If you give a girl a chickpea
when she’s barely boiled an egg,
do not be quick to doubt her,
for you’ve gone and upped her leg.
Sorana or Corona fans will
mock this, call it shtick,
but no pantry is pieno
sans the sacred pea of chick.
Cheap at Conad, dull in color,
this legume has little vim.
Yet we all know Calvin Coolidge;
how it clearly worked for him!
If you give a girl a chickpea—
canned or dried, as it may go—
you’ll be buying her a ticket
to a lifelong cooking show.
See, a chickpea or a cecio
is a bean without a match.
Any self-respecting home cook
will be wise to stock a batch.
She can whip up a minestra
adding ginger and some heat.
Chuck them into ribollita, though,
and she’ll be called a cheat.
The pulse in question
If you give a girl a chickpea
between Christmas and New Year
It will tide her over un-til
tredicesima gets here.
She need only sprinkle pepper,
perhaps doctor with fresh herbs;
With tweaks like this, the chickpea,
well, the appetite, it curbs.
Homemade hummus would be ideal
paired with vegetables to graze
But for her to buy tahini,
She will first need a pay raise.
If you give a girl a chickpea
and she grows tired of the taste,
Tell her, “Flavors don’t stay stagnant
paired with Mutti ‘mato paste.”
Flatbreads are the next step
for committed cecio chicks.
Take her to Livorno;
watch her pick up torta tricks.
High in protein, low in pricing,
yea, the chickpea seems a bore.
On its own it may depress us;
dressed up right, it offers more.
Should your Job-esque genes be lacking,
chickpeas may not be your fruit.
Yet for patient and creative types,
They’re prime nonperishable loot.
Look at chickpeas through the lenses
Of discerning Florentines
And you won’t need me to tell you
The ends justify the beans.
