After the Quake

Strange. I resolved to transcribe my notes about this book shortly before the Haitian earthquake, and now all the stories seem terribly immediate. After the Quake is a great collection of short stories by, you guessed it, Haruki Murakami. Next up: South of the Border, West of the Sun.

“I’ll tell you why,” Shimao said in a low voice. “It’s because that box contains the something that was inside you. You didn’t know that when you carried it here and gave it to Keiko with your own hands. Now you’ll never get it back.”

Komura lifted himself from the mattress and looked down at the owman. Tiny nose, moles on the earlobe. In the room’s deep silence, his heart beat with a loud, dry sound. His bones cracked as he leaned forward. For one split second, Komura realized that he was on the verge of commiting an act of overwhelming violence.

27-28 UFO in Kushiro

“I’m in this tight space, in total darkness, and I die little by little. It might not be so bad if I could just suffocate. But it doesn’t work that way. A tiny bit of air manages to get in through some crack, so it takes a really long time. I scream, but nobody can hear me. And nobody notices I’m missing. It’s so cramped in there, I can’t move. I squirm and squirm but the door won’t open.”

48 Landscape with Flatiron

“You know something?” she said.

“What?”

“I’m completely empty.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

52 Landscape with Flatiron

Terrified of stumbling into a fatal relationship with his own mother, Yoshiya embarked on a frantic search for an easy lay. As long as one failed to materialize, he would take care to masturbate at regular intervals.

59 All God’s Children Can Dance

“Not true!” decalred his mother with eyes blazing. “His contraceptive methods were absolutely foolproof![..."]

66 All God’s Children Can Dance

She had never seen a penis as huge as his, his girlfriend used to say, taking hold of it. Didn’t it get in the way when he danced? No, he would tell her: it never got in the way. True, he had a big one. It had always been on the big side, from the time he was a boy. He could not recall that it had been of any great advantage to him, though. [...] “Your big wee-wee is a sign,” his mother used to tell him with absolute conviction. “It shows you’re the child of God.” And he believed it, too. But then one day the craziness of it struck him. All he had ever prayed for was the ability to catch outfield flies, in answer to which God had bestowed upon him a penis that was bigger than anybody else’s.

78 All God’s Children Can Dance

And then it struck him what lay buried far down under the earth on which his feet were so firmly planted: the ominous rumbling of the deepest darkness, secret rivers that transported desire, slimy creatures writhing, the lair of earthquakes ready to transform whole cities into mounds of rubble.

79 All God’s Children Can Dance

Our hearts are not stones. A stone may disintegrate in time and lose its outward form. But hearts never disintegrate. They have no outward form, and whether good or evil, we can always communicate them to one another.

81 -82 All God’s Children Can Dance

She recognized that she had a hard, white stone stone inside herself. She recognized that a scaly, green snake was lruking somewhere in the dark. She thought about the child to which she never gave birth. She had destroyed that child, flung it down a bottomless well. And then she had spent thirty years hating one man. She had hoped that he would die in agony. In order to bring that about, she had gone so far as to wish in the depths of her heart for an earthquake.

106 Thailand

People will be made to realize what a fragile condition the intensive collecivity known as ‘city’ really is.

117 Super-frog Saves Tokyo

“Nobody knows what Worm is thinking inside that murky head of his. Few have ever seen him. He is usually asleep. That’s what he really likes to do: take long, long naps. He goes on sleeping for years–decades–in the warmth and darkness underground. His eyes, as you can imagine, have atrophied, his brain has turned to jelly as he sleeps. If you ask me, I’d guess he probably isn’t thinking anything at all, just lying there and feeling every little rumble and reverberation that come shis way, absorbing them into his body, and storing them up. And then, through some kind of chemical process, he replaces most of them with rage. [...] With all the different kinds of hatred he has absorbed and stored inside himself over the years, his heart and body have swollen to gargantuan proportions–bigger than ever before.”

119/120 Super-frog Saves Tokyo

I can take action and produce results.

126 Super-frog Saves Tokyo

My chances of beating him by myself are perhaps just slightly better than Anna KArenina’s chances of beating that speeding locomotive. Have you read Anna Karenina, Mr. Katagiri?

129 Super-frog Saves Tokyo

“Fyodor Dostoevsky, with unparalleled tenderness, depicted those who have been forsaken by God. he discovered the precious quality of human existence in the ghastly paradox whereby men who had invented God were forsaken by that very God. [...]“

136 Super-frog Saves Tokyo

he had entered the literature department because its exam was the only one he could pass.

149 Honey Pie

It’s amazing to me that you can put a piece of fiction together.

163 Honey Pie

“Please, Mommy, do the bra trick,” she begged.

175 Honey Pie

Time wobbled on its axis inside him[...].

177 Hoeny Pie

Sala was not crying or screaming. Her right hand gripping the doorknob, she just stood there, looking at the two of them but seeing nothing, her eyes focused on emptiness.

Sayoko called her name.

“The man told me to come here,” Sala said in a flat voice, like someone who has just been ripped out of a dream.

“The man?” Sayoko asked.

“The Earthquake Man. He came and woke me up. He told me to tell you. He said he has the box ready for everybody. He said he’s waiting with the lid open. He said I should tell you, and that you’d understand.”

178 Honey Pie

My other meditations on Haruki Murakami’s writings:

• After the Quake
• What I Talk About When I Talk About Running
• Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman
• Sputnik Sweetheart
• Dance Dance Dance
• After Dark and Kafka on the Shore

:: Bibliography ::

• Murakami, Haruki. Trans Jay Rubin. After the Quake: Stories. New York: Alfred A. Knopf. 2002. ISBN: 0375413901.

What He Talks About When He Talks About Running

Although I always enjoy reading Haruki Murakami’s writing, I have to admit that I haven’t been too pleased with two of my recent picks: short story collection Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman and nonfiction essay collection-turned book What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. By the end of the latter I couldn’t help but feel that Murakami’s editor should have rapped him sharply on the head and told him that his work was meandering, poorly organized, and – most regrettably – inconsistent in style and quality.

Have you ever procrastinated until the last minute, finished an essay just before the deadline, but felt that the work was passable or even not too shabby? And then read it a few days later only to be horrified by how poor it was in quality? That kind of “first draft turned final draft” is how I feel about What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. Murakami, on the other hand, says “it took quite some time [...] to polish and rework it”. (175)

So, want to know what he talks about when he talks about running? It’s pretty much pseudo-science about health and philosophy-lite about what it means to be a novelist. I hate to deliver such blunt criticism about a man whose Art I really respect, but there is really no other way to describe how – at least just working with this document – Murakami thinks about running and writing.

Once in a while, when I mark a page to return to in Murakami’s books, I can’t remember what passage I felt was compelling. Let me just say that this happened most often with this work of nonfiction. Here’s a brief selection of quotes:

“When we set off to write a novel, when we use writing to create a story, like it or not a kind of toxin that lies deep down in all humanity rises to the surface. All writers have to come face-to-face with this toxin and, aware of the danger involved, discover a way to deal with it, because otherwise no creative activity in the real sense can take place.” (96)

I view this sentiment as the interpretation of the artist’s creative impulse as one of introspection that is inherently self-destructive, like the classic reading of “The Lady of Shallot”. Were narratives related verbally (i.e. socially, from person to person) the author would interact directly with the audience, tailor the story to their needs, be in some kind of dialog. Instead, writers barricade themselves inside their own mind, plumbing what Murakami describes in an apt metaphor – although he had been talking about talent, not the fundamental stuff of the human condition – as deeply buried veins of water.

“[...] but even so, like an unfortunate destiny, like the dark-hearted queen of the night, thirst kept pursuing me.” (107)

“To exaggerate a bit, it was as if by completing the over-sixty-mile race I’d stepped into a different place.” (117)

Emphasis is Murakami’s. I have to admit that I got so nerd-excited by this passage, because the passing from one plane of reality to another is a recurring supernatural theme in most of Murakami’s novels. Not a dream world or alternate reality, but a sort of empty, symbolist place (often a labyrinth, but in After Dark I think it was only one room) where his protagonists experience an externalization or dramatization of their emotional conflicts: fear, isolation, rejection, longing, sadness. It is, to my mind, one of the most compelling motifs in Murakami’s corpus.

“Has the dark shadow really disappeared? Or is it inside me, concealed, waiting for its chance to reappear? Like a clever thief hidden inside a house, breathing quietly, waiting until everyone’s asleep. I have looked deep inside myself, trying to detect something that might be there. But just as our consciousness is a maze, so too is our body. Everywhere you turn there’s darkness[...]“. (133)

More nerd goodness. The idea of a malevolent thing, crouched and invisible, breathing in the darkness also recurs all over the place in his writing.

“Once when I was around sixteen and nobody else was home, I stripped naked, stood in front of a large mirror in our house, and checked out my body from top to bottom.” (152)

A bridge between/physical parallel to the introspection of the writer.

My other meditations on Haruki Murakami’s writings:

• What I Talk About When I Talk About Running
• Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman
• Sputnik Sweetheart
• Dance Dance Dance
• After Dark and Kafka on the Shore

:: Bibliography ::

• Murakami, Haruki, and Philip Gabriel. What I Talk About When I Talk About Running: A Memoir. New York, NY: Alfred A. Knopf, 2008. ISBN: 9780307269195.

Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman: Impressions & Quotes

Impressions:

I don’t know why I stopped reading this collection after the third story, but I can think of several likely reasons. They all center around the book being a public library book, and it not being convenient for me to keep or get a hold of. Now, at least a year after I read the first three stories, I’ve finished it.

Let me just say that this is my least favorite of Haruki Murakami’s works after Norwegian Wood. Great way to start a review, I know! Despite that fact, I still recommend it. Most of the short stories were mediocre and some, just plain bad. However, the mediocre and bad ones helped me appreciate the polish and mastery of Murakami’s best short stories and novels. In the preface, the “Introduction to the English Edition”, on page iix he says “[...] when I write novels I try very hard to learn from the successes and failures I experience in writing short stories. In that sense, the short story is a kind of experimental laboratory for me as a novelist.”

Let’s begin with the poor stories, which aren’t bad because they’re not engaging or interesting, but rather for formal reasons like structure. They have potential, in other words. The story the collection is named for, for example, is well structured. It has a feeling of resolution, despite there being no narrative event that ties up loose ends. It’s hard to describe exactly why, but it reads the way a short story should. The majority of the stories in this collection don’t. They seem unfinished, almost draft-like, with abrupt endings or uneven pacing. Often I felt that stories were pulled out of a larger novel, resulting in an unsatisfactory reading experience.

There were a few really outstanding stories in this collection: “A Shinagawa Monkey”, “The Seventh Man”, “Hanalei Bay”, “Birthday Girl”. They were all very compelling. Pure Murakami, their power lies in the fact that they nail his personal style and are self-contained. The reader feels as if it would be a shame if he tried to expand one into a novel and thus ruin the perfection of the story as it stands.

There was a period when narratives I’d written as short stories, after I published them, kept expanding in my mind, developing into novels. A short story I’d written long ago would barge into my house in the middle of the night, shake me awake, and shout “Hey, this is no time to be sleeping! You can’t forget about me, there’s still more to write!”" [Introduction to the English Edition, x]

I don’t have to learn more about the darkness that consumed Yuko in “A Shinagawa Monkey” or what happened when Sachi returned to Tokyo in “Hanalei Bay”. It would be superfluous. These stories don’t need to be layered with any more meaning.

If you were to analyze what I’ve chosen as my favorites you’d notice that there is an element of the supernatural or fantastic in each. And while I often find such things appealing, I think these stories do not succeed because of it (and in some cases, such as the ghost story contained in “Hanalei Bay”, despite it). The supernatural is an element that permeates most of Murakami’s work, so it’s actually hard to avoid.

The other things that typifies my “best of” list is that the protagonist of each story is decidedly unlike the typical, male protagonist of Murkakami’s best novels. The exception is “The Seventh Man”, which reads like Murakami’s The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle in miniature. I found the atypical female protagonists of “A Shinagawa Monkey”, “Hanalei Bay”, and “Birthday Girl” perfectly constructed. These women felt real, like Murakami had some special insight into the psyche of a living person that in no way resembled himself. (Unlike the gay protagonist of “Chance Traveler”, who seems highly contrived.) Such psychological realism in contemporary fiction is, in my opinion, rare. I guess there’s an element of egoism in what I’m about to say, but the rapport I felt with Mizuki from “A Shinagawa Monkey” is one of the strongest I’ve felt for a character in fiction. It’s always an unsettling thing when you unexpectedly identify with a fictional character (or in this case, one aspect of them). It is, in my opinion, one of the pleasures of reading, and, on a larger scale, of Art.

Two of these stories were precursors to his novels. In the quote above, Muakami acknowledges as much. Having skipped over the preface, reading it only after the rest of the book, I was kind of pleased to have picked up on it on my own. A highly-modified version of “Man-Eating Cats” become part of Sputnik Sweetheart and “Firefly” became the core of Norwegian Wood. I’d have to say that both stories are outshone by their novel counterparts, especially “Man-Eating Cats”/Sputnik Sweetheart.

Quotes:

Passages I found compelling , humorous, well-constructed, or that did their best to sum up something I feel is true:

If writing novels is like planting a forest, then writing short stories is more like planting a garden. [Introduction to the English Edition, vii]

[...] even the tiniest of screws had that proud, expectant feeling that only brand-new machinery possesses. [Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman, 5]

The whole while we’d let that box of chocolates lie out in the hot August sun. Our carelessness, our self-centeredness, had wrecked those chocolates, made one fine mess of them all. We should have sensed what was happening. One of us – it didn’t matter who – should have said something. [Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman, 16]

For a few seconds I stood there in a strange, dim place. Where the things I could see didn’t exist. Where the invisible did. [Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman, 17]

There was something cold and hard about her: if you set her afloat on the nighttime sea, she would probably sink any boat that happened to ram her. [Birthday Girl, 20]

The wrinkles on his forehead deepened: they might have been the wrinkles of his brain itself as it concentrated on his thoughts. [Birthday Girl, 28]

“It was a strange experience. I can’t explain it, but I felt as if the ground has silently split open and something was crawling up out of it. And then there was this invisible thing on a rampage in the dark. It was like the cold night had coagulated. I couldn’t see it, but I felt it, and the animals felt it too. [...] [New York Mining Disaster, 38]

“In a nice world there is no nice music,” she said, as if revealing some deep secret. “In a nice world the air doesn’t vibrate.” [New York Mining Disaster, 41]

“It’s like when I take a book out of the library. As soon as I start to read it, all I can think about is when I’ll finish it.” [New York Mining Disaster, 41]

She waited for the train to pass. Then she said, “I sometimes think that people’s hearts are like deep wells. Nobody knows what’s at the bottom. All you can do is imagine by what comes floating to the surface every once in a while.” [Airplane, 50]

In the kitchen, the afterimage of some great thing was holding its breath. He often felt the presence of this afterimage when he was with her: the afterimage of a thing that had been lost. Something of which he had no memory. [Airplane, 50]

The one thing I did understand was that this other figure loathed me. Inside it was a hatred like an iceberg floating in a dark sea. The kind of hatred that no one could ever diminish. [The Mirror, 59]

“Our way of thinking and goals are very different,” he said [...] [A Folklore for My Generation, 66/7]

A girl’s virginity just isn’t that big a deal. [A Folklore for My Generation, 68]

“I’m scared,” she said. She covered her face with her hands and began to cry. “I’m so very scared. Life is frightening [...] You don’t understand. I’m not like you. I’m a woman. You don’t get it at all.” [A Folklore for My Generation, 73]

“Next you’re gonna ask me to tell you the whole damned thing.” [Dabchick, 104]

“Newspapers are all the same, no matter where you go,” she finally announced. ‘They never tell you what you really want to know.” [Man-Eating Cats, 110]

Time, of course, topples everyone in its path equally–the way that driver beat his old horse until it died on the road. But the thrashing we receive is one of frightful gentleness. Few of us even realize we are being beaten. [A "Poor Aunt" Story, 137]

The girl stared at her brother in  silence, but you could see that she had a plan. Then, all of a sudden, she got to her feet and slapped him hard on the cheek. In the stunned moment that followed, she grabbed the hat and returned to her seat. The little girl did this with such speed and dispatch, it took the interval of one deep breath before the mother and brother could realize what happened. [A "Poor Aunt" Story, 139]

Yes, I would, I would suck your fingers clean. [A "Poor Aunt" Story, 141]

“But as you know, there are two kinds of crimes the police won’t bother with: crank calls and stolen bicycles. [...] [Nausea 1979, 149]

Ice contains no future, just the past, sealed away. [The Ice Man, 201]

She became known as the Japanese mom whose son was killed by a shark nearby. [Hanalei Bay, 258]

All she could do was produce accurate imitations, not music of her own. [Hanalei Bay, 263]

“Nah, I’m like a chicken: three steps, and my mind’s a blank. [...] [Hanalei Bay, 270]

The woman glanced down at her shoes, perhaps contemplating how – if things got really weird – she might have to use the stiletto heels against me. [Where I'm Likely to Find It, 279]

“I’m looking for something.”
“What is it?”
“I have no idea,” I admitted. “I imagine it’s like a door.”
“A door?” the little girl repeated. “What kind of door? There are all shapes and colors of doors.”
[...]
“Hmm,” the little girl said. “Have you been looking for a long time?”
“For a long time. Since before you were born.”
“Is that right?” the little girl said, staring at her palm for a while. “How ’bout I help you find it?” [Where I'm Likely to Find It, 288]

Junpei’s first thought on seeing her was, Here is a woman with excellent posture. [The Kidney-Shaped Stone, 293]

“No,” she said. “I just tend to be attracted to highly practical topics. That’s all.” [The Kidney-Shaped Stone, 297]

What would I do if I read your work and didn’t like it? What could I say? [The Kidney-Shaped Stone, 297]

“If I had succeeded in stealing her name, I might have taken away some of the darkness that was hidden inside her,” the monkey said. “Take her darkness, along with her name, back to the world underground.” [A Shinagawa Monkey, 331]

Your mother doesn’t love you. She’s never loved you, even once, since you were little. I don’t know why, but it’s true. Your older sister’s the same. She doesn’t like you. Your mother sent you away to school in Yokohama because she wanted to get rid of you. Your mother and sister wanted to drive you as far away as possible. Your father isn’t a bad person, but he isn’t what you’d call a forceful personality, and he couldn’t stand up for you. For these reasons, then, ever since you were small you’ve never gotten enough love. I think you’ve had an inkling of this, but you’ve intentionally turned your eyes away from it, shut this painful reality up in a small dark place deep in your heart and closed the lid, trying not to think about it. Trying to suppress any negative feelings. This defensive stance has become a part of who you are. Because of all this, you’ve never been able to deeply, unconditionally love anybody else.” [A Shinagawa Monkey, 332]

Pages I marked but c0uldn’t remember the passage I liked: 70, 219.

:: Bibliography ::

• Murakami, Haruki, Philip Gabriel, and Jay Rubin. Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman: Twenty-Four Stories. New York: Knopf, 2006. ISBN: 1400044618.

Butter Icing (Obscene Cuisine, Recipe No. 36)

I very rarely have recipes that live up to the title “Obscene Cuisine”. It’s a tall order, yes? But I think this, my mother’s recipe for classic butter icing, does it justice: Two sticks of butter. I know making icing is rarely pretty, but come now. Two sticks? If it weren’t “two sticks” worth of good I wouldn’t bother making it, so prepare for a delicious, spontaneous overflow of cholesterol.

:: Butter Icing ::

1 cup butter (room temp)
1 cup sugar
4 tbsp flour
1 cup whole milk
1 tsp vanilla
1/4 tsp salt

1. Cook flour and milk together on low/medium heat, stirring constantly until thick like a paste. Cool to room temp.*
2. Cream the butter, sugar, and salt using an electric mixer.
3. Beat both mixtures together on high speed until fluffy and smooth. Beat in vanilla until combined.
4. At this point it should be ready to ice with. If not, refrigerate until you can spread it.

*Hint: When you’re allowing the milk and flour mixture to cool it might develop a skin, making your final icing lumpy. To prevent this, scrape any residue off the sides, then get a pad of butter on the end of  fork and rub it over the top of the mixture, allowing it to melt until the entire surface is covered in a very thin layer of melted butter. (This is called “floating” butter on top of a sauce.)

I like to serve this butter icing at room temp. When it’s refrigerated it can taste far too rich and seem, well, a bit too much like butter in consistency. Still, it’s wonderful in small doses–just don’t overdo it! (The cake in the photo is the génoise recipe I used for madeleines the other day. I cut the cake in half and filled it with a lemon, raspberry jam, and honey filling. So good!)

No bibliography today. Mom didn’t keep track of where this recipe came from.

Madeleines Génoise (Obscene Cuisine, Recipe No. 35)

When I was a kid the only television channels we had were the local news and PBS. Every once in a while I’d catch a rerun of Julia Child’s cooking program. Her  humor (occasionally of the risqué variety) and practicality were lost on my child mind. Now, years later, I’ve been rediscovering her at the suggestion of one of my coworkers, with whom I helped create a Julia Child-themed library display. I think I’ll probably go ahead and read her autobiography, My Life in France.

Today’s recipe is for mini génoise cakes cooked in madeleine molds. (And, oddly enough, they were just featured on Child’s show; they aren’t even her recipe!)

:: Madeleines Génoise ::

1 1/4 cup sifted cake flour
1 tbsp sugar
1/8 tsp salt
3 tbsp butter (melted, slightly above room temp)
2 eggs, 4 yolks
1/2 cup + 1 tbsp sugar
1 tsp vanilla

1. Liberally butter, flour, and freeze your madeleine molds.
2. Measure out your flour. Sift it, then measure a sifted 1 and 1/4 cup. The leftover cake flour (and there should be some!) can be transferred back to the flour container.
3. Whisk 2 eggs + 4 yolks together with 1/2 cup + 1 tbsp sugar. Using a hand mixer with a whisk attachment, beat until mixture becomes white and fluffy and the ribbon lies on top of the batter (approx 5 minutes).
4. Use the hand mixer w/whisk to incorporate the vanilla.
5. Resift the cake flour with 1 tbsp sugar and 1/8 tsp salt.
6. Fold sifted flour mixture, in thirds, into the egg batter.
7. Fold about 1 cup of the batter into the melted butter. Then fold this back into the main batter.
8. Fill the madeleine molds 2/3 full with batter. Bake at 400 degrees for 6-8 minutes. (You’ll know they’re done when you apply slight pressure to the top of the madeleine and the cake springs back.)
9. Allow to cool for 5 minutes before unmolding. Unmold by firmly rapping the edge of a vertically held pan against the counter. (The madeleines should fall right out.)

Génoise can be a challenge to make because the cake itself has no chemical leavening agent. If you over- or under-beat it or screw up the folding process you’re beat! However, if you beat and fold properly this recipe will result in a perfect, light, fluffy cake. I think next time I’ll have to fold in some lemon zest or orange flower water (at the vanilla step) to make them taste a bit more like the real deal.

This recipe can also be used to make ladyfingers and petits fours. (Check out the video in the bibliography to see Julia and Flo Braker make ladyfingers, petits fours, and of course these madeleines using this batter). Since I was short on madeleine trays – my second one residing in the Julia Child display case at work – I put the rest of the batter in muffin molds. For dessert I think I’ll cut off their tops, flip them over, and ice them with some of my Mom’s special buttercream icing.

Other Madeleine Madness @ Librari[d]an:

• Petites Madeleines: A Brief History, Etymology, and FAQ
• Commercy  Madeleines (O.C. Recipe No. 30)
• Easy Madeleines (O.C. Recipe No. 25)

:: Bibliography ::

• Child, Julia, and Flo Braker.  Baking with Julia: Marvelous Génoise Miniatures. December 27, 1996, PBS. http://video.pbs.org/video/1174158883/program/1073557581# (15 August 2009).

Flat!

Baked Falafel (Obscene Cuisine, Recipe No. 34)

If you think this recipe can’t taste better than it looks you’d be wrong. Make it now and put it in your mouth! Aieee!

:: Baked Falafel ::

One 15-oz. can chickpeas, well drained
1 onion, very finely chopped
1/4 cup whole-wheat flour
3 tbsp. finely chopped fresh parsley
1 1/2 tbsp. chopped garlic
1 tbsp. chopped fresh cilantro
1 tsp. ground cumin (or to taste)
3/4 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. baking powder
1/4 tsp. lemon juice
1 tsp. paprika (or to taste)
1-2 tbsp. sesame tahini
black pepper, to taste

1. Sauté the onions briefly in just a bit of olive oil.
2. Using a pastry blender or potato masher, mash chickpeas well. (Mixture should remain slightly chunky, not smooth.)
3. Place all the ingredients in a large bowl and mix to combine.
4. One at a time, take spoonfuls of mixture in your hands and form 15 balls, each about the size of a ping pong ball, and gently place them on a baking sheet. (I lined mine with parchment paper.)
5. In a 375 degree preheated oven bake for 25-30 minutes or until golden brown and slightly crispy. Allow to cool and set for at least 5 minutes.
6. Serve atop leafy greens and fresh tomato slices on a whole wheat pita with a thin spread of garlic hummus. (Lemon juice to spare? Douse ‘em!)

One of my coworkers sent this recipe my way months ago, and it has now become a staple in my diet. It came from a calorie-counting, point-allotting website called Hungry Girl. I was hesitant to make it, but since that first batch this falafel has proven itself time and again.

The original recipe used raw onions, which still had too much bite after baking, so I left out the step of spraying of the balls with cooking spray (which seemed weird to me) and replaced it with a brief sauté. I also added the tahini to bump up the good fats and protein and help the balls retain their shape. (The original recipe called for reshaping mid-bake. Insanity!)

These suckers taste even better the day after, cold and straight from the fridge. Enjoy!

:: Bibliography ::

• Lisa. “Hungry Girl – Thursday Newsletter”. Hungry Girl, Inc. http://www.hungry-girl.com/week/weeklydetails.php?isid=1714 (7 August 2009).