My wrists were getting sore but I kept going. I had to swap hands a few times but I tried to ignore this and keep up my enthusiasm. I was sure I could feel an improvement and that I wouldn't have to keep going for much longer, but the task in hand was infinitely on the verge of completion.
I had built this up so much, both in my mind and in my words, that I wasn’t willing to admit defeat, so I began to hope for some distraction to get me out of this impossible situation. I kept adding oil to make it smoother but no matter how much I poured on, it was still stiff and dry. When I tasted it, I knew it wasn’t right, but I soldiered on, even keeping a towel at hand to prevent mess.
My initial excitement turned to disappointment, a sense of failure and a seething silent anger. Anger at myself for being incapable of getting it right, and indignant at how frustratingly difficult this was proving to be. My inept actions became half-hearted and weary as I stopped pretending that I thought this could work. It was clearly time to stop. My physical discomfort soon caught up and I could no longer dismiss the aches in my arms and shoulders. I sighed and put the mixer down. In despair I was forced to acknowledge the lumpy chick-pea mess that should have become a creamy hummus. It felt as if hours had passed.
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