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by Rick Bailey on July 3, 2019
Categories: American English, Italian Chocolate, Essay, Small Subjects of Great Importance, travel • Tags: Essay, florence, italy, memoir, personal journal, story, storytelling

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It doesn’t come from Switzerland. The one we’re eating comes from Texas. Tex chard. Whatever its source, I’ll take it. You need to love chard. It’s a lot of work. Often grown in sandy soil, chard will have to be washed a few times. The leaves are huge. It’s wet work. You cut the stems, wash and save them, chop and boil the leaves to relieve them of some of their bitterness. While they boil 10 minutes or so, I’ll chop the stems and start them cooking in olive oil with lots of diced garlic. That huge mass of leaves you could barely fit in a grocery bag? It cooks down to a manageable, if disappointing, clump. Squeeze the water out of it and you’re left with a couple baseball-sized masses. Chop and add them to the stems and garlic. Salt, of course. Cook low. In 30 minutes they’re ready. In #Romagna and #Marche, chard is eaten on #piada or #cresia, maybe with a slathering of #stracchino or #squaquerone cheese. Here you might think #focaccia or bruschetta, little toasts with a spoonful of chard on top. Or just heap them on your plate and have at them. In our house, when there’s chard leftover, it’s a boon. A perfect ingredient to go with ceci bean soup.

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