Wresting Acceptance

I guess when cooking, as with anything in life, failure is inevitable.  That doesn't mean I like failure in cooking (or anything in life).  Losing control over something I'm doing makes the tendons stand out on my neck, and a very small but powerful muscle between my shoulder blades start shooting bolts of electricity outward like wings of tension.  Adam and I had a discussion about control recently, so my failure with falafel last night was aptly timed.  He had said (in a sort of irritatingly Zen kind of way) that exerting control over factors that you cannot change will only cause suffering.  I tried to maintain (with neither of us quite falling for it) that ambition is a good thing, and continuing to strive for control is equal to progress.

I still don't know the answer to the dilemma, though I'm beginning to suspect that a combination of ambition and acceptance-- namely, a little of the former and a lot of the latter-- is one good solution.  (I could choose ALL acceptance like a monk, but those of you who know me know that a Sunday hike to hell and back is a likelier proposition.)  I tried to manifest some acceptance when my falafel turned to mush in the frying pan last night.  But I'll leave it to you to decide on my level of success.

It all started out so well.  Falafel from scratch! Look at the beautiful beans, painted with the lovely hues of cumin, turmeric, cayenne and salt.  And as I added parsley, green onions, garlic, lemon juice, water, and eventually flour to the mixture, I knew-- just KNEW!-- I was onto something ground-breaking.

I pureed them all to a thick paste and heated some oil in a pan.  The batter smelled like heaven itself-- a complete 180 from the powdered mix I had always bought in a box.  This meal was going to be like our new president: in a word, perfect.

I formed little balls of the stuff and placed them lovingly into the sizzling oil.  So far so good.  But after the requisite ten minutes I flipped them over, and they started to disintegrate.  What was going on here??  This was not part of my plan!  Soon I had a panful of boiling falafel crumbs... and there was NOTHING I could do about it. 
The butterfly wings of electricity were shooting outward across my back.  In a few drastic measures of pure reaction I dumped the lot of it into a bowl, and as soon as it cooled I was going to toss it in the trash.  (Luckily I had that foresight, otherwise the burning oil would have burned through the trash bag and my punishment for rashness would have been to wash out the trash bin.)

Then my angel of patience walked into the kitchen.  "What are you doing?" he asked, and I unloaded my wrath toward the falafel (or toward my lack of control?) on him, and he responded wisely.  He was quiet.  Then he said, "Do you want to go out instead?"  I took a breath.  No, I didn't.  I didn't want to give up yet.  But I also didn't want to be a baby.

So, I turned the heat back on under the pan, poured significantly less oil into it this time around, and started over.  Fortunately there was plenty of batter left.  And it worked, kind of.  The consistency wasn't amazing-- they were a bit pasty on the inside, instead of fluffy like they should be.  And the outsides were not crisp-fried since I was afraid to use too much oil.  But they did taste delicious, especially thanks to a fantastic Lemon-Tahini Sauce drizzled over top.  And at least we didn't head down to the pub for a veggie burger with my tail between my legs and a black cloud over my head.  That would have been no fun for anyone.  

So, they weren't perfect, but they were good.  And I'm glad I stuck with it.  So, hey!  One point for ambition!  Oh wait.  Or is that acceptance?  
P.S.  This post is far too long to include recipes, both of which I'd actually recommend, if you've got an idea to prevent falafel disintegration.  Email or comment for recipe(s).

And P.P.S. Let us take a cue from our falafel kerfuffle, and not expect too much from 44.  He's just a person, like the rest of us.