My Arch-nemesis: Chickpeas.

Chickpeas: healthy, good for you, key ingredient of tastylicious humous, substitute for marbles - angelic, right?
Wrong. Evil little devil spawn, mocking me with their constant defiance.
I've tried my best to appease them - they simply won't...cook. Not even after hours of boiling and a suspected ruined hob.

It's not the first time I've battled with them either. Two years ago in Liverpool I was struggling with my tin-opener to crack into the Fort Knox of chickpea containers. I usually don't have problems opening tins but that night was when it all began, when the chickpeas waged their war against me, fighting for legumes everywhere: they wanted to live, to not be eaten, even if it meant swimming and congealing in their own juice and salted water for all eternity...
What they didn't know was that I'd called in a crack-squad of the best of the best: firefighters. Technically speaking, that had nothing to do with the chickpeas and everything to do with installing a fire alarm, but I thought it could be to my advantage to ask them to open the tin anyway. Unfortunately, I was distracted by the queries of a rather beautiful fireman and quite forgot to ask any questions of my own, and so all four of them walked away without opening my tin of chickpeas. Which sounds like a euphemism, I know. Truth is, I wouldn't have minded one of them opening my tin of chickpeas. But it was not to be - the chickpeas remained firmly sealed within their stronghold. Until a further half hour of sweating, swearing, and wrenching the can-opener from the metal lid had passed.

And now my mighty foe has reared once more to do battle to the death. Or digestion, whichever fate's worse for a chickpea. The point is I was boiling the pricks for hours in a terracotta dish - which may well explain the lengthy process - and nothing, nada, zilch. Sergeant Chick and Colonel Pea must have ordered an offensive, using the heat of the water in a tiny fissure in the dish to crack it that lttle bit wider for beige-brown water to seep out at an unnoticable glacial pace and stick to my hob. Luckily for me, my elbow has enough greasework in there to rival even John Travolta, and even though I may have squirted half of Cassà's supplies of Don Limpio to accomplish it, my hob is now cleansed of chickpea juice.

Day two saw a ceasefire due to a powercut after bad weather, although I'm surprised the legume army didn't use that to their advantage too; they really are the epitome of cunning. Dwelling on my eternal struggle against chickpeas wasn't an option, however, for I was launching an offensive of my own on a trifle.

Finally, after losing my temper and chucking them in a metal pan, I have vanquished them! After three days. I am evidently just like Jesus Christ: I am the resurrection.