Falafail.

(Last night’s post stirred up a lot of emotion in our household, so I’ve made a promise to lighten up...indefinitely.)  

Before my painting class last Wednesday, I planned to stop at the bookstore café to grab some dinner to go. I yanked at the door, and when it didn’t yield, I yanked harder as if this was somehow going to now make them be open. My only other option was the Mediterranean Grill a block away, which would have been great; except that I typically get their fattoush and I had literally had a salad for lunch, dinner, or both the last three days in a row. The lack of protein and nourishment was making me seriously hostile; however, since I am generally suspicious of huge slabs of meat that hang around waiting to be slowly harvested over a week’s time, my best alternative was to order the falafel.

At this point, you’re probably wondering why I am telling this astonishingly un-fascinating story. I promise I have a point. In fact, here it is: I want to love falafel. I love chick peas. I love Middle Eastern flavors. I love anything deep fried. This is falafel; but somehow there is something just not quite right about it and I can’t place what it is. 

So, I got the inspiration to deconstruct the recipe, find the culprit, and, in eradicating it, create a Super Falafel.

 

I was on my second glass of wine when I had this thought, so from there my scheme grew larger and larger, as people who know me know is prone to happen. I thought: why is there only Middle Eastern falafel? Why not Italian, or Mexican? So, starting this Sunday, once a week, I will bring you Five Weeks of Falafel. If you’re interested, stay tuned.