The hummus won. In the last post I was waffling on a fava puree or a fava pasta, but all the waiting and watering—watching those seeds reach for the sky, put forth bud after bloom, assemble pods and finally inflate them , one by one, with meat—left me with the strangest desire to mash all that construction back to a pulp.
Fava hummus is, after all, the dish that started this journey, four years ago. Café Sheinkin in Auckland, New Zealand, served it for brunch in a moat of scarlet beet juice ringed with toasts. I found a close-enough recipe in CPV and set to work: shucking the beans, parboiling them, skinning them again and arriving at just a few ounces of flesh. This precious fistful was then sautéed in generous amounts of Spanish olive oil, with garlic and a tiny tip of rosemary, and thyme, and splashed with water to boil a little more. In the mortar I incorporated still more of the olive oil, and at last: fava hummus.
The flavor was outrageous. I find that the more steps one takes to follow a recipe, the less the final dish tastes like its ingredients—but this was exactly the opposite result. Along the way, amidst all those different touches with heat and knife and pestle, and with only the tiniest pinch of sea salt, the flavor blossomed: it was earth, spring, afternoon, herb, and bean.
We spread a little over chevre on walnut toasts, and dabbed the rest on seared sea bass for Mother’s Day.