Stalking Wonder: Sunset on Bolinas Ridge

The one bright spot in this whole losing childhood home business, is that when I was in California, my best friend came home for a visit. I call her my best friend—she is my oldest friend—but the truth is we almost never see each other these days. She lives in New York, I am a confirmed West Coaster. When she flew in to SFO and I picked her up at the airport, we hadn't seen each other in three years.

Three years, that's almost negligent.

But that doesn't matter with a best friend. You start up again as if nothing ever happened, as if one of you had stepped out to use the phone. The rules that govern the time/space continuum are suspended when it comes to this sort of friendship. She is simply part of the fabric of who I am.

Sadly, we didn't get to see each other much. She was on deadline, I was packing, we were both crazy with no time to spare. But there was one thing we had to do—come hell or high water. Who knew when we'd see each other again? Who knew if we'd ever be in Northern California at the same time? With my mom selling her house, it's unlikely that our paths will cross in our hometown ever again. This was probably our very last chance.

We had to watch sunset on Bolinas Ridge.

When we were growing up, as soon as we could drive, the local ritual was to head up the mountain for sunset on a steep ridge that overlooks the small coastal town of Bolinas, to watch the sun slip into the ocean, the day come to a close. If I once told someone that Mt. Tam is my religion, this is what constitutes services.

My friend picked me up and we headed up the mountain, high enough that we began to see glimpses of the bay.

Climbing on winding roads.

With sheer drop-offs.

(Can you imagine we drove these roads as teenagers? Scary).

My friend was driving. I was taking blurry photos. And if there was a soundtrack to the experience, it would have been Don Henley's The Boys of Summer. For years I held onto the tape (yes, tape) from high school days, and would slip it in when we headed up the mountain (I have mentioned the nostalgia already, yes?). But who knows where the tape disappeared to...and who has a tape player anymore?

Soundtrack or no soundtrack, we were chasing the setting sun.

Soon we had reached the upper part of the mountain and could see glimpses of San Francisco, the city beginning to glitter in the growing dark.

We made our way around to the west flank of the mountain. This is the point where you become worried that perhaps you might have missed the sunset already, that you might have come all this way and been too late, but do not give up hope. The sunset is waiting for you.

We emerged on the western side of the mountain, where the dry grass covers the slopes and the trees crouch in ravines. To me this is the symphony of Northern California—golden grass, dark trees, blue skies turning to pink, the vast ocean beyond.

If you're a local—as we are—you'll know where to pull the car over. You'll know where the path begins. You'll follow it. We did.

And you'll come upon a ridge with a view of Bolinas: the mouth of the lagoon there, the curve of Stinson Beach rising up to meet it, the point of Duxbury Reef stretching out into the ocean. 

(The Bolinas cabin is down there as well; that too is now gone, it's too sad to even talk about).

The sun was setting into the ocean, and the fog was rolling in. 

Seriously rolling, just a few yards away.

But a little fog was not going to dissuade us. We're Northern Californians, we're not scared of fog. We grew up in the stuff.

We sat down on the dry grass, and talked, and laughed.

We talked about things you can only talk about with a best friend. And oh how we laughed!

And we ate the dinner we brought with us, because that is another part of the Bolinas Ridge experience. There is only one meal you would ever think of having on Bolinas Ridge and that is burritos, straight up.

(Mine is Cajun shrimp, which I realize is blasphemy in the burrito world, but it's also darn good; don't knock it until you've tried it).

And all around us, everywhere we looked, was beauty.

And the fog rolled in, but we kept on talking and laughing.

But we were getting pretty cold. A shivery kind of cold.

I didn't really care though. I was on my mountain, with my friend, and all was right with the world.

Though at one point my friend said what one of always says when we're on the mountain: "We're so lucky we get to live here."

Then we realized we don't. Neither of us live there anymore, not really. I can't even claim parental residence any longer. I'm still not sure how this can be true.

But just when we thought the sunset couldn't possibly get any more beautiful, it did.

About Stalking Wonder: the project started Spring of '09, in an attempt to bring wonder back into my life and onto the site, to make the time to appreciate what is all around. Read how it started, or check out the full archives. Stalking Wonder posts usually go up on Friday, they may or may not have anything to do with food.

Goodbye to the Old Kitchen

My mom decided to move recently. She’d been thinking about it for awhile, but hadn’t planned on doing anything until next year (and between you and me, I wasn’t so sure it was such a good idea). Then things changed. All of a sudden next year became now. The house sold and she had three weeks to sort through and pack the contents of a home she’d lived in for twenty-four years.

And suddenly, I had to say goodbye.

This isn’t my childhood home, where we moved when I was fifteen. My high school days were spent here, and summers home from college. I remember driving out of the driveway for the first time all by myself, newly minted driver’s license in my pocket. There were family fights (there is a patched hole where my brother and I put the door knob though the wall in one of our tussles), and family holidays, and nights spent playing board games in front of the fireplace and listening to jazz on the old record player. There’s also a thicket of ivy where, each morning on my way to school, I used to hide the bicycle helmet my mom made me wear.

And then there is the kitchen.

I hadn’t realized how emotional I would be until I thought about the kitchen. This is where I taught myself to cook. The early lessons took place elsewhere, but this is where I made jam for the first time, and puff pastry, and where I threw my first dinners and brunches and parties. I remember sitting at the kitchen table, paging through an ancient copy of the Joy of Cooking. When I think of home, it is that sun-filled room that I think of most.

They say the kitchen is the heart of the home, and that is particularly true of this one. This was where we hung out—at the worn, round oak table we’d bought years ago at a garage sale. The south side of the kitchen was all glass windows and sliding doors and the light streamed through and when you looked out all you could see was green trees and leafy hillsides. It was an optical illusion, there are plenty of other houses in the neighborhood, but when you look out at the hills, all you see is green.

And then there was the stove. It was an old Wedgewood, gas-fueled and sturdy. The pilot light meant that the top was always a bit warm—the perfect temperature to put dough to rise or butter to slowly melt. On those rare winter storms, you could come in out of the wet and put your cold hands on the stove and feel like it was all going to be okay again.

I’ve never understood electric stoves. What do people do when the power goes out?

For years we said that, when the time eventually came to move, we’d take that stove with us (though honestly, I couldn’t imagine my mom ever not living in that house). My mom said she'd buy a replacement stove to leave behind, although I wasn’t sure that would be necessary. I've been fairly certain that whoever bought the house would tear it down. It was one of few humble houses in a neighborhood that had grown grand around us. I didn’t think anyone would want to live in a cozy house surrounded by a large, overgrown garden. I expected it to be replaced by a mini-mansion, complete with three-car garage, built out to within feet of the property line.

In all the hustle and bustle of a quick sale, the stove was forgotten, and by the time I brought it up it was too late. The stove wasn’t ours anymore. “What would you do with it?” my mom wanted to know. It was impractical—I know that. I’ve already insisted on hanging onto the wood-burning stove from my childhood home (another large, heavy, metal thing I don’t yet have a home to put in), my nostalgia should probably be kept in check.

But oh am I going to miss that stove. Oh do I wish there had been a way to keep it. Even now, the move over and done with, the thought of it brings me to tears. I’ll miss so much about that house (I don’t yet really believe it is gone), but the stove—the thing that could have feasibly been brought with—is the thing I mourn the most.

Though perhaps it is no accident that I fixate on these stoves. When I was a little kid we cooked soup on the wood-fired kitchen stove when the power went out, and got dressed in front of it in the winter when our bedrooms were cold. The old Wedgewood stove warmed my hands and coaxed my bread to rise and put forth the meals we gathered around as I grew to adulthood. They say home is where the heart is, but for me it might just be where the warm stove is.

Now, it’s gone.

The happy note in all this upheaval is that the house is not being torn down (thank you, recession). It’s been bought by a young family who understands its funky charm. They’ll make changes, to be sure, but they like the big yard, they don’t want a mini-mansion. They’re even resurrecting the old coop where we kept chickens when we first moved into the house, they’ve already bought the baby chicks. The wife is an artist and loves the light that floods through the windows. The husband is a local boy who grew up on the coast and played on the same beaches where my brother and I played. There is even a little girl who is going to have my old bedroom. Really, it’s all good.

But oh how sad it makes me, in the midst of all that good. One day, as I was packing, I started scheming on how I might somehow set up my mom and the father of the man who is buying the house (they run in similar circles, have even met once or twice). Perhaps if they started dating, then I’d have an excuse to stop by every once in a while. I don't want to live in the house, but it would be nice to be able to still visit.

Clearly I am going to be one of those people who make pilgrimages back to their childhood home every few years, to drive slowly down the street they grew up on, to try and peer into the yard where they once played.

Clearly I am too nostalgic for my own good.

But oh will I miss that stove. 

The Joy of a Sharp Knife

I grew up in a house with no sharp knives. None.

Let me repeat that: no sharp knives.

I think this was my mother’s way of trying to protect her kids. She thought if the knives were dull, we wouldn’t cut ourselves on them. To my knowledge, she’s never had any of her knives sharpened, not ever. Her approach to parenting was to keep her children far from perceived danger.

The downside of this is that I eventually had to go out into the world of sharp knives and didn’t know how to handle them. While babysitting one evening, I sliced part of my finger off. I still have a small spot that is missing its fingerprint. It’s such a distinctive mark that it probably disqualifies me from a life of crime.

Knives can be an intimidating thing, even to those who spend a lot of time in the kitchen. It was years before I got any decent knives, and even longer before I got the hang of caring for them. There are different types—some quite expensive—and it’s hard to know which way to go. Should I buy heavy German knives (Wusthof, Henckels, and more), or go for the ultra light Japanese knives? (Global, Shun, etc). And what about ceramic knives, are they any good?

Knives seemed like wine—a place where the neophyte is never quite sure she’s doing the right thing.



And yet, once I took the plunge and upgraded, the entire kitchen experience became a joy. Slicing is easy, dicing a pleasure, tiresome bits of chopping are dispatched quickly and with much less effort. You barely even cry over onions! There is such joy to working with a sharp knife.

I mention this because Thanksgiving is coming up, and that’s my cue to sharpen my knives. If I’m going to be spending a full day in the kitchen, I want to have the tools to enjoy my time there. This week I’m dropping my knives off to be sharpened (I use Epicurean Edge in Kirkland, WA). If I might be so bold, I’d suggest you do so too—and don’t wait until next week. Things get backed up at the knife store once everyone starts pulling out their carving sets in anticipation of roast turkey. You want to beat the rush.

For those of you who have yet to experience the joy of a good sharp knife, here’s some advice I’ve learned. I was scared of buying knives for many years. I wish I had gotten over it sooner.

Go to a store where you can hold and feel the knives. It’s almost impossible to know what style of knife is going to appeal to you. I like the heavier German-style knives, and I prefer Wusthof to Henckels, but I didn’t know that until I held them. Likewise, the 8-inch chef’s knife is perfect for me, the 10-inch was too big. Finding the perfect knife is like dating, you have to give it a whirl to see if the relationship fits. The good news is that there is a large and reliable supply of knives—and generally a money-back guarantee.

About that tang... For years the recommendation was that people should buy knives with a "full-tang." That means the metal of the knife goes all the way through and doesn't stop at the handle (you can see the tang at the bottom of the Wusthof handle in the picture below). This, apparently, is no longer the gospel. As my friend Matthew Amster-Burton pointed out to me, there are good quality knives that are not full-tang—and some knives you cannot see the tang though the handle. This was also echoed by the guys at Epicurean Edge—you can see on their knife advice page (and for those interested, Matthew has a great article about learning to sharpen knives in the Seattle Times).




When it comes to ceramic knives, there are plenty of people who like them. These knives are light, rapier sharp, and (reportedly) don’t have to be sharpened. The drawback, from what I’ve heard, is that if dropped a certain way you can break them. You also need to be careful not to use the knife to pry, slicing only. I’ve loved the sharpness of the ceramic blades I’ve used—and I love my ceramic slicer—but I worry they need a bit more care than I’m likely to give them; I drop knives on a regular basis.

Once you’ve decided on the manufacturer you like, check the lines they offer. Wusthof, for example, has several. Their “Gourmet” series is cheaper than the “Classic” series, but it’s not as well made. Ask to hold and sample the different lines, you will probably feel the difference. Don’t be entirely swayed by the cheaper price. A good knife is something you’ll have forever and use almost daily. It’s worth it to go for the better quality.

My advice is to buy your knives one at a time and slowly, avoiding the big knife sets that come with their own knife block (unless you can find a set with knives you know for a fact you'll use). My brother bought a large set, but there’s only really one knife that he uses on a regular basis (you can tell, the handle is shiny). Start with the basics, and don’t buy more until you find that you need them.

As far as the basics go, I don’t think you can go wrong with a paring knife and a chef’s knife (or santoku, if you prefer). That’s mostly what I use. You can sometimes find these two knives sold together (Wusthof offers a packaged deal for $130). I eventually added a serrated knife for bread and tomatoes. These three knives will serve you really well. They may be all you need.



Once you invest in better knives, make sure to maintain them. I have my sharpened usually twice a year (I never got around to it last spring, busy with manuscript revisions, and they are really dull now). I’ve finally invested in a ceramic honing steel, which I use between visits to the knife shop. I’ve read that you should hone your knife between every use, but I don’t do that. At the knife store they told me that every third use was okay. I don’t always do that either.

That small, eraser-like thing you see is used to clean the honing steel, when too much residue builds up from the grey metal shavings.



Mostly I would say, don’t put your knives in the dishwasher, even though they say you can, and do be careful of the nice sharp blade. Working with a sharp knife that is well suited to your hand is a joy. If you’re anything like me, you’ll wonder why you didn’t get better knives years ago.

But seriously, folks: get your knives sharpened before all the big holiday cooking fest. It’s something I am thankful for, every year.

When I told a friend I was writing about knives, she had this to say. I think it’s a perfect close to the topic:

For people who are average cooks like me, with little to no chopping skills, having a sharp knife is like chocolate: delicious, smooth, pleasurable—and makes you feel good no matter how crappy is everything around!

I think she’s right. A sharp knife is sheer kitchen joy. And if, like me, you have a problem spending money on yourself—the holiday season is coming up. I asked for knives two years in a row as birthday/holiday presents, and I have my brother to thank for heeding the call. Of course, now that I know what a difference they make, I kick myself for not running out and getting them for myself years ago.



Note: I mention and feature Wusthof here, only because it’s what I use. I’m not endorsing it, because everyone has different knife style. My friends who use the lighter Asian knives tell me I need to evolve and I’ll never look back. Perhaps they are right. One maker I would suggest people take a look at is Mac. This is the knife I grew up with. It’s light, easy to handle (especially for smaller, female hands) and gets raves from chefs and homecooks alike. It doesn't get quite as much press as the other Asian knives, but it's a cult favorite.

Food Finds: Kiwi Berries

I’m ashamed to admit I walked past the stall at the farmers’ market the first time I saw it. I didn’t even stop to look. Maybe I was in a hurry that week, or just in one of those ruts I occasionally fall into, treading a deep path along the same route each day, reluctant to step off and try something new. I like to think myself adventurous, but sometimes I fail in that department.

Yes, kiwi berries—have you heard of them? I hadn’t.



The sign at the farmers’ market read: “These Are Not Olives,” and that’s what they look like—green olives. They certainly don’t look like kiwifruit. Kiwi are bigger, and have a furry brown skin on them. Kiwi berries (also called Hardy Kiwi) have a soft green skin that is edible—and sometimes, like here, they blush a little maroon.

You heard me right. You can pop kiwi berries in your mouth without all the fuss of peeling them. They’re all that great kiwi flavor, in a much handier delivery vehicle.



Though, actually, the flavor varies—there are different kinds of kiwi berries. Some taste like kiwi, sharp, green, and sweet. Some varieties taste more like guava, a tropical flavor. I’m still trying to figure out which variety is which, and which I like best. But I have yet to meet a kiwi berry that I didn’t love.

This time last year I was eating handfuls of them. They were my favorite snack while I was racing deadline with my book. There were a few days where I went through a carton (or two!) a day. What the heck, they’re loaded with vitamin c, potassium, and vitamin e. The seeds in kiwi also contain one of the omega-3 fatty acids. They’re way better than most of the snacks we're popping in our mouths these days.

And they are so cute—little miniature kiwi.



Hardy Kiwi originally come from Korea, Northern China, and Russian Siberia. They grow well here in Washington, and I’m seriously considering planting some vines (they need to be well-supported, I am told, with room to grow). I am a huge new fan of the kiwi berry.

Commercial production of kiwi berries is still rather limited, just developing. They’re incredible seasonal—as in, grab ‘em now, if you can find them. I mention them to you here mostly as a public service. If you are lucky enough to see kiwi berries for sale, do not be a dunce like I was. Step off that well trod path and give them a try.

That’s good advice in produce shopping, and in life. I’m trying to remember it.




Kiwi berries shown here are from Greenwater Farm, in Port Townsend WA. Purchased at Seattle's University District Saturday Farmers' Market.

The Comfort of Japanese Curry

Oh people, I don’t know where you are this week, but here in Seattle it’s turned cold. Today it was even raining. I pulled out gloves from the back of the dresser drawer, unearthed scarves I haven’t seen in months, and started thinking about comfort food.

I’ve written before about how—due to the odd quirks of my life—Japanese food is where I go for comfort. What I haven’t told you about is Japanese curry—a mélange of carrots, potatoes, onions, and meat cooked until soft in a thick brown curry sauce that warms you up to the tips of your toes. It's not pretty—mostly brown and lumpy—but oh will it make you feel better after a cold walk home in the rain.



Now, before you start thinking of Indian curries, or Thai curries with coconut milk, let me say that Japanese curry is a different animal all together. It is influenced by Indian curry, certainly, but it has a different flavor. It’s not at all hot (even the hot version isn’t that hot). It is slightly musky and curry-like, and some varieties are even a bit sweet. In Japan, it’s considered classic kid food.

Like any kid, I’d say my [Japanese homestay] mom makes the best curry ever. I wish I knew how she does it. I know she occasionally puts grated apple in it (grated with a special, Japanese grater used for daikon). She might even use ketchup, I’m not entirely sure. I have to go back to Japan to find out her secret. I’ll let you know if I figure it out.

I don’t have to go to Japan to make curry though, for that I only need to go to the Asian grocery store. The same brand of Japanese-style curry base that my homestay mother uses is available there. It’s a funny thing, as many Japanese adaptations are, and goes by the name of Vermont Curry. What a state in New England has to do with it, I don’t know. When I asked my Japanese mom, she told me there are apples in the curry and that there are apples in Vermont and that is the connection. I cannot vouch for this logic.



No matter the name, this is how you make Japanese-style curry. I don’t care if it comes from Vermont or Yokohama, it’s good.

You start by chopping some onion and potatoes. Then you cut some carrots, and here I do as my Japanese mom does—she cuts on the diagonal, rotating the carrot as she cuts it. You could chop it in cubes, and it probably would taste exactly the same, but out of nostalgia I do as she did. I think this is mostly an aesthetic decision, to make it look prettier. She always told me that people begin to taste food first through their eyes, so appearance is important.



You can make Japanese curry by simmering the vegetables and meat in a pot, but lately I’ve been using a pressure cooker—as my Japanese mom does. I'm secretly scared of the pressurized pot and fear it might explode all over my kitchen, but it cuts the cooking time down from about forty-five minutes to fifteen. That's fifteen terrified minutes I spend cowering in the hallway outside the kitchen.



Once the curry has been prepared, you eat it with rice. It’s traditional to serve it alongside fukujin-zuke or rakkyo pickles (so very yummy). This is a standard Japanese meal, served at restaurants, lunchrooms, and cafeterias across the country. You don’t grow up in Japan without consuming your share of curry.

While curry rice is by far the most popular, I must admit that curry udon is my favorite—those thick, chewy wheat noodles. If you’re a Japanese kid (and in some small way I am, or I got to be one for a few years), this is the taste of home, the food your mom made, and the best way to end a cold, dreary, wet day.

Hope wherever you are, you’re staying warm and dry!



JAPANESE CURRY
Serves two, multiply as needed

1 cup chopped onion
1 1/2 cup chopped potato
1 1/2 cup chopped carrot
1 1/2 tbs oil (I use olive, simply because I use olive oil to sauté most everything)
4 oz beef (I like a thinly sliced stir-fry style of beef, but cubes are fine as well; you can also use pork, but I think beef is better).
3-4 cubes curry roux, House Vermont brand is my favorite
udon noodles or rice, as preferred. 1 1/2 to 2 cups per person, as desired (this usually means about 1 cup uncooked rice, 1 1/2 cups if you're really hungry).

In a large pot or pressure cooker, sauté the beef in oil on high heat for 3-4 minutes. Add onions, carrots, and potatoes, stirring to coat the vegetables in oil. Cook for an additional 5 minutes. Add enough water to just barely cover the vegetables (about 2 cups, or a little less depending on size of your pot).

At this point, if you are using a pressure cooker, put the top on and seal. Bring to full pressure boil and release steam vent. Vegetables and meat should be cooked though at this point. Let pot depressurize and open. I find this takes about 15 minutes. 

If you are cooking in a stew pot, let the vegetables and meat simmer until soft and fully cooked through. This will take up to 45 minutes.

Once the vegetables and meat are cooked, add the cubes of curry roux and let dissolve over low heat. How much curry you use will depend on how strong you want your sauce, and how soupy you like it. If serving with rice, you’ll want it to be less soupy; udon noodles can take more of a broth (though I like my noodles on the less soupy side, as you can see in the photos above). Start with 3 cubes of curry, let dissolve completely. Taste, and add more as needed.

Serve hot with cooked udon noodles or rice.

This is what the roux looks like.

What To Do with Too Much Chard

What happens when one foolishly plants forty chard seedlings, which all start to produce like gangbusters? You get a lot of chard, that’s what. What does one do with a lot of chard? Some of you were asking that question after my last garden post. I was asking myself the same question somewhere around June.

Chard, for those of you who are not familiar with it, is a green that’s halfway between spinach and kale: it’s a little more sturdy and strongly flavored than spinach, not nearly as tough as kale. It holds up to a bit of cooking, but not too much. Chard will wilt and get tender quickly, but it has a center stalk that usually needs to be removed (I often put it into a different dish—slivered and tossed into sautéed vegetables, for example). It’s chock full of vitamins as well. We should probably all be eating more chard.

But what to do with it—and what to do with so much of it?



Chard is great in soups, or sautéed briefly with garlic and tossed into pasta. I hid pounds of the stuff in frittatas (I told you that frittata was good for cleaning out your fridge). You could chop it and stir it into lentils, into polenta, into rice with fresh herbs.

But perhaps my most frequent use of chard this summer was a recipe for chard tzatziki that I found a few years back on Simply Recipes, Elise Bauer’s fantastic website. I make this recipe with almost embarrassing regularity, all summer long. Over the past few years, chard tzatziki has become a firm favorite.

If you haven’t made the acquaintance of tzatziki yet, it’s a Greek yogurt-based dip that traditionally includes grated cucumber and garlic. It’s one of my favorite summer snacks, served with bread, pita, or rice crackers. This version swaps out the cucumber for chard, which is a brilliant move.

First you have to drain the yogurt you plan to use, in a colander lined with paper towels. The yellow-colored whey will collect in the bottom of the bowl. This you can discard.



I like to do this the night before and let it sit in the fridge. You could use the thicker Greek yogurt, but I still like to drain it. The less liquid in the yogurt, the thicker your tzatziki will be.



Then you take a big bunch of chard, remove the stems, and quickly blanch or steam the greens. You want them to be wilted just very briefly. Take the greens out and place them in a colander (I use the colander I just took the yogurt out of). You want to press and squeeze all the liquid out of the chard. I start off in the colander, using the back of a spoon or spatula, but I end up using my hands in the end. You'll have to wait for the chard to cool to do this. A huge bunch of greens will wilt down into one well-packed little ball.

Chop the cooked chard into very fine bits. If you leave it in larger pieces, it will be less pleasant to eat.



Stir the chard into the yogurt, where it will look brilliantly green against the white background.



Add a little lemon juice, garlic, cayenne pepper, and olive oil (I often leave the oil out without any loss of flavor or texture). I also sometimes give the mixture a whizz with the immersion blender, if I haven't done a good job of chopping my chard, or if I want a smoother mixture. I like some chunk to it, but big pieces of chard are unappealing and get stuck in your teeth.



The resulting mixture is kicky with garlic and the tang of yogurt, the chard mixes through and makes it a healthy dip. I've been known to eat quite a bit at one sitting, which you can do with impunity as there's nothing in there that isn't good for you. It's a great substitute to some of those cream-based dips. You won't be giving up any flavor.

If you use rainbow chard—as I have here—the red veins of the leaves will bleed a little into the yogurt and over time will turn it bit pink. It won't impact the taste at all, but use white-stemmed chard if you are bothered by this.



Most happily, it uses up a goodly amount of chard. And when served with bread, pita, or "pita chips," it makes a great snack. Not a bad thing to bring along to a work party, when your friends are opening up a pizza restaurant. That's where this batch ended up.

To be honest, I don't follow the recipe when I make chard tzatziki any more. I use a big bunch of chard and a large container of yogurt, and add the rest of the ingredients by taste and feel, but the original recipe is on Elise's site. Give it a try—especially if you have a bunch of chard on hand. I don't think you'll be disappointed.

Chard Tzatziki, on Simply Recipes