a neutral oil in both the hummus and homemade tahini*.

For Ramadan, we used chickpeas to make falafel for iftar. By the time Ramadan rolled around, the deliveries were consistent, and we had access to fresh produce through a few apps, delivery services and trucks operating in the area. We made falafel laden with fresh herbs and green chilli, as a stand-alone snack to break fast with, or sandwiched in wraps. For one iftar, we attempted to recreate a chickpea sandwich that Pret does surprisingly well – mashed curried chickpeas, a layer of mango chutney, spinach, pickled onions. But it tasted a bit bland and I have been meaning to try this again to see how I can improve on the seasoning.

We didn’t veer wildly from our standard chickpea recipe bank but over the past few months, chickpeas, like many other things, have been elevated by the pandemic gaze. More time with each other and a new curiosity in the kitchen when faced with limited ingredients also helped this relationship. Chickpeas hold its own. It’s a snack, it’s a main, it’s a sweet. In its flour avatar, I throw in a few spices, curry leaves and onions and enjoy making onion pakoras. Once upon a time, the only face mask I was acquainted with was the one I daubed on my face: turmeric, honey, yoghurt and chickpea flour.

Chickpeas know when to step up and take charge. It knows when to recede in the background. You can throw a handful into a salad and it's humble enough to play a support role. You can picture it, lying back with its arms behind its head, urging the other salad ingredients to do the heavy lifting, saying breezily Go on, now. Do your thing. I’ve gotchu, girl. I’m here if you need texture. I’m here if you need body. Just know I'm here. But you've got this.

I have heard wondrous internet rumours about chickpea brownies, of aquafaba being used as an egg white substitute and even chickpea ice cream. And listen, listen. I like to experiment, I love to spice things but chickpeas and I are in a good place right now. We’re comfortable, we have renewed our relationship. We’re happy. And I like that we have something to look forward to.

When the time is right and when we’re both ready, we'll take the next step.

Yours,

Adilah

Ps:  This love letter was inspired by a food edition of Raisa’s newsletter. Raisa is going behind headlines and threading multiple media narratives in Sri Lanka to form a larger picture. We jump from one news cycle to another with little reflection and this context is important for our news consumption. I hope you’ll consider subscribing.

*Munchee has a delicious potato cracker which pairs so well with hummus and dips. Chambers does a red pepper hummus that is superb. Just passing on the chickpea love.