Hummus Dip — Something Gentle for the Days You Can Only Manage Crackers

The nausea is my new roommate. It lives with me now — not always screaming, sometimes just a whisper, a low-grade presence that colors everything. Food tastes wrong. Not bad exactly, but wrong — metallic, flat, like eating through a filter. My coffee tastes like pennies. My beloved cinnamon rolls smell overwhelming instead of comforting. The chemo has rewired my taste buds, and every meal is a negotiation between what I want to eat and what my body will accept.

My hair started falling out on Wednesday. I noticed it in the shower — clumps in my hands, strands on the drain, more than the normal amount by a factor of ten. I stood there with my hands full of my own hair and thought: here it comes. The thing I knew was coming. Dr. Reyes warned me — day ten to fourteen after the first infusion, she said, and she was right. The timing is precise. Cancer is precise. It operates on a schedule, and so does the destruction it leaves behind.

I called Mom. I didn't cry. I said, "It's starting to come out," and she said, "I know, baby," and I said, "I'm going to shave it before it gets worse," and she said, "That's brave," and I said, "It's not brave, it's practical," and we both knew I was wrong but she let me have it because sometimes the bravest thing a mother can do is let her daughter pretend she's not scared.

Brett came over on Saturday and shaved my head. I sat in a kitchen chair with a towel around my shoulders and he used his own clippers — the ones he uses on himself, because Brett keeps his hair military-short even though he was never in the military. He was gentle. He went slowly. He cracked a joke about how we'd look alike now, and I laughed, and then I cried, and then I laughed again, and Brett just kept going, steady, and when it was done I looked at myself in the mirror and saw a stranger. A bald stranger with my mother's eyes and my father's stubborn chin and no hair and two scars across her chest where her breasts used to be.

Mason stared when he saw me. Not scared — just studying, processing. Then he said, "You look like a superhero." Five years old and already the man I need him to be. Lily touched my head and said, "Smoooooth," and then asked for juice. Children are remarkable. They see the change, they name it, and they move on, because their love isn't attached to hair or breasts or the shape of their mother's body. Their love is attached to me. The me underneath all of it.

I wore a beanie to the grocery store. I felt people looking. Maybe they were, maybe they weren't — chemo paranoia makes you feel visible in a way that is profoundly uncomfortable. You become a walking symbol of something people don't want to think about. You remind them that bodies fail, that life is fragile, that the person in the cereal aisle might be fighting something they can't see. I bought crackers and ginger ale and chicken broth and went home and sat on the couch and ate crackers one at a time and called it dinner.

Crackers and ginger ale. That's my recipe this week. Saltines and Canada Dry. The official cuisine of chemotherapy. Michelin star pending.

If crackers are dinner — and some weeks they absolutely are — you might as well give them something to sit next to. On the days my stomach would tolerate a little more than plain saltines, I started keeping a small bowl of hummus in the fridge: cool, mild, just enough protein to feel like I was doing something right by my body. It didn’t require smell or heat or ceremony. Mason would steal spoonfuls straight from the bowl, and honestly, that made it feel less like survival food and more like something we were sharing. That counts for everything right now.

Hummus Dip

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 0 minutes | Total Time: 10 minutes | Servings: 8

Ingredients

• 1 can (15 oz) chickpeas, drained and rinsed (reserve 2–3 tablespoons of liquid)
• 3 tablespoons tahini
• 2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice (about 1 lemon)
• 1 small clove garlic, minced
• 2 tablespoons olive oil, plus more for drizzling
• 1/4 teaspoon ground cumin
• 1/4 teaspoon kosher salt, or to taste
• 2–4 tablespoons reserved chickpea liquid or cold water, to thin
• Paprika and fresh parsley, for garnish (optional)
• Crackers, pita, or vegetables, for serving

Instructions

1. Blend the base. Add the drained chickpeas, tahini, lemon juice, garlic, olive oil, cumin, and salt to a food processor. Process for about 1 minute until the mixture begins to come together.
2. Adjust the texture. With the processor running, slowly add the reserved chickpea liquid or cold water, one tablespoon at a time, until the hummus is smooth and creamy to your preference. Scrape down the sides as needed. Process for another 1–2 minutes for an especially silky result.
3. Taste and season. Taste the hummus and adjust salt, lemon juice, or cumin as needed. If garlic feels too strong on a sensitive stomach, reduce to a half clove or omit entirely.
4. Serve. Spoon into a shallow bowl, use the back of a spoon to create a swirl, and drizzle with olive oil. Dust lightly with paprika and scatter fresh parsley if using. Serve with crackers, warm pita, or sliced cucumber.
5. Store. Transfer leftovers to an airtight container and refrigerate for up to 5 days. The hummus will thicken slightly when chilled — stir in a splash of water to loosen before serving.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 110 | Protein: 4g | Fat: 7g | Carbs: 9g | Fiber: 2g | Sodium: 115mg