Chard

A delivery service in my area gathers locally grown produce and meats and sells them online. The night before delivery I set on my porch the insulated totes from last delivery; in the morning or afternoon a driver brings totes of fresh and frozen food to my door and takes away the old totes. It’s a great service; it makes me feel good to buy from local producers and I get to try things I don’t normally purchase. After all, whenever possible you should try something new and unusual.

Yesterday I got a delivery of chard. Someone local, in this case, some farm in the state of Indiana, grew enough Swiss chard to sell. It came in a glorious bunch, unbagged, held by one rubber band; almost no waste. The large deep green leaves were shiny and vibrant; you just knew that a day ago they were growing with wild abandon and stately vigor. The stems were ruby red. When simmered in ham broth the pieces of stem dyed the water red but kept their own redness. The leaves darkened the water so that until you lifted them out, the water looked dark, like pine forest at night. The flavor was strong and tasty, like a mild cooked spinach. You can eat chard raw, but my preference is simmered in a strong broth, possibly with bacon.

My parents grew chard. I’m eating it now in memory of my mother, who enjoyed chard. It’s not a vegetable most people eat these days; it’s been overshadowed by fast growing and Popeye-infused spinach. I suspect the real benefit of chard is its ability to grow in cold weather. My parents grew things that liked cold spring and freezing fall, because they lived in a northern desert. But we children did not like chard. It did not appeal at all to little me.

Now, when I have eaten the gamut of sugars and discovered diabetes symptoms, I’m returning to chard, and enjoying it. Is that what all adults do? Go back to what their parents relished?